McNeil's Match

by Gwynne Forster

  The following morning, around eleven o’clock, they boarded the Batobus at Quai d’Orsay and got seats at the front of the boat. “It’s like a tour of the major Paris sights,” she said, sitting snug in Sloan’s arms as the glass-covered boat moseyed down the Seine past the Notre Dame cathedral.

  “We ought to go in there,” he said.

  “All right, but Thelma said it’s the outside that counts. She thought the inside was dreary, but it’s always best to see for oneself.”

  “Do you want to go?” he asked when the boat docked on the quay.

  “Not really. I’d rather get a sandwich and a soft drink, go to the Bois de Boulogne or the Café de la Paix at the Place Opera and watch the people while we eat. After that, I’ll need to pack.”

  “Have you called Gary?”

  “I forgot. You get in the way of everything else, buddy. I’ll call him when we get back to the hotel.”

  Later, at the hotel, she called her coach, but he had checked out of his hotel. Then, she called Thelma. “I lost in the semifinal, but next time I’ll win.”

  “You should have won yesterday. I was wondering where your mind was when you played those last two games. How’s Sloan?”

  “He’s super.”

  “Well, at least you’ve got that under control. I hope you’re coming home tomorrow. I just made two blueberry crumb pies, and there isn’t a soul to eat them but me.”

  Lynne enjoyed a good laugh. “You’ll have two additional mouths tomorrow.”

  “Good, then you both can come over here for supper. You need some real food after over two weeks of half-done duck breast, snails and goose fat.”

  “Oh, Thelma, you can make anything sound ridiculous.”

  “Sloan’s mother called and invited me to come down to Galveston for a couple of weeks. She said Connor would drive up and get me. I told her I would as soon as you and Sloan got back from Paris.”

  “Maybe we’ll take you, unless my coach decides to work me to death, and he might. Wimbledon is three weeks away. Anyhow, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Safe journey, you hear?”

  * * *

  Sloan brought Lynne home around five the next afternoon, and they spent a pleasant evening with Thelma, but the next morning, she faced Clive and Gary, both of whom laid out a rigid program for the next three weeks.

  “You could have won,” Clive told her, “but the heat got the better of you, so I want you to run five miles every morning and two miles after your practice session with Gary.”

  “You should have won,” Gary told her later, “but you lost concentration, and we’re going to work on that starting now.”

  “All right. I get the message,” she said.

  They could do and say whatever they pleased, but she was not giving up Sloan, as if he were just so much fat to be excluded from a diet, and she told both of them so.

  “No problem,” Gary said. “But watch the sex. If it weakens men, it’s gotta do the same for women.” She didn’t answer him.

  Two weeks and five days later, she kissed Sloan goodbye at the San Antonio International Airport and headed for England and the prestigious Wimbledon tournament. At least she’d be playing on grass instead of clay. She skipped the grass court warm-up tournament at Eastbourne, England, because she didn’t want to exhaust herself, and she figured that playing four hours a day on grass for two solid weeks with a great male tennis player was warm-up enough.

  She entered the court with her confidence high and her hopes on a par with her belief that she would win the prize. As she waved to the crowd, her adrenaline began pumping, and she was, at last, the Lynne Thurston of six years earlier, fearless and intimidating. She won the first set with six games to none for her opponent, as the crowd yelled, “Come on, Lynne. Go, Lynne.” But at the first change of sides in the second set, she tripped over her chair, sprained her ankle and sustained a gash in her thigh.

  Tears streamed down her face, and she sobbed into the towel as the trainer taped her ankle and wrapped her thigh. “You can’t continue,” the doctor told her. “If you do, you may risk your career.” After signaling to the referee that she would retire from the match, she stood, waved to the crowd and left the court in a wheelchair. If only Sloan had come with her this time! Gary and the limousine driver assisted her to her hotel, and a housekeeping assistant helped her pack. She changed her ticket and prepared to return home the next morning. She didn’t think she had ever been so unhappy, and she could not sustain an interest in anything.

  “Hello,” she said, answering the telephone.

  “Hello, sweetheart, I won’t ask how you are, because I know you must be miserable. How bad is your ankle?”

  She perked up at the sound of his voice. “Thanks for calling. I... It’s swollen, but it doesn’t hurt too much. I wanted to continue playing, but the doctor said that I would risk my career, so I took her advice.”

  “You did the right thing. When are you coming back?” She told him. “I’ll be there to meet you. Try not to be depressed. For one set, at least, you gave some great tennis lessons.”

  “Thanks. I felt so good out there, as if I was invincible. I wasn’t, I know, but it was wonderful to feel that way again.”

  “Give me a kiss,” he said. She made the sound of a kiss, and he returned it. “See you tomorrow,” they said in unison.

  She hadn’t thought to order a wheelchair escort for her arrival in San Antonio, but Sloan did, and when she reached the baggage-claim area, he rushed to greet her, lifted her out of the chair and kissed her. “I’ll get your bags,” he told her. To the wheelchair escort he said, “Take her right out front, and I’ll get my car and meet you there.”

  She looked at the man who’d taken her heart and made it his own as he strode through the crowd, and pride suffused her, pride that of all the women he knew and had known, he wanted her alone.

  “That’s quite a man you got there,” the woman who escorted her said. “He thinks a lot of you, too. You going to marry him?”

  “More than likely,” she said, acknowledging it for the first time.

  “You’re crazy as hell if you don’t. If I had time, I could give you a couple a dozen reasons not to let that brother go.”

  “Don’t worry. I know a few myself.”

  “Ha. Ha. I bet you do.”

  Sloan lifted Lynne and put her in the car, gave the escort a tip and headed for Lynne’s house. “I’m going to stay with you until you can take care of yourself,” he told her. “The important thing is for you to stay off that foot. If I have to leave you for any reason, Thelma will be there. I don’t want you to put any weight on that foot until the doctor says it’s okay.”

  “I can—”

  “This isn’t debatable, Lynne. If you want to play in the US Open, you can’t abuse that foot. Where can I sleep?”

  “I have a guest room.”

  “Good.” He carried her up to her room and sat her on the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute, and by then you ought to be in bed.”

  When the telephone rang, she assumed that Thelma was the caller. “Hi, I just got home.”

  “So I gathered,” Brad said. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “Well, the gash in my thigh isn’t very deep, but my ankle is swollen, and it doesn’t feel too hot.”

  “I figured you didn’t pull out of that match for fun. I’ll be down there day after tomorrow to see how things are with you. Stay off that ankle. See you in a couple of days.”

  She was at the point of telling him not to come when it occurred to her that meeting Sloan would shock Brad, and that it was a lesson he needed.

  Chapter 12

  Lynne pulled off her clothes, welcomed the feel of her hard mattress against her back and closed her eyes in blessed relief. Almost immediately, she felt her foo
t lifted and elevated on a soft, but firm, object.

  “How does that feel?” Sloan asked her.

  “Wonderful, and the pain seems less sharp. Thanks.”

  He dragged the boudoir chair to the side of her bed, sat down and took her hand. “This is what I have in mind, and I hope it’s okay with you. I’ll stay here, get your breakfast and lunch, check in at the service center for about four hours, shop for whatever we need and be back around six or six-thirty. Thelma will be here during the afternoon. I spoke with Clive, and he said you are not to put any weight whatever on that foot. None. Nada. Okay?”

  “Yes, thanks, but I don’t like to take you from your work. You’re needed at your service centers.”

  He patted her hand, rose and stood gazing down at her. “Whenever and for as long as you need me, I’ll be here for you. I’ll be up shortly with your supper.” He started out of the room, turned and walked back to her bed. “Did Thelma call you a minute ago?”

  “No. That call was from my brother. He said he’ll be down day after tomorrow to see about me.”

  He rubbed his chin with a good deal of vigor. “Did you tell him I’d be staying here with you?”

  “I didn’t consider that his business. He’ll find out when he gets here.” She wasn’t sure she cared for the pose that Sloan struck, belligerence being the best way to describe it, so she tried to cool him off. “And it still won’t be his business.”

  She could see Sloan’s muscles relax. “Just checking,” he could be heard saying, loping down the stairs.

  * * *

  Wasn’t that the same smart-ass brother who had him investigated? He couldn’t wait to show the man how he felt about him. He put together a quick supper of deviled shrimp, buttered noodles and sautéed spinach, with melon for dessert, and prepared two trays. What was he to do about Nick? The man had been insubordinate, refusing to take orders from Jasper because he felt that he and not Jasper should have been promoted. Sloan didn’t like firing a worker who had a good record as well as a family that depended on him. He had spoken candidly to Nick and warned him, but the man had a personality that literally trampled his good judgment, and he would act out even when he knew he was wrong.

  “I’ll take him in hand when I have to,” he said to himself and headed up the stairs with the trays.

  “The interesting thing about this situation,” he told himself while cleaning the kitchen after they ate supper, “is that I enjoy taking care of Lynne, and I don’t mind the menial part of it.”

  * * *

  “Thelma changed my bedding,” she told him when he returned from work the next day.

  He kissed her quickly. “I’m glad she did. I had wondered if it was appropriate for me to do that. Would you like to sit on the deck while I get supper?” His niggling conscience mocked him, for he knew he wanted an excuse to get her into his arms, and the surest way would be to take her downstairs.

  “I’d love it. I’m tired of this scene.”

  “Don’t be impatient, sweetheart. We’re after the prize, and you shouldn’t forget that. Where’s your robe?”

  “Hanging on the inside of the bathroom door.” He brought it, helped her into it and carried her down the stairs and out on the deck where he seated her and propped up her foot.

  “This is heaven,” she said, sniffing the scent of roses and inhaling the fresh evening air. After a supper of steak burgers, hash brown potatoes, string beans and pecan pie, Sloan cleaned the kitchen and they sat on the deck, holding hands and talking long into the night.

  “What do you want after the US Open is over in September?” he asked her.

  She didn’t hesitate, and he liked that. In her usual forthright way she said, “If I’m fortunate, I’ll be able to look forward to starting a family.”

  “Won’t you have to get married first?”

  “That would be preferable.”

  “All the more reason why we have to get you in shape. Maybe I should take you to the doctor tomorrow to get that foot X-rayed.” He didn’t intend to mention their future together until she was in a position to let him know whether she would keep her word. If she belonged to him as she had admitted, that would be the time for her to prove it.

  “Could we go day after tomorrow instead? Brad’s coming tomorrow. He’s been a royal pain recently, but I still love him.”

  “Of course you do—he’s your brother. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take him on if he gets out of his place with me. I hope you understand that.”

  “Oh, I do.” A grin settled on her face. “He’s going to deserve exactly what he gets.”

  To his delight, Brad arrived at Lynne’s house shortly after he returned from work. He had wanted to be there when the man came so that he could show his status and his right to behave in accordance with it. The doorbell rang shortly after he brought Lynne downstairs and made her comfortable on the deck. When Caesar growled, he knew the caller wasn’t Thelma, to whom the dog had taken a liking. He rushed to the door and opened it.

  “I’m looking for Lynne Thurston,” the man said.

  “I’m Sloan McNeil,” he said, “and you must be Lynne’s brother. Come in.”

  He had the upper hand, and he could see that Brad was taken aback, for both of the man’s eyebrows shot up. “Come on in,” he said. “Lynne’s out on the deck.”

  “Do you always answer her door?” Brad asked in a tone barely short of insulting.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he asked. “Especially since she can’t walk.”

  “Then how did she get outside?”

  Sloan stopped walking and looked down at the man from his advantage of two good inches. “I picked her up out of bed, took her in my arms and walked down the stairs and out on the deck. It was as simple as that.”

  “Hmm. You’ve got a sharp tongue.”

  “It’s sharper than you think.” He headed for the back door and stopped when he heard Caesar’s ferocious growl. “Wait here. I’d better go pacify Caesar.”

  He shortened the dog’s leash and called Brad. “Come on out.”

  Brad embraced his sister, but before he asked her how she felt, he pointed to Sloan and said, “What’s this all about? Surely you’re not planning to continue with this?”

  Sloan could hardly believe he’d heard correctly. The man had the temerity to insult him in his presence. He sat down in the chair he’d placed beside Lynne, took her hand, crossed his knee and got comfortable.

  “You’re asking your sister to choose between us, Thurston, and that isn’t smart. You had me investigated, making me the subject of speculation by my employees and, even though you couldn’t have discovered one negative thing about me, you’ve got your nose up in the air. You have a law degree. I have a master’s degree in mechanical engineering. You work for a law firm—I work for myself. I own two service centers that bear my name, and I’m proud of what I do and what I have accomplished. I don’t have to apologize to you or to any man.”

  “Look, you—”

  “After I finish, you may say whatever you like. I have treated your sister honorably, and I demand that you and every other man do the same. She belongs to me, and I to her, and nothing that you say or do is going to make a damned bit of difference. I am staying here while she’s recuperating, because I am going to take care of her until she can walk without damaging her foot and her career. Your being here won’t make any difference in that respect, either.”

  Brad sat down and looked at his sister. “What do you have to say about this, sis?”

  She lifted her right shoulder in a quick and, he thought, dismissive shrug. “Nothing. He’s told you the truth.”

  “Excuse me while I get us some supper,” Sloan said. He looked at Brad. “Would you like lemonade, wine or beer? There’s no hard liquor in the house.” Brad didn’t answer.

  H
e wasn’t eavesdropping, but he left the kitchen door and window open in case a few words might drift within earshot.

  “Are you living with this guy?”

  “Right now? Yes, but we’re not sharing a room. We’re not shacking up, but if I want to sleep with him, I definitely will. You and Deb lived together for two years before you got married, so I’d rather not hear stuff about morals. I love Sloan, and he loves me. Furthermore, he’s the only man who has loved me. Willard doesn’t have a clue as to what love is.” She changed the subject. “How long can you stay?”

  “That ought to put him in his place,” Sloan said to himself, as pride suffused him.

  “A couple of days,” Brad said, in answer to her question. “Where did you meet this guy?”

  “On Route 35. He told me I was a smart-ass. Can you believe that?”

  “Oh, yes, I definitely can. He’s got the courage to say anything that pops up in his head.”

  “Back off, Brad. It ought to be clear to you by now that you misjudged Sloan. And another thing—you look down your nose at people who work with their hands, because you think they’re not polished, not in your class. Well, that’s silly. You wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a calendar, but Sloan can identify a Rembrandt by sight, a Reardon, a Rubens and many other painters. When did you last go to a symphony concert? How many operas do you know from memory? Not even Carmen or Porgy and Bess, I’ll bet. And did you know that Duke Ellington wrote both classical and religious music? Sloan’s well versed in all these things.”

  He could tell from the tone of her voice that she was enjoying putting her brother in his place and doing it with an air of innocence. “I don’t expect ever to see him wear anything with a designer label stuck on it, but let me tell you when that man puts on a tuxedo, he looks good enough to eat.”