Authors: Emilie Richards
“Whether I can play or not seems beside the point,” Tracy said. “I’m not in the tournament. I’m just the organizer.”
Mr. Mustache sat back, arms folded. “It’s not beside the point to
us.
”
She didn’t want to argue, and she knew better than to question. “How about if I just admit I’m lousy? I’m sure every one of you can beat me.”
“Not sure enough,” the hoverer said.
Tracy couldn’t sing or play an instrument. She’d been a good, but not inspired, student at the small private girls’ school her mother had favored because the surnames there showed up so often in
People
magazine. She was pretty, because a pretty enough face was something money could buy. She only had one attribute that set her apart. She had been blessed with superior coordination and stamina, and she used them well. She had been captain of the high school soccer team, the champion goalkeeper in lacrosse, a tennis star in her division at the country club. In college she had set the Long Beach record for the one hundred meter hurdles.
And now she was supposed to take on three old men who made the walk in from the parking lot look like a marathon.
“I’m not sure what point you’re trying to prove.” She held up her notes. “We have a lot to do today.”
“None of which is going to get done until you’ve played a few frames with us.”
She sighed. “Whatever. Pick your best man. I’m not going to play all three of you.”
The men conferred. Today they were dressed in their Palmetto Grove Shuffleboard shirts, white polos with the crossed cues logo in red. Mr. Mustache stood. The shirt hung limply from his scrawny shoulders. His shorts were belted so tightly they puckered under the loops. She thought if he lost any more weight, his next tournament would have angels watching from the sidelines.
She got cues and discs from the supply cabinet; then they walked to the nearest court. Children were splashing in the swimming pool beyond, but for now, all the courts were empty.
“We’ll lag for color choice,” Mr. Mustache said. “Could you possibly know what that means?”
“We’re supposed to shoot and see who gets a disc closest to that line….” She used the cue to point. “The person who wins gets to choose their color. Yellow shoots first.”
He raised a brow, as if surprised.
“I’ve been boning up,” she said.
“Anybody can read.”
“Giving credit where credit’s due isn’t exactly your thing, is it?”
He stepped aside. “Ladies first. You get one freebie. The next one counts.”
She had been reading, not practicing, but she was hopeful. Tracy placed her disc on the ground in what she hoped was the appropriate place and positioned her cue behind it. When he didn’t correct her, she concentrated on the line she was supposed to hit and shoved. She pushed too hard, and the yellow disc kept sliding until it
was well past the line. She shrugged, placed the second disc on the court and shoved again. This time, the disc stopped just short. It wasn’t a perfect shot by any means, but the placement was nothing to be ashamed of.
She wondered how the old man was going to find the strength to shoot all the way to the line. He put his disc down, positioned himself behind it, placed his cue, and then, with what looked like less effort than it would take to swat a mosquito, sent his disc to the center of the line.
“My practice shot,” he said.
“Hey, that was slick. I’m impressed.”
He turned his head and wordlessly told her that her opinion of his skill mattered less than nothing. He sent the next disc, the one that counted, to exactly the same spot.
“So you choose.” She went to the center, and gathered up her discs and put them in place; then she stepped away to let him decide.
“We’ll shoot four frames,” he said. “If you come out of this with half as many points as I do, we’ll work with you. If I blow you off the face of the earth, we’ll find somebody else, and you’ll pay out of your salary.”
“As if.”
“And if you don’t agree, we’ll make your life hell.”
She was beginning to get angry. “After what I’ve been through in the past months, nothing you could do would be a problem.”
“I’m on the rec center board. Finance chairman.”
“So? I’m a temporary employee. By the time you cut my salary, I’ll be out of here.”
“Yes, but I’m sure there are other people on staff you care about.”
“Me? I just know their names.”
“You do know the Woodleys? And how can I vote for
extending their rather generous salaries if they’ve hired a bozo to run our tournament?”
She knew he was posturing. He wouldn’t cut the Woodleys down like dead trees in the forest just to get even. But she was so mad that he had even suggested it, she took his dare.
“Okay, we’ll do it your way. Just shoot.”
He went to the line, flexed the fingers on his right hand, then positioned himself behind a yellow disc and slid it forward in one gracefully fluid motion. The disc seemed to float into place at the tip of the scoring triangle. Ten points.
He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Your turn.”
Tracy concentrated hard. The position of his disc would make it next to impossible to score. So her job was to knock him out of position. Biting her lip, somehow she managed to do just that. Her own disc stopped on a line after pushing him out of the scoring area, but at least they were even.
Mr. Mustache didn’t say anything. They did the same little dance again. Tracy was amazed she was able to knock him off twice in a row. The third time she wasn’t so lucky. This time he missed the 10 and slid into position below it, scoring an 8. Tracy tried and failed to knock him off, but she scored 7 in the box just below him.
“So you have been practicing,” he said.
“No, if I had, I would have gotten you that time, too.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself for a beginner.”
Tracy saw no reason to point out that she was good at every sport she’d ever tried—with the possible exception of skydiving, which had scared her witless. Of course, if she’d known everything she knew today, she would have made good use of the experience anyway. She would
have pushed CJ out of the plane before his parachute was in place.
Mr. Mustache put the last disc of the round into the 10 triangle rather than knock her out. She knocked him out again, but as she did, his disc shot forward and knocked hers out of the 7 area. The one she had just shot landed halfway into the 10 off section, but she was safe.
“One frame. I have a score of 8 and you have nothing,” he said.
“That was just my warm-up.”
He had a truly nasty laugh. The other men were chortling and poking each other on the sidelines as she and Mr. Mustache walked to the opposite end. She wanted to club every one of them with her cue. But now it was her turn to shoot first.
Just as she was about to she heard voices and saw a group of kids standing at the pool’s edge watching them. She saw two of the counselors, high school juniors, a boy and girl, standing to one side chatting and batting their lashes at each other, but nothing seemed amiss, except that now Tracy had an audience.
She debated asking the counselors to remove their charges to wherever they were really supposed to be, but she knew better than to draw that much attention to what was going on. She blocked out everything except the next shot. Her disc stopped on the line between the two 8 areas. No points for her.
Mr. Moustache put his neatly into the 10. She managed to knock him out and in doing so, place herself firmly into an 8. She knew better than to rejoice. Mr. Mustache knocked her out but didn’t score. She scored another 8 and he knocked her out again, this time scoring 7 in the process. Her fourth disc went into the 10 off section and
stayed there. She thought it might be on the line, but she was afraid to look. Mr. Mustache scored an easy 10.
At the other end of the court she saw her problem disc was safely on the line. The score was now 25 to nothing, but at least it wasn’t 25 to minus 10.
“Two more frames,” Mr. Mustache said.
The kids were getting louder, cheering every time she shot and booing her opponent. She waved them to silence, but not with much enthusiasm. She wished their counselors would stop flirting and pay attention. Silently she prepared a lecture to the staff.
Thankfully the next frame was a draw. Each player scored 15 points. At least Tracy wasn’t going to end up without any points at all.
She did the necessary math. Mr. Mustache had 40 points, while she only had 15. She had less than half the points he did, and unless a miracle occurred, she was going down. She had only managed 15 in the last frame because she had been the last to shoot. This time he would have the final opportunity to knock any scoring discs of hers to kingdom come.
The kids were shouting now, but she didn’t have time to see what the problem was. She concentrated harder and shot, sliding her disc neatly into an 8 area. Mr. Mustache knocked her off, but didn’t score. Of course he had all the points he needed now, as long as she didn’t score more. And he was in the perfect position to make sure of that. She concentrated even harder. Two more discs, and two more failures to score. She had one more chance, and she knew that wherever she put this disc, Mr. Mustache would knock it out. She was going down, but not without a fight.
She was halfway through her shot when she heard a scream that sent her arm careening forward and the disc scooting like a rocket across the court. She stumbled, off
balance and just managed to catch herself. Then, without so much as a glance to see what was happening, she took off across the other courts and toward the pool. She reached the pile of arms and legs that only a few moments before had been a group of rowdy little boys and began to toss them from one side to the other until she unearthed the two at the bottom.
By then the counselors had halted their flirtation and were gathering their flocks, pulling them to one side or the other. Tracy managed to grab the boy on the top and pull him off the one at the very bottom. Not surprisingly, that one was Bay.
“What exactly is going on here?” she demanded. The second boy, Adam somebody or other—she was in no shape for particulars—came at Bay again. The counselors had their hands full with the other kids, and Tracy caught a small fist and held it while she shielded Bay. Freckle-faced, spiky-haired Adam kicked out, and Tracy turned so Bay was protected, pushing Adam to one side as she did so the kick had no target.
“Cut that out right now!” She felt Bay trying to scramble to his feet, saw the furious Adam coming at him again. And suddenly Adam was up in the air, dangling between two old men in polo shirts.
“You listen to the lady,” the hoverer said loudly, holding Adam off the ground with the help of his friend. “Or you’ll be in that pool over there.”
Bay was hiding behind Tracy now, and Adam stopped struggling. The counselors were still apologizing and pulling all the other kids back to the sidelines. Tracy waited; then, when it was clear Adam had control of himself, she asked the men to deposit him on the ground.
She would never underestimate the strength of the shuffle board again.
“Adam,” she said, as calmly as she could, “you will go into the rec room right now and wait for me. Sit on the sofa and don’t say a word. Do you understand? Go!” She pointed.
He did. She signaled the male counselor to follow and wait with Adam while the female merged the two groups.
She turned to Bay. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, eyes wide. He seemed to have lost his voice.
“I want you to wait with me,” she told him. “Then you, Adam and I will sort this out. Understand? Don’t move more than five feet from my body.”
He nodded.
She caught the eye of the remaining counselor. “We’ll talk later.”
The girl nodded, too. There was a lot of that going around. Tracy watched as she led the campers away.
Finally she turned to the old men. Mr. Mustache had joined them. “That was much appreciated. Thank you.”
They nodded, too, and she wondered if she had suddenly been transported to a world of bobble-head dolls. She didn’t know what else to say.
Mr. Mustache broke the silence. “You sent that last disc all the way up to Jacksonville.”
She shrugged. “You won. I lost.” She wondered where the money would come from for a tournament director.
“I didn’t play my last disc,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. You still won.”
He marched back to the court, and after she made sure that Bay was glued to her side, she followed. She had to cross the court anyway to get back to the rec room. She watched him position himself behind his final disc, and she wondered why he wanted to make her feel worse. Then carefully, slowly, he pushed the disc with a practiced
professional thrust. As she watched the disc glided across the court and landed right in the middle of the minus 10.
“So, if my math is right,” Mr. Mustache said, “I end up with 30 points, and you have 15. That means we’re stuck with you.”
She stared at the faraway discs. Then she turned her gaze to him. “Why did you do that?”
“Once upon a time, about a million years ago by your reckoning, I got into a fight pretty much like that one over there and ended up on the bottom of the pile. I still remember how it felt when nobody jumped in to help. Maybe there’s more to you than I thought.”
“I really can’t promise there is.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see.”
She smiled, and miracle of miracles, so did he. Maybe the teeth, or at least some of them, weren’t real, but the smile was absolutely genuine.
By the time the afternoon ended and everything was in order for the following Monday, Tracy was completely exhausted. She and Adam’s mother had spoken at length about how to handle the boys’ fight. Luckily his mother was a sensible woman with two older sons. She said Adam had been growing increasingly upset with Bay, who had been teasing him about his new haircut, and she had planned to call the center that afternoon to discuss it. When Tracy suggested that Adam and Bay be given a choice between picking up litter on the athletic fields Monday morning or missing a week of camp, she agreed. She was certain that Adam, normally an affable boy, would choose the litter.
Tracy wasn’t as certain about Bay. First she called Marsh at his office, identifying herself simply as Tracy Deloche, not Tracy Deloche rec-center-supervisor-in-charge-of-his-son’s-welfare, and as she’d assumed, she was not put through, the excuse being that he was out. Then she called the Egan home and left a long message,
ending by asking Marsh to come in with Bay on Monday morning.
That was so much more fun than actually speaking to the man.
Of course, she knew what Marsh would hear from his son, because she’d heard it herself. Bay wasn’t to blame. All he’d done was point out that Adam looked like a woodpecker, so it wasn’t his fault that Adam punched him. Tracy had told Bay to get used to being punched, then, because unless he learned to keep those kinds of observations to himself, he would be—and often.
Once she got home, she showered and changed into a white peasant blouse that slid provocatively over one shoulder, and a pair of tight capris in a lizardy print. She sprayed the air with Island Capri and walked slowly through the cloud. She was ready to nail down an arts-and-crafts teacher.
At the door to Alice’s cottage, she knocked, then adjusted her blouse, snagging the neck with her index finger and tugging it lower. Lee’s Saab was sitting in the driveway, but Alice answered.
“Hi,” Tracy said. “I saw these at the grocery store, and I thought you and your family would enjoy them.” She held out a plastic tray of dried fruit dipped in dark chocolate.
“My…” Alice took the tray as if it held exotic treasure. “This is a…treat.” She smiled happily.
Tracy felt just the tiniest stab of guilt. She was doing this for the rec center, and she really believed teaching a class would be great for Alice, as well. She was just sorry she’d felt compelled to begin with a bribe.
“I have a question. Do you have a moment?”
Alice stepped aside so Tracy could enter. “Please…”
Music, someone like Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra,
drifted from an old stereo. Tracy heard the sound of the television, and Olivia poked her head around the corner and smiled shyly. “You look pretty.”
Tracy didn’t live for those words anymore, but they were still nice to hear. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”
“When I grow up, I’m going to dress the way you do.”
“When you grow up, we’ll go shopping.”
Olivia giggled and disappeared again.
Tracy looked around. “Is Lee home?”
“Still at work.”
“I saw his car in the driveway.”
“He bought a new one. To impress…”
Tracy knew that for a Realtor, a new car was a visible sign of success that reassured new clients. Still, she was surprised that when very little was selling, Lee had been able to afford one. She hoped he hadn’t gone too far into debt.
She wondered if she should wait. She’d hoped to ask Alice and Lee about the teaching position at the same time, with the idea that Alice would be so excited, Lee wouldn’t have the heart to issue warnings. Afterward she planned to pull him aside and explain that she would keep a careful eye on Alice’s classes, and bring her right home if need be. And yes, she had planned to use her feminine wiles. This was all-out war.
Since she was here already, she decided to explain the situation to Alice. Then, if she seemed excited, over the weekend Tracy would talk to Lee.
They sat, and she told Alice the whole story. “So we’d love to have you. We don’t pay a lot….” She named a figure broken down by the week.
“You want…
me?
”
“We sure do. We want the kids to learn a new skill they can use in years to come. And this’ll be great for their
hand-eye coordination. Fine motor skills. Self-esteem. Do you think you could do it, Alice? We need you.”
“I taught…before.”
“Oh, sweet, you’re experienced! What could be better?”
“I liked it.” Alice nodded. “Karen’s Girl Scout…troop. Scarves.”
“Perfect!” Tracy told Alice about Gladys’s idea for Hacky Sacks. “I can look online this weekend and see if I can find a pattern. Are you willing?”
Alice looked so pleased; then, little by little, her expression clouded. “Lee will say no.”
Tracy wanted to remind her that she was free to do as she pleased. But Alice had to live in the same house with her son-in-law.
“I can talk to Lee,” she offered. “I had intended to tonight.”
“He won’t…budge.”
Tracy had been this close to snaring Alice. “Okay, how about we just don’t tell him right away? I’ll ask Wanda if she’ll drive you to the center after he takes Olivia to camp Monday morning. We’ll do it that way for a few days. Then, when we tell him how well you’re doing, he won’t worry anymore.”
Alice chewed her lip.
“You’ll enjoy seeing Olivia’s program,” Tracy said. “You haven’t seen what we’re doing at camp yet.”
Alice nodded, as if she had come to a conclusion. “He worries….”
“It’s understandable.”
“We’ll see….” Finally Alice lifted her head. “Yes, I’ll be ready.”
They talked about what they would need for the first day, and Tracy promised to stop by the craft store and buy
a supply of crochet hooks. Alice looked worried but resolute when Tracy waved a final goodbye. Tracy wished there was a way to explain to Lee that being overly concerned about Alice was causing more stress. But people were often blind to the truth, even when it was right under their noses.
Back at home, she realized she was all dressed up with no place to go. That seemed sad. It was Friday night, and she was all alone again. Memories of her former life were almost a physical pain. She was starving for weekend evenings out, for meaningless conversation, for designer labels and celebrity chefs. Even for a husband to take care of her.
Then she remembered the price she had paid.
She supposed the logical solution was to throw on her work clothes and see what she could do on the tile. After a number of failures, she had become adept at cutting tile, and she planned to work on the floor this weekend. She had already made such headway that she hoped to have the tiles in place by Sunday night so she could start on the grout. She already loved the floor.
She was just summoning the energy to change clothes and get started when somebody knocked. She wondered if Lee had gotten home. She hoped Alice hadn’t changed her mind and told him about teaching at the center. Without Tracy there to defend her, Alice didn’t have a prayer.
She opened the door and found Marsh Egan on her threshold. Before she could decide whether to slam the door, he moved subtly closer, planted one foot in the opening and eliminated the option.
“You’ve obviously been home,” she said, letting her gaze drift down to his sandaled feet. “Unless you went to the office in shorts. So you know we’re supposed to talk
about Bay on
Monday.
Last time I checked, this was Friday.”
“I assume you tried to call me at work?”
“Correct.”
“And my secretary told you I was gone.”
“You have psychic gifts.”
“I
was
gone, as a matter of fact. She wasn’t dissing you. I appreciate you leaving a message at the house, too.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“Bay tells me you jumped in to save him today.”
“More or less.”
“He says Adam would have made toast out of him.”
She almost smiled. “He was never in danger. At worst, Adam might have bloodied his nose.” She cocked her head. “Bay needs a leash on his tongue.”
“He’s the progeny of two attorneys. What are the chances?”
“Pretty good, if he keeps getting pounded, because he’s also smart.”
“Why do you only see him at his worst?”
She shook her head. “If Bay throws a tantrum in the forest and there’s nobody there to see it, is it still a tantrum? Your son’s problems are completely real, whether I’m there to witness them or not.”
“He’s a good kid.”
She didn’t like Marsh Egan, but she did think he was trying to be a good father. “If I thought he
wasn’t,
he wouldn’t be in our program.”
“He likes you.”
She realized she was relaxing. Marsh Egan was not going postal, which she’d expected. If he’d been anybody else, she would almost think this was an apology of sorts for his son’s behavior.
“Look, I like him, too. Just don’t tell him, okay?
Somebody’s got to make him walk the straight and narrow, and at day camp, that’s me.”
“So now that we’re all touchy-feely, you and me, are you going to sell Wild Florida your land for a hundred dollars an acre?”
“Why no, I was thinking more along the lines of tossing you off of it, now that we’re all done with the lovey-dovey stuff.”
He smiled. He really did have a nice smile, she had to admit. With twilight approaching, the sun cast interesting shadows on his burnished skin, and for the first time, she couldn’t deny he was more or less an attractive man. Not L.A. handsome, and not appealing in the most traditional ways. But she liked the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the pleasing sweep of his jaw.
“Don’t toss me anywhere,” he said. “Let me show you something you’ve never seen.”
“A legal document promising I can sell my land without interference?”
“Birds.”
“Omigosh, I’m so sorry! I’ve seen birds already. Was I supposed to wait for you?”
His smile widened. “Were you always like this?”
“It’s taken me a lot of years and one hilarious divorce to perfect it.”
“I’ll tell you what. Come with me, and we can swap divorce stories. Mine for yours. No holds barred.”
For a moment she thought he was actually asking her out. She frowned and leaned forward. “Come with you?”
“I promise an evening you’ll never forget.”
“You’re going to take me somewhere and feed me to the alligators, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m going to take you somewhere, then I’m going to feed you my cooking.”
She realized he wasn’t kidding. “Just like that? You want me to drop everything and come with you?”
“Yep. That’s what I want.”
She considered the alternatives. Tile adhesive or Marsh Egan. In the end, home cooking won, but the margin of victory was narrow. “Should I change?”
“I’d hate to be responsible for that.” His gaze flicked down and then back up. “I’d
really
hate to be responsible for that. We’ll be careful.”
Admiration from Marsh Egan was so odd that she ignored it, in case she had misunderstood. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
“I promise you’ll be in one piece when the trip is over.”
“Is Bay coming, too?”
“Bay is staying home for the weekend with no privileges. Plus the indignity of a babysitter.”
“Oh…” She was glad to hear Marsh had taken the fight seriously.
“I have everything we’ll need,” he prompted. “Ready?”
As she would ever be. She grabbed her purse, locked the door and followed Marsh to his pickup.
They drove in silence toward the bridge, passing several small groups of houses and the remnants of an old fish camp, but instead of crossing to town, they followed a sandy path past the burial mound, then through scrubby forest, until it ended at a house that looked as if it had been there since the first European settlers arrived. A steep tin roof hung over a porch that wrapped around the whole structure. Much of the porch was screened, but rough-hewn siding was still visible. The house stood on
substantial brick pilings and looked completely at home among trees bearded with Spanish moss.
“These Cracker houses were built with weather in mind,” Marsh said as they got out. “Overhanging roofs, air flow underneath, multiple windows with cross ventilation. The south side is completely shaded.”
“Do you live here?”
“We do since Bay and I came back from New York. It’s been in my family for four generations. I’ve made some major changes to make it more energy efficient, but it’s still the same old house.”
“It actually survived all the hurricanes that came through?”
“Not without damage, but yes.”
She studied the house. There was an indigenous grace to the design, as if from the beginning the plan had been to ensure that life inside would be comfortable and simple.
She noted most of the windows were open. “Tell me you have air-conditioning.”
“When we need it. The breezes are great, and the ceiling fans work wonders, but humidity’s always the villain.”
“How did those previous generations stand it?”
“My grandmother slept on the porch between May and the end of September. Even when the rain swept sideways.”
“So where are these birds?”
“I’ll show you.”
She hadn’t expected a canoe trip.
The canoe was made of wood—hand-crafted, she guessed—and both sleek and light. She saw Marsh watching for a reaction. She wasn’t sure what he
expected. A protest, perhaps? Or a complaint that her hair might frizz? Instead, as if it were a matter of course, she accepted insect spray, then helped him push the canoe into the water until only the stern remained on the ground. When he gestured, she stepped in and positioned herself at the front. She was ready when he pushed off, paddle in hand. Then she plunged hers into the water and paddled as he guided them into deeper water.
Little Palmetto Bay was, as the name claimed, little enough. The bridge crossing it was only a mile and a quarter long, and relatively low, and until it had been built in the 1970s, Palmetto Grove Key could only be reached by boat. Once a small commercial port, the harbor at Palmetto Grove had silted with time and changes in the landscape, and now was only a pleasure boat destination. Because of this, the bay was in less danger than some in more desirable locales.