by Wendy Wax
Howard Mellnick made a few notes, but mostly he was smiling.
Shelley continued happily. “I’ve got a little over a week to prepare for the L.A. trip. Brian Simms and his nephew are ecstatic, and I’m doing research right now for my approach to Selena Moore, who owns a nationwide string of upper-end boutiques. I’m not leaving L.A. until I get her to agree to let us pitch the account.”
“Very impressive.” Howard Mellnick’s smile was almost as big as hers. He made a final note and looked up, letting her see his delight. “So you’ve managed to work things out with Ross Morgan. I’m glad to hear it.”
Her smile dimmed at the mention of Ross’s name. “Well, we haven’t exactly worked things out.”
“But you’re functioning together,” he pointed out reasonably. “You’re not using him as an excuse, and unless I’m missing something, I don’t see you getting ready to blow off any toes.” He made a show of examining her Ferragamo sandals.
This would definitely be the time to tell him about the fantasies she kept having, the ones in which she either slapped the arrogant smile off Morgan’s face or licked her way down his naked body. She had no middle ground where he was concerned; the switch between anger and lust happened quickly and without warning, generally at the most inopportune times. Like while she was pitching her Uncle Abe, or holding up flow charts to illustrate the potential market share for falafels.
To say that her reactions to him were conflicted would be like saying Mick Jagger had lips. It didn’t even begin to cover it. But Mellnick looked so happy she kind of hated to rain on his parade. And she didn’t need him to tell her how suicidal giving in to either of those fantasies would be.
“He’s hard to figure out,” she said. “I think he still believes it would be easier if I just folded up my tent and went home, but he doesn’t seem to be actively trying to trip me up anymore. And he seems genuinely pleased that these accounts are producing revenue.
“It’s so strange, one minute he’s giving me grief and making life miserable, and the next he’s agreeing to tennis with Great-aunt Sonya.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ross and I are playing a match against Aunt Sonya and her mixed-doubles partner tomorrow morning.”
“But isn’t your aunt in her eighties?”
“Yes, she is.” Shelley snorted at the ridiculousness of it. “It’s got disaster written all over it. And since Ross and I have trouble agreeing on what time it is, I don’t know how we’re going to play on the same court. But when I gave him a chance to back out, he said he wouldn’t miss it for anything, that Great-aunt Sonya reminded him of someone and he didn’t want to disappoint her.”
The rest of the session flew by with small forays into her sister’s strained marriage (they agreed Shelley should try to stay out of it), Nina’s determination to win permission to convert (they both smiled over the fainting, though Shelley kept Trey’s swoon to herself) and her parents’ plans to relive their honeymoon in Europe (maybe the distraction would keep Miriam out of Shelley’s life). They ended back on the next day’s tennis match, which Shelley realized was producing both a wave of irritation and a hard-to-squelch sense of anticipation.
“All you have to do is show up and play,” Dr. Mellnick advised her. “You’re not responsible for Ross Morgan’s motivation or his performance on the court.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Shelley said as they concluded the session. “I can’t figure out whether we should try to win or lose tomorrow. I mean, smearing a pair of octogenarians all over the court doesn’t sound particularly sporting. But losing to them would be pretty humiliating.”
She went to bed that night trying not to think about Ross Morgan in tennis shorts or how Great-aunt Sonya might react to losing the match. After tossing and turning until almost two A.M., she started praying for rain.
Which pretty much accounted for the unrelenting sunshine that greeted her when she woke up the next morning.
“Great,” she groaned as she pried her head off the pillow to the sound of birds chirping outside her window. “Noah got forty days and forty nights and I don’t even get one measly Saturday morning rain shower?”
Clubbing her hair back into a ponytail, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. It took three cups of coffee to get her sufficiently revved up to paw through her tennis clothes for the plain white halter top and tennis skirt that gave her the best range of motion. Back in the bathroom she brushed through her hair and put it back in its ponytail, then applied the minimum of makeup before hunting down her racquet. She’d decided that they had to go ahead and win, since Aunt Sonya would call them on it if she felt they weren’t trying, but not by too much. She sincerely hoped Morgan wasn’t going to be the chest-thumping sort who had to annihilate all competitors regardless of their age or ability to walk unaided.
When she arrived at the Summitt Towers tennis courts, Aunt Sonya and her partner, whom Shelley recognized as the egretlike bingo caller, were already on the court warming up. Her great-aunt was wearing white shorts that showed off her still long, if slightly bowed, legs, and a V-necked white sleeveless T-shirt over a still full, if sagging, bust. Her visor read “Take No Prisoners” in bright red letters, and her eyes were hidden behind a pair of Gucci sunglasses. They were smacking the ball around pretty soundly with a minimum of chatter. In the bleachers, a small white-haired crowd—comprised mostly of women—watched Shelley walk onto the court. A last look at the sky confirmed that it was bright blue and dotted with cotton-ball clouds. There was not a thunderbolt in sight.
Aunt Sonya linked elbows with her partner and the two walked up to the net. “Horace Zinn, this is my great-niece Shelley.” Horace stepped forward to shake her hand. His was big and leathery, not the hand of an aging egret at all. “And that’s her partner,” she nodded at a point over Shelley’s shoulder, “Ross Morgan.”
The women in the stands began to whisper, and Shelley could see why as she turned to watch Ross Morgan approach. His blond hair glistened in the sun, and his white teeth flashed a smile of greeting. His shorts were a bright blue, and his white T-shirt, which had a matching blue abstract pattern, hung from a pair of impressive shoulders and skimmed down an equally broad chest. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he didn’t appear the least bit worried about the weather, their audience, or the prospect of playing an opposing team who might require oxygen during the match.
There were handshakes all round and a kiss for Aunt Sonya. A kiss for Aunt Sonya?
Shelley and Ross walked back toward the baseline. “Listen,” she said, trying to figure out his real motive for being there, “let’s not embarrass them in front of their fans. All we have to do is win by a respectable margin.”
He shot her a smile. “Agreed. What side do you want?”
She took the forehand court and left the backhand to Ross. He tossed her a ball and they began to warm up. He had beautiful strokes and moved with assurance—not out to prove anything, just returning the ball easily to Horace, keeping it in play. He looked like a poster boy for the physical benefits of the sport; all solid planes and angles, with a burnished glow to his skin.
They moved from the baseline to take some shots at the net then took a few overheads, both of them being careful not to hit too hard at their opponents. Aunt Sonya and Horace took a few serves—they were little dinky things that barely made it over the net—then it was time to begin.
Aunt Sonya positioned herself at the service line and Shelley, who was set to receive, moved up in the box, not wanting to be caught unprepared for one of those dinky serves.
“OK, these are good,” Aunt Sonya yelled, bouncing the yellow ball a few times in front of her.
Shelley was still taking in the sight of an unexpectedly bulging tricep beneath her aunt’s age-spotted skin, when Aunt Sonya tossed the ball, looped her racquet behind her head, and slammed the ball into the inside back corner of the service box.
Shelley blinked, shook her head. She hadn’t e
ven gotten her racquet back before the ball kicked up over her shoulder and bounced off the court.
Horace and Sonya did a high-five in the middle of their court.
She and Ross eyed each other. “Did you see that?” Shelley yelped. “She aced me.”
“Yeah.” Ross’s bark of laughter was tinged with awe as he moved back to receive the next serve. “How old did you say they were?”
Before Shelley could answer, Aunt Sonya angled herself toward Ross and began her toss.
THWACK!
This time the ball sliced into the backhand corner of the service box and spiraled off the court.
“Shit!” Ross’s stunned whisper reverberated with disbelief.
“That’s thirty-love,” Aunt Sonya called with delight.
“I think we’ve been had,” Ross said as the next serve slammed down next to Shelley’s feet and died.
“Big-time,” Shelley agreed.
Sonya and Horace did what looked like a Native American war dance in the center of the court. The spectators started whooping it up in the stands. Two women in the front row began to do the tomahawk chop.
“If they start the wave, I’m going home,” Shelley said.
“Forty-love!” Horace Zinn’s voice rang with satisfaction.
“That’s it, Schwartz,” Ross said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not prepared to get slaughtered by someone on Geritol.”
“Right.” Shelley moved into position near the net. “But we can’t exactly cram it down their throats.” She got in the ready position. “What do you suggest?”
“I’ll return it, then if it comes back you just get a racquet on it. I’ll put it away. Then we’re going to check their Social Security cards.”
“Right.”
This time Ross returned the serve, and when the ball came back Shelley managed to get to it, but her racquet came up underneath it and sent the ball shooting up into the air. She watched in horror as the elderly duo changed sides with the grace of longtime ballet partners so that Horace could drop back and smash the overhead right at Ross’s . . .
Morgan danced to the side, and the ball smacked harmlessly at his feet.
“Jesus!”
“That’s game!” Aunt Sonya and Horace leapt into the air, their fists pumping. The crowd in the bleachers went wild. “Whoo-whooo-whooo-whooo!”
“This is humiliating,” Shelley said as they walked around the net to the other side. She couldn’t bring herself to watch as Aunt Sonya and Horace helped each other jump the net.
“Tell me about it,” Ross replied. “I was the captain of the Dartmouth tennis team. If this ever gets out, I’ll never live it down.”
Shelley took a long swig of water. Aunt Sonya and Horace were already in position, ready to grind them into dust. “Well, it’s clear we need a strategy of some kind,” she said. “Do you want me to distract them? Maybe we should shout ‘Fire.’ Or fake a Wayne Newton sighting.”
Horace did a little running in place. His knees practically touched his chest.
“I hope I look that good at his age,” Ross said.
“I’d like to look that good now,” Shelley said. “Did you see that topspin lob?”
“Maybe if we look really pathetic, they’ll give us a few points.”
They looked at each other and laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. “I wouldn’t count on it,” Shelley said.
“Come on, you two. Let’s play,” Aunt Sonya yelled.
“OK.” Ross gritted his teeth. “They got the first one through the element of surprise. I say we give them maybe one more and that’s it.” He looked at her, his blue eyes lit with humor. “Are we together on this?”
“Aye, aye, Captain. But how do you suggest we accomplish that?”
He turned and studied their opponents. “You take the net, and I’ll hang back. If you can get to the ball, go for it. Don’t worry about poaching. It’s going to take both of us to tame these unruly heathens.”
Shelley laughed. The sun caressed her bare shoulders and there was a light breeze. Ross Morgan was a good sport and, it turned out, he had a sense of humor. Who would have guessed it?
“All right, let’s go for it,” she said. “We have some old folks to trample.”
“Don’t feel badly, darling. You made a valiant effort.” Great-aunt Sonya’s tone was soothing, but there was a disturbing glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.
“Right.” Shelley had an arm around Ross’s shoulder and was leaning against him so as not to put any weight on the ankle she’d twisted. Ross limped beside her. He had a gash on his knee from the racquet she’d accidentally whacked him with and a black eye from the ball she’d miss-hit in her rush to the net.
“I’ll get you two whippersnappers some ice for your wounds,” Aunt Sonya offered.
“Tennis is not supposed to be a contact sport,” Ross pointed out as they hobbled off the court together. His shirt was covered with clay from the spill they’d taken when their feet got tangled up with each other’s. Blood still dripped down his shin. “It felt like World War Three out there.”
Horace came up to join them, and the audience fell in behind them.
“Most entertaining match I’ve seen in years,” one of them said.
“Reminded me a little bit of Laurel and Hardy,” said another.
“You got two games off them,” someone else said. “Their last opponents didn’t even get one.”
“Well, at least we put on a good show.” Ross stopped, which brought her to a halt as well.
“They’ll be talking about us for weeks.” She looked up into his face. It was covered with scrapes and bits of clay from the court. She wanted to laugh, but she was too tired. And way too battered.
“I think it goes without saying we won’t be mentioning this at work,” Ross said.
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t think we should be allowed on a court together again for any reason,” he added.
“Absolutely not.”
He smiled and reached over to wipe something off her cheek. “I have this weird sense that we’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll feel more thankful later.”
They hobbled toward the parking lot. “Right now I just want to get home and soak my bruised and battered body.” Something slightly wicked flashed across his face. “You want to join me? My Jacuzzi’s big enough for two.”
She studied his face, trying to read the expression on it and failing completely. Although she questioned his motive, the idea was strangely appealing. They’d been horrible on the court together, completely out of sync and unable to make anything happen. But she’d actually enjoyed being enmeshed in the disaster with him. Despite the punishment they’d taken physically, despite the humiliation of being beaten by a couple who didn’t even have their own teeth, he’d kept his sense of humor right up to the final point.
“Sorry,” she said. “I have plans.” She and Trey were going to a barbecue at the home of one of his friends; a function at which, he’d been quick to point out, no one would be losing part of his manhood. And the only passing out would be the result of too much alcohol.
They said good-bye to Aunt Sonya and Horace, took some final ribbing from their fans, and then hobbled slowly toward the parking lot.
“I’ll see you at the office on Monday, then,” Ross said as he opened her car door for her and watched her slide carefully into the driver’s seat.
Shelley nodded as he closed her door and moved equally gingerly toward the black Boxster. She watched him stow his tennis bag in the trunk and slide into the Porsche, and was not at all happy to realize she wished she were going home to soak in a Jacuzzi with Ross instead of out with Trey.
chapter 20
Shelley drove to work with trepidation on Monday morning. Almost as confusing as being stomped into the dirt by the Aged Duo was Morgan’s suspicious metamorphosis from company-stealing irritant to upbeat tennis partner.
Ross Morgan’s good spo
rtsmanship and humor had thrown her; she had been a lot more comfortable when the only emotions he was triggering in her were anger and resentment. What in the world was the man up to?
In the lobby she waved hello to Sandra and couldn’t help noticing that the receptionist’s gaze did not stray to the wall clock. A look of amazement did not wash over her face.
Her coworkers’ greetings were equally ordinary—just a wave or a nod or a smile here and there; Shelley couldn’t get over how good their casual acceptance felt.
At her desk, she wasted a few minutes weighing her need for additional caffeine against her desire to avoid Ross Morgan, and finally opted for the smushed Snickers bar she found in the bottom of her purse, reasoning that the chocolate would provide at least as much caffeine as the cup of coffee she was coveting, not to mention a nice little sugar rush to get her day rolling.
Pleased with her decision and the candy bar, she worked her way through her e-mail, then started on a lengthy To Do list.
As she worked, images of Trey Davenport and Ross Morgan flitted through her brain. The pictures of Trey were less than flattering; mostly she saw his eyes roll up in his head and the unexpected crumple to the floor at the Mendelsohn bris. A snapshot of Ross Morgan picking Trey up and tossing him, limp, into the corner of the sofa followed.
The mental images of Ross Morgan were mostly rear-end shots and consisted of that fine posterior moving under tight-fitting tennis shorts. Occasionally her mental camera cut away to the twinkle in his blue eyes as they’d attempted to strategize during their ill-fated tennis match. The images of Ross Morgan brought a reluctant smile to her lips; the images of Trey Davenport did not.
Shelley frowned as she confronted the truth: Seeing Trey faint at the bris, and facing how out of place he’d been there, had underscored all the reservations she’d been burying. Good-looking and attentive no longer felt like . . . enough.
