Simply Mad (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 1)

by Christina Coryell

  “You’d want to go back there? As I recall, that wasn’t a very good memory.”

  “It was a good memory for me,” I insist. “Yet another instance where I had bad luck with dating, right? Who would have ever thought that Ricky Buchanan would leave me standing there on the dance floor while he went off into the night with Heather Atchison? And don’t say anything, because I know in hindsight I should have realized that Ricky was a sleazy two-timing backstabber when he dumped Caitlin Soward to ask me in the first place, but I thought he was just madly in love with me and couldn’t think straight.” Hmm… Maybe I am self-centered and ridiculous. “Anyway, you rescued me like a true hero, Joshua Mason. You drove me to the water tower so I wouldn’t have to face my mother while I was crying, and you let me sob all over your tuxedo. You were my knight in shining armor.”

  “So Ricky Buchanan dumping you is a good memory?”

  “No, silly,” I tell him while I shake my head, although I realize he can’t witness the action. “You’re the good memory, don’t you see? We were sitting on the back of your car underneath that water tower, and I was feeling pretty unlovable because of that slime ball Ricky, and you told me that I was worthy of better. You said, ‘Mad, if a guy is not willing to throw his heart on the line and give you the entire world, he doesn’t deserve you.’”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes,” I respond, tears inadvertently filling my eyes at the sweet memory. “I said that I thought Ricky loved me, and you said, ‘Love isn’t so easily pushed aside. It’s long-suffering and patient and steadfast.’”

  “That doesn’t sound like me.”

  “It was definitely you,” I assure him with a short laugh. “Trust me, Josh—it’s permanently on my heart like it’s stamped there, and I’ll never forget it. The front of your shirt had a smear on it from my mascara. I’m sure your mother scrubbed and scrubbed trying to get it out.”

  “Probably,” he agrees, joining my laughter. “Your dress had that sheer lace stuff over the front, and my button got caught in it. I remember because while I was trying to get loose, you leaned against me, and you smelled like vanilla and peaches. You had glitter in your hair, and by the time I got home, it was all over me.”

  “So you remember, too,” I say wistfully.

  “It’s pretty difficult to forget. The first of many broken hearts I’ve nursed.”

  “I know, me and the broken hearts. You’d think I’d grow up after all this time.”

  “You didn’t wound me too badly. I’m still alive, anyway.”

  Usually my conversations with Josh leave me feeling pleased and uplifted, but this one is making me emotional and depressed. And apparently Josh considered dealing with my broken heart that night some sort of punishment, which is news to me and slightly disheartening. All this time I’ve considered his actions that night gallant and sweet; could he have been annoyed with me the entire time? Ouch.

  “I’m sorry, Mad,” he continues, letting out an extremely exaggerated sigh. “I’m tired and I’m afraid I’m not being good company. Besides, it’s late and I should be getting some sleep. I better turn in.”

  “Goodnight, then,” I tell him. “Sweet dreams.” Hearing the click on the other end of the line, I hit the end button on my phone and then stare down at the screen still bearing his likeness.

  “Hurry home,” I whisper into the stillness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Big Cedar Tennis Club—right where Cooper said it would be. I’ve driven this stretch of road many times and never noticed it before, probably because it’s down a long drive and nestled in a valley full of trees. Cooper insisted that I leave more than thirty minutes early so I could go to the pro shop and be outfitted. I had to endure Dina’s icy stare on my back the entire way to the elevator. Managing to quietly slip into the office yesterday morning, I thought I might escape her notice, but she glanced up to glare in my direction and then immediately look back down at her desk.

  Never mind her now, though. Since I have to be out here learning how to play tennis, even though I am definitely not crazy about the idea, I might as well make the most of it. If nothing else, I can enjoy the sunshine and time away from the office.

  Does a person simply walk into the pro shop and ask to be outfitted? I’m not even completely sure what that means. I assumed when he mentioned it that Cooper wanted me to get one of those tennis skirts like the women wear on television, and maybe a polo top or something, although I can’t see what difference it makes what I wear to take tennis lessons. Besides, I am definitely not wearing those silly little sweatbands on my wrists, no matter how hot it is outside.

  Stepping out of the Tahoe, I grab my gym bag and head into the pro shop. As I open the door, I am greeted by a wall of cold air, which probably feels wonderful after a tennis lesson, but definitely feels less than comfortable right now, forcing me to shiver in the entrance as I wait for someone to appear at the desk.

  Really, I’m not certain I can wear one of those outfits. They practically look like spandex. I have lost a little weight lately, but would definitely be uncomfortable in spandex. In fact, I think most people should avoid spandex. Scratch that—all people, except maybe Olympic sprinters.

  “Can I help you, miss?” A tall, thin man clad in a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts suddenly appears from around the corner.

  Yes, can you outfit me? No, I can’t say it.

  “I have a tennis lesson today, and I’m not sure where to go.”

  “If you know your instructor’s name, I can just make a call and have them meet you here.”

  “I believe the lesson is with Max Kimball.” He immediately reaches behind the desk to pick up a phone.

  Walking to a wall of visors, I spy a pink one and give it a once-over. Do people really wear these things? Why don’t they just wear sunglasses? As I glance at the price tag, I put the visor back immediately. Honestly, how can they charge so much for half a hat? I could buy a cheap one somewhere else and cut the top off. It would be basically the same thing. It might not look quite as pretty, but I’m sure it would be worth the price difference. Except that Cooper has just doubled my salary, so in reality this is the first time I actually might be able to afford a frou-frou half-hat.

  “Max is just finishing up a lesson, but when he’s done someone will tell him you’re here,” the clerk states.

  “Thank you.” Any more time in this icebox is too long! I’m considering going outside when the clerk begins toward me.

  “Have you ever played tennis before?”

  “Not really, just fiddled around,” I try to fib. To be frank, I’ve never played tennis at all, but I’ve played table tennis, and I would assume they are somewhat similar.

  “So you don’t have any equipment, then?”

  “No–do I have to provide my own paddle, or is that part of the lesson?”

  He clears his throat as he walks across the store.

  “A paddle won’t be necessary,” he states with a hint of sarcasm, “unless you brought your canoe. We carry a wide selection of rackets, if you’d like to take a look. You don’t need one for your lesson, but if you’re planning on continuing, you’ll probably want your own.”

  Of course they’re not paddles—they’re rackets. The silly tennis newbie didn’t know what to call the equipment…absolutely hilarious!

  “Oh, pardon me,” I attempt to explain. “I’m used to the table version of the sport.” There—maybe he’ll think I’m a table tennis pro and have never bothered with this lesser version of the game.

  “You’re referring to table tennis?” he asks, a smile playing about his lips. “I suppose they both do involve sending a ball over a net.”

  That’s it—I’m finished. There’s no use going into a battle of wits unarmed, and I definitely don’t have any ammunition on this topic.

  “This racket looks like it would be a perfect fit for you,” he mentions as he brings me a yellow racket with a black stripe. I look it over for a minute, but I can’t
agree. The color is all wrong.

  “Actually, I’m thinking maybe something in a light green, to match my tree frogs.” Unzipping my gym bag, I pull one out so he can be sure what color I’m referencing.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Something to match the tree frogs.”

  By this time I’m well aware that he’s patronizing me, but I could not care less. If I have to buy the equipment, it might as well match, shouldn’t it? I don’t want to go out there clashing with tree frog shoes and a bumblebee tennis paddle…er, racket.

  He finally locates a light shade of green and places it in my hands. It is a lovely color, and I believe it matches perfectly.

  “How does it feel?” he asks.

  What does he mean, how does it feel? It feels wonderful to find the right match, of course. Why does he suddenly care about my feelings?

  “Great,” I respond halfheartedly.

  “The fit feels right? It’s not too heavy?”

  Oh, how does it feel! I don’t know…it feels like a long handle with a round part on the end. How is it supposed to feel?

  “Seems fine to me,” I attempt to state confidently. He walks over to the desk and begins to log the sale into his computer. “Oh, you can just put it on Kent Cooper’s account.”

  “Mr. Cooper? Very well.” He continues typing on his computer as I go back to the visors and pull down a light green variety. If Cooper’s picking up the tab, I might as well have one to complete the look. It is his idea that I’m down here, completely uninformed and being laughed at in the pro shop. Since I have done my best to outfit myself, he should at least be pleased with that, even if my tennis winds up being lousy.

  I walk up to the counter with the visor and see another man standing by the clerk. This one looks about my age, with shoulder-length ebony-colored hair and striking blue eyes hovering above a thin, shapely nose and a trim-shaved goatee. He’s also wearing a light pink polo shirt, so there apparently is a man who can pull it off after all. Of course, I’m also betting he could wear a potato sack well.

  “Just sign this slip, and we’re all done,” the clerk states. I sign somewhere near the line, but I’m finding it difficult to concentrate as he points to that man beside him. “This is Max, your trainer.”

  Max doesn’t have to speak, because he’s already practically shouting, “Look at me, shouldn’t I be on a Calvin Klein billboard?”

  “Nice to meet you,” I manage to squeak out as he takes my hand. His grip is strong, which is probably from playing all that tennis.

  Taking my racket from my hand, he points to a side door. “The lockers are through the door to your right. When you’re done, come meet me on the courts. I’ll hang onto your racket for you.”

  His velvety voice is still swimming around me as I enter the locker room, where I’m quickly met by a middle-aged woman who sits red-faced and wiping sweat from her forehead.

  “You training with Max?” she asks, and I nod. “He’s a slave driver!”

  Great. Not only do I end up with the male supermodel of tennis, but he’s also apparently going to be trying to kill me and will make me look gross and sweaty. This is not good at all.

  As a result of my newly acquired information, my attempts to look presentable to visit the courts are pretty ridiculous. Admittedly, I brush lip gloss across my pout, adjust my ponytail underneath that visor, and glance at myself in the mirror a few too many times.

  Spotting Max upon my arrival at the courts isn’t difficult, considering the fact that he’s wearing a pink shirt and I could probably pick him out of a crowd of millions. He’s fiddling with a machine full of tennis balls when I walk up.

  “I’m all ready,” I state cheerfully, hoping he won’t be too hard on me. He looks up from the machine and assesses my appearance without any clear signs of love at first sight. I should have bought a white shirt or something, because in retrospect my blue shirt looks weird with all the green I’m sporting now. Plus, he’s probably wondering why I’m not wearing the silly spandex skirt instead of jogging shorts.

  “Have you ever played before?” he asks, squinting slightly against the sun’s glare.

  “No.”

  “So it’s tennis 101, then. Good, because I could use a slowdown for a while.”

  Maybe he won’t kill me after all.

  “If you really want to relax, we could skip this altogether and I’ll just pretend I had a lesson. Cooper will never know.” I doubt he’ll take me up on it, but I might as well offer. The temptation to offer to run away with him to a distant land also presents itself, but I am too mature to blurt it out loud.

  “So you’re not Mr. Cooper’s daughter?”

  Ew—no way would I ever run away with a man who thought I was Cooper’s daughter!

  “Goodness, no! What made you think that?”

  “Just a guess,” he says with a shrug. “He’s always talking about his daughter when he comes in here, and how he wants her to learn to play tennis, so I just assumed when he set up the lessons that she finally gave in.”

  “Well, I’m no relation—just his assistant.” As though I could be related to Cooper…ick.

  “That’s good. I wasn’t really looking forward to working with his daughter.” Max stands up and wipes his hands on his shorts.

  “I didn’t even know he had a daughter.” He’s never said anything about her to me, although I suppose I haven’t known him that long, really. Still, you would think he might have mentioned his children in passing.

  “Yeah, but judging by the rest of the family, I’d say she’s probably a spoiled brat.” Max sits down on a bench in the shade and takes a long drink from a Gatorade bottle. Standing beside him, I rock back and forth on my tree frogs.

  “So most of Cooper’s family comes here?” I wonder. Maybe it will help to find out a little about the eccentric nut, just so I know how to deal with him. Besides, the longer I can keep Max talking, the less time I have to play tennis and the more time I can stand here shamelessly staring at him.

  “His brother is here all the time. Kent’s wife has only been a few times lately, but I don’t think he cares for playing tennis with her. She basically just stands in one place and hits the ball when it comes to her. Kent’s pretty competitive, so something like that drives him crazy.” Max puts the Gatorade bottle on the ground and begins messing with a towel on the bench. Doesn’t look like he’s too eager to play tennis today, either.

  “So, you’ve met his wife?”

  “Faith? Sure, I’ve met her. She’s as spoiled as they come. You can tell he gives her basically whatever she wants. She comes to the court perfectly manicured, every hair in place. She has no intention of doing anything that would make her look less than her best, and tennis is a pretty tough sport.”

  I’ve seen Mrs. Cooper’s picture in the office. If I didn’t know better, I would think it was a picture of one of those big Barbie heads they sell at the department store with all the things to adorn her hair. She looks practically plastic.

  “So what is his brother like?” I prod further. Max leans back on the bench and looks up at me as though he’s posing for a professional photo shoot. I secretly hope my admiration of him is not evident on my face.

  “They’re a lot alike, really, Kent and Brent. Brent is a couple years younger, I think. They’re both competitive and extremely demanding. From what I’ve heard, they’ve been coming here to the club for years. Their wives were practically best friends, and they would have competitive tennis matches between the husband and wife teams. Back then, things were pretty well evenly matched. Brent’s wife was a lot like Kent’s, so the men did all the work while the women stood there and looked pretty, relatively speaking.”

  “So what happened? Why aren’t they evenly matched anymore?”

  “Brent doesn’t have the same wife. About a year ago, he divorced her and married his assistant. The two of them are here constantly, always practicing.”

  “She’s a lot more competitive than Kent’s wife, then?”


  Max gives me a lopsided grin that turns my stomach upside down. “Even if she wasn’t, her age would probably help her out a bit. Word around here is that wife number two, Kelli, went to high school with Brent’s son. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s in her twenties, and he’s got to be in his fifties.”

  “So when they play with Kent and his wife, they probably beat them.”

  “They probably would, only that never happens,” Max explains, tossing his empty Gatorade bottle in the air. “Faith won’t have anything to do with Kelli, so Kent doesn’t even have a partner. Your ultra-competitive boss comes here and listens to taunts from his brother, and he can’t even try to beat him on the court, because his wife refuses to show up.”

  “Maybe the obsession is starting to make sense,” I mutter. Max looks up at me inquisitively. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “You said you’re Kent’s assistant?” he asks, standing up and stretching his arms while I try not to gawk at him.

  “Yes.”

  “Kind of funny, him sending his assistant for tennis lessons. You know, Brent sent Kelli for tennis lessons, too, once upon a time.”

  Two brothers so intense in their love for tennis that they would force all those around them to get lessons? That’s not funny—it’s pathetic.

  “It almost seems like Kent is trying to pull a fast one on Brent,” he continues.

  “How so? You think there’s something else going on behind him sending me for these lessons?” I place one hand on my hip in a clear attempt to posture myself more attractively, consciously sucking in my stomach.

  “Think about it,” he says, giving me a sly wink. “Kent would never leave his wife—he completely dotes on that woman. He couldn’t bring anyone else onto the court to face Brent and Kelli, because Brent would know that he was just trying to beat him. He has to have a perfect partner for the match.”

  “But I’m confused…how exactly do I fit into that equation?”