McNeil's Match

by Gwynne Forster

  It probably did seem strange to her, but not to him. “Of course,” he said. “My friends have always been welcome in my parents’ home. Besides, you and my mother will love each other, and my dad will have one more woman to show off for. How about it?”

  “You ask them, and if they say it’s all right, I’ll start packing.”

  He looked at Lynne for evidence that she understood his need to do something special for the woman who had practically adopted him, and when she smiled through glistening tears, he pulled her into his arms, pressed his lips to hers and let her feel the strength of the emotion that plowed through him. She parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue between them for a fleeting kiss.

  “Yep,” Thelma said. “Just like I told you, Sloan. I’ll be at your wedding. I’m getting too old to dance, but I certainly can clap my hands.”

  Letting Lynne Thurston out of his life wasn’t on his mind.

  * * *

  With the August sun bearing down on her, Lynne shaded her eyes and looked at her coach. She wasn’t tired, just drenched with sweat. Gary didn’t let up. “You’re a champion, and you’re going to play like one,” he told Lynne after their practice session in Armstrong Stadium. Until the larger and more modern Arthur Ashe Stadium was built a few yards away, Armstrong Stadium had been the center court at Flushing Meadow, home of the US Open tennis tournament.

  “What are you doing the rest of the day?” he asked her.

  “I’m going to swim, and then, I’m going to sleep until it’s time for dinner, as these New Yorkers call it.”

  “Good idea. I just wanted to be sure you don’t have plans to wear yourself out shopping.”

  The following morning, she gazed longingly at the yellow tennis dress with the pleated skirt, the costume that had been her trademark back in the days when fans clamored for her and players feared her. Then, she stared into the full-length mirror, at the likeness of herself in a prim white dress slit modestly on each side to show white pants. It would take some courage to...

  “Oh, what the heck,” she said. “If I don’t believe in myself, who will?”

  She stepped out of the white clothes, slipped on the yellow dress and shorts, yellow socks and tennis shoes and tied a yellow band around her head. The people were expecting the old Lynne and she’d do her best to be that person. In a moment of apprehension, she looked toward the heavens.

  “I’m going for it,” she said to herself, “and if my best isn’t good enough, I’ll just work harder, because I intend to be number one at the end of next year.”

  She slung the handle of the duffel bag containing her racquets, towels and extra shoes, socks and clothing over her shoulder, said a word of prayer and headed downstairs to the hotel’s entrance where a limousine awaited her.

  She’d hardly sat down before her cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. I’ll be watching. If you do your best, you’re a winner either way. I love you, and I’m pulling for you.”

  “I know, and that means everything to me.”

  That afternoon, at the hottest part of the day, an announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Linda Waters.” After the crowd’s mild applause, the voice intoned, “The US Open’s own champion, Lynne Thurston.” She walked onto center court to the prolonged cheers and stomping of the largest crowd she’d seen since she last played in Louis Armstrong stadium six years earlier. She bowed to each section of the arena, and when an usher ran out to present her with a bunch of yellow roses, she was glad that she’d worn her yellow dress.

  She won the toss and double-faulted immediately, losing the first point. “To hell with that,” she said to herself and, to the crowd’s delight, served two aces down the middle. “All right, girl,” she said, pumping her fist. “Let’s go.”

  And go she did, winning the first set by a score of six games to one for her opponent. Waters gained strength in the next and last set, but couldn’t break Lynne’s serve and lost it four games to six.

  When Waters’s attempt at a passing shot went out of bounds, Lynne tossed her racquet into the air and jumped nearly as high. The crowd roared its appreciation as she raced to the net for the obligatory handshake.

  Holding Lynne’s hand, Waters said, “Girl, you some shit. I thought I was gonna skate right through this one. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Lynne said, keeping her delight in abeyance to show good sportsmanship. She shook hands with the referee, waved once more to the crowd and, after signing the pieces of paper, tennis balls, baseball caps, T-shirts and balloons handed to her, she made her way to the clubhouse.

  “How does it feel to be back, Lynne?” a reporter asked. “You think you’ll take the championship?”

  “I’m not only taking one match at the time,” she replied. “I’m only thinking about one play at a time. The lineup consists of the best players in the world, and I wouldn’t deign to put myself in that class. At least, not yet.”

  The reporter stared at her. “You’re joking, I assume.”

  She pulled off one of her shoes in the hopes of sending the message that the interview was over. “Never been more serious. This game didn’t stand still waiting for me the six years that I stayed out of it. I have to work my way back up, and that’s what I’m going to do. Thanks for the interview.” She ducked into the locker room and leaned against the wall. The fans had been wonderful to her, and she had not disgraced herself by losing in the first round.

  She won her next two matches and moved to the quarter finals. It would be tough, she knew, because she faced Garner, a top player known for her concentration and her ability to pull rabbits out of a hat, as it were. Whenever one player seemed to have all but won a match, Garner would still find a way to win. Lynne reminded herself that she was playing well and vowed to give it her best shot. If Garner won, she would have to outplay her, because she had no intention of beating herself.

  As she was about to leave her room on the morning of her fourth-round match, her cell phone rang. She sat down on the edge of the bed and answered it. “Hello.”

  “Hi. I just got in,” Sloan said, “and I’m on my way to the stadium as we speak. I’ll be watching you this time from the stands.”

  “Sloan! Honey, you’re not supposed to be traveling with that busted toe.”

  “I had to wish you good luck. I know how important this one is to you, and I had to be here.”

  She wiped the tear that had begun to trickle down her cheek. “You...you’re wonderful. I’m so glad you’re here. At least I’ll have two people, you and Gary, rooting for me.”

  “Trust me. After the way you’ve been playing, everybody will be there for you. I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

  “Bye, love.”

  She dressed in yellow as she did in her glory days, left the room and headed downstairs for the limousine that would take her to the scene of her triumph or to one more loss in the fourth round.

  She lost the first set, won the second and, when Garner got out of trouble with two straight aces, Lynne lost the match. “I was ahead,” she said to herself. “How on earth did she sneak past me like that?” But she was damned if she would cry. She’d played a great game, and as she went to the net to shake hands with Garner, shouts of “Lynne, Lynne” pummeled her ears.

  “You gave me a tough match,” Garner told her. “I’m lucky to have won.”

  “You earned it,” Lynne told her. “Congratulations.”

  When Lynne waved at the crowd, everyone stood and applauded her. She covered her immense disappointment with smiles, but it hurt. Oh, how it hurt! One point had separated her from a berth in the semifinals, and she’d lost the point and the game. As hard as she’d fought, Garner had, nevertheless, taken that final game and the match. One stroke. If only she had hit a lob instead of attempting one of her famous drives down the line, she’d be in the s
emifinals. The tears didn’t fall until she saw Sloan at the gate waiting to take her to the hotel.

  “It’s all right, baby,” he said as his arms went around her. “You played fantastically, and I’m proud of you. There’s no doubt that you’re headed for the top. Garner was lucky—her second ace could have been in or out, depending on how you looked at it.”

  “It was in...by a hair. Where’re you staying?”

  “At the Hilton on Sixth Avenue, but I haven’t checked in yet. I went from the airport directly to the stadium.”

  She looked down at the bag beside his foot. “I have limousine service, so you can ride with me.” Should she suggest that he stay with her? After thinking about it for a bit, she decided to let him make the first move.

  “Let me check in first,” he said. “Then you go to your hotel and dress, after which we can spend the evening together.”

  That wasn’t good enough. He’d said where his luggage would be, but not where he’d sleep. “How are we getting together tomorrow morning?” she asked him. “I mean, are we having breakfast together, flying together? What?”

  “I’ll be at your hotel by eight o’clock, and we can have breakfast together and then leave for the airport. We’re on the same flight.”

  He took her to the 21 Club for dinner, and she was glad that she’d worn a short evening dress because the female patrons at that restaurant all looked as if they were either fashion models or well-paid actresses.

  “You’re treating me as if I won the tournament,” she said when he ordered an expensive vintage champagne to accompany their dessert. “You’re a man who enjoys even the simplest things that are seemingly incompatible with vintage champagne and fine French desserts. Where did you cultivate such expensive—and I might say exquisite—taste?”

  He didn’t seem to think the question odd, nor did he take offense. “When you meet my mother, you’ll understand the conflicts you see in me.” He didn’t elaborate further, and she didn’t press him. Looking around at the elegant restaurant, a setting that would have been more fitting if she had won, she vowed that after next year’s US Open, the celebration would honor her triumph. I’ll have to work hard, she told herself, but it will be worth it.

  “You’ve drifted away from me,” Sloan said as he raised his glass to her. “Next year in this same restaurant, we will celebrate your victory.” He linked arms with her and sipped the champagne.

  “I was telling myself the same thing, Sloan. I don’t think I will ever be able to make you understand what your being here with me this day means to me. It...means more to me than...” She looked for the words. “It’s made me happier than if I had won that match, because I can imagine what you went through to get here.”

  He looked at her for a long time, his expression soft and loving, and when she thought he had decided not to answer or to comment on her remark, he said, “I’ll kiss you for that, and I’ll love you for it, too.”

  She must have seemed perplexed, for he added, “Yes, I went through a lot to get here, and it wasn’t all pleasant, but I’d do it again in a second to hear you tell me you love me in those same words.” He leaned toward her, staring her in the face, his expression stern and purposeful. “I hope you’re not thinking that this is a temporary fling with me, because it isn’t. Your name will be the last word I utter. You’re my woman. Your brother and your ex are a couple of human termites burrowing at our relationship. They can root as much as they like and for as long as they can, but baby, I am not giving you up. Never. And you can tell both of them that. You’re mine.”

  She couldn’t imagine what had brought that on. “I’m with you because I want to be, because there’s no other place I’d rather be and no person whose company I prefer to yours. Willard is just proving that he never knew me. His pride is suffering, and he wants a chance for revenge. Most days, I don’t remember that he exists. As for Brad, I am learning that he is a bigot and arrogant to boot, but he’s my brother and I love him. That doesn’t mean that he can influence me as he once did. I’ve grown up.”

  He relaxed and leaned back in the chair. “I just wanted to make sure that you and I are on the same page.”

  She reached across the table and caressed his fingers. “We are.”

  * * *

  Bradford Thurston was a corporate lawyer who considered his achievements, as a black man, exceptional. He worked and frequently traveled in a white-shirted, white man’s world of conference-room decisions, happy-hour friendships and margarita lunches. He bought his sports attire at the Princeton Shop, his shirts, suits, ties and loafers at Gucci, his leather goods at Louis Vuitton and his slim bank account reflected his taste. Any man who lived, dressed and carried himself differently was not worth Bradford’s time. Women thought him good-looking, and he was, with an intimidating six-feet-four-inch height to support his handsome face. Brad had rejoiced when Lynne married Willard Marsh, for he thought that guaranteed her an upper-middle-class lifestyle and status in the community in which she lived. Domestic abuse was the last crime he had expected a minister to be guilty of, and he wondered whether and how much of it Lynne provoked. Not fair, maybe, but he had to consider both sides. He walked into the offices of Jain, Feldman and Sharp, took the seat shown him and dropped his Louis Vuitton–initialed briefcase on the floor beside the chair.

  He handed Rupert Sharp a slip of paper on which he had written the name and occupation of Sloan McNeil. “He lives in San Antonio or thereabouts. I want you to find out everything about this man, where he works, what he does there, his age, marital—”

  Sharp interrupted him. “You said you wanted to know everything about him. That’s all you need to say. I know my job, Mr. Thurston. I’ll get you the goods on him, but I need a retainer of five hundred dollars, cash or credit card. You’ll hear from me in a week, and I’ll need another five hundred when I give you my report.”

  Brad didn’t like giving up a thousand dollars that easily, but he couldn’t think of another way to put an end to Lynne’s stupidity. He’d bet his eyetooth that the man was a gold digger. Everybody knew that Lynne made millions before she married, and she seemed headed for more of the same, now that tennis prize money had doubled in the last few years.

  He opened his wallet and counted out five hundred dollars for the advance payment. Sharp raised an eyebrow. “Why cash? Is this deal on the up-and-up? Why is finding out about this McNeil fellow so important to you? I don’t get involved in anything that’s unsavory, buddy.”

  “My sister is famous, and she’s gone nuts over this guy. I don’t want her ever to know about this, so I’m covering my tracks by paying you cash.”

  Sharp flexed his right shoulder in a quick shrug. “As a lawyer, I suppose you’d think that way. You may be wasting your money, though. If she’s nuts about the guy as you say, nothing you can do will break it up. Nothing that’s honest and legal, that is. I’ll call you in a week.”

  * * *

  If McNeil was a businessman, he had to have made some wrong moves, and he intended to find out what they were. Nobody was completely honest, and if he knew Sharp’s reputation, the man would find out everything, including the number of hairs on McNeil’s head. He left the private investigator’s office, got in his Mercedes coupe and headed for work. With the windows rolled down and a warm breeze kissing his face, he thought about his good life. Not many people had what he had or did what he did for a living. Lynne came from a family that was well respected in Ellicott City, and he didn’t intend to see her sink to lower class because she couldn’t control her hormones.

  He walked into his office at White, White and White, threw his LV briefcase on his desk and went immediately to Edgar White’s office. “What have you got for me this morning, Ed?”

  Edgar White didn’t raise his head from the paper that had his attention. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”

  He camouflaged his dis
pleasure with a smile. “Right on,” he said, but he’d give anything to chew out the pompous jerk, but he had to remember his bills and his mortgage. He sat there for half an hour before Edgar looked up at him and smiled.

  “See what you can do with the grammar on this brief.”

  “Right on, man.”

  * * *

  “I’d like to enter one or two of those small tournaments in Asia,” Lynne told Gary the day after she returned home from New York.

  “All right,” he said. “I want you to take two weeks off from practice, but not from training. Go out and have a life. Spend some time with McNeil. The happier you are, the more likely you are to win.”

  After her workout the next morning, she put a leash on Caesar, locked the house and walked over to visit with Thelma. “I’ve got two weeks to do practically nothing. I’d like to be buying and decorating my house, but—”

  “What are you going to do with two houses?” Thelma asked her. “Are you trying to discourage Sloan?”

  “He asked me the same question, but I don’t have an answer. I’m not going to shack up with him, and he hasn’t mentioned marriage. If he’s fishing to know what his chances are, he can forget it. I’m not giving him assurances until he gives me some.”

  Thelma stopped rolling pie crust dough and stared at Lynne. “What would you say to him if he asked you to marry him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just got out of a marriage less than a year ago.”

  Thelma treated her to a withering look, and she prepared herself for some of the woman’s wisdom. “From what you’ve told me, I’d say that mess you were in could hardly be called a marriage. When you marry Sloan McNeil, you’ll find out what it means to have a man love you and cherish you. You don’t know a thing about that.”

  “No. I don’t suppose I do. I wouldn’t be happy if Sloan took himself out of my life, but...well, right now, I don’t have to answer to anybody.”

  “Sure,” Thelma said. “Independence is great until you find yourself with that and nothing else. You can have your independence with Sloan, because he’s self-confident enough not to try to imprison you and to let you fly. Forget about that rotten excuse for a man that you married, and thank God that you have Sloan.”