“Recognize this champagne?” he asked.
Laurent Perrier Rose: they’d drunk it to celebrate the end of the hiking trip he’d taken her on in the Cevennes, following the route of Robert Louis Stevenson. That had been years ago, not long before the petri-dish phase. Francie was amazed that he would remember, amazed by the candles, the lilies. It was all perfect, and unreal, like a Cary Grant movie; and pathetic, which Cary Grant never was. That-the pathetic part-and the secret fact of Ned, undermined the righteousness of her anger.
He cracked a claw. “Remember that summer, Francie?”
“Of course.” She saw that he was without a tie, almost the first time she’d seen him that way since he’d been fired.
“We had fun, didn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not eating. I didn’t overcook it, did I?”
“It’s just right.” She took one bite, could barely get it down.
“That’s better,” he said, beaming. “Here’s to France. And Italy, too, for that matter.”
They drank to France and Italy. “What’s this all about, Roger?”
“Just dinner,” he said. “No agenda. A quiet marital dinner.”
“Did you hear some news today?”
“News? What sort of news?”
“About work.”
Roger kept smiling, but his eyes no longer participated. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing definite. But I’m optimistic.”
He went back to the hiking trip, bringing up details she was sure he would have forgotten: the shepherd with the steel teeth, the one-eyed dog that had followed them for days, the blue-black cherries they’d picked off a tree, eating until they could eat no more, cherry juice dripping off their chins. All true. But what had become of that Roger, and how responsible was she? Too late to go back-or even think about it-but would there be dinners like this in some future with Ned, candlelight in his eyes, melted butter on his fingers, time?
“And now for dessert,” Roger said.
“None for me.”
He came in with a pecan pie, her favorite. “Just try it,” he said.
Again one bite. Had she ever tasted better? But still she could hardly swallow.
“I went heavy on the butter and added a little maple syrup,” Roger said.
“You baked this yourself?”
He nodded.
“But you don’t bake.”
“I followed the recipe in one of your books. It’s really not that complicated, is it?”
He tilted back his head, waiting for an answer. The candlelight illuminated the patch of face powder and the white hairs in his nose. All at once, Francie felt she was about to vomit. She pushed back her chair.
“If you’ve got work to do or something, don’t let me keep you,” Roger said. “I’ll clean up.” He swirled the champagne in his glass, forcefully, into a tiny pink-and-golden maelstrom. “And Francie? About this divorce business-could you give it some thought?”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“That’s all I ask.” He raised his glass to her, champagne slopping over the side.
5
Nora had a 5:30 court, but Francie got stuck in traffic and arrived ten minutes late. Nora was already in the bubble, hitting with the assistant pro against a woman Francie didn’t know. Nora hadn’t said anything about doubles, Francie preferred singles-and weren’t they supposed to have a talk? Francie changed and hurried onto the court, stripping the cover off her racquet, apologizing. The women met her at the net.
“It turned into doubles,” Nora said. “Why don’t you play with Anne? Anne Franklin, Francie Cullingwood. Francie, Anne.”
They shook hands. Anne was pretty, slim, fine-complected, and didn’t quite look Francie in the eye: no doubt the shy hausfrau Nora had mentioned. “I’ve heard such good things about you,” Anne said.
“Who’s been talking?”
Anne blinked. “Why, Nora.”
“Don’t believe a word she says,” Francie said. “What side do you like?”
“Forehand,” Anne said. “But if that’s your side, I could…”
“Not a problem,” Francie said, going to the backhand, swinging her racquet lightly, trying to make her arm feel long. She always played better if her arm felt long.
“Hit a few, Francie?” called Nora from the other side of the net.
“Serve ’em up,” Francie said, not wanting to delay the game any more.
The assistant pro went to the net and Nora got ready to serve. “Better stay back on the first one,” said Anne. “I have trouble with her serve.”
“Tell me about it,” said Francie, backing to the baseline.
Nora boomed in her big serve, the jamming one that spun nastily into the returner’s hands. To Francie’s surprise, Anne stepped away-fast and light on her feet-and chipped a low forehand crosscourt. If Nora had a weakness it was getting down for the low volley; she could do no more than float Anne’s return back down the middle, two or three feet above the net, and Francie, closing, put it easily away.
“Beautiful volley,” said Anne.
“Your setup,” Francie said.
Nora’s next serve kicked out wide on Francie’s backhand. Francie didn’t quite get around on it and the assistant pro picked off her return, angling it at Anne’s feet from point-blank range. Somehow Anne dug it out, bunting it down the alley for a clean winner.
“Partner,” said Francie.
They broke Nora at love, something Francie didn’t remember seeing before, won the first set 6–2. Neither did Francie remember the last time she’d played with a doubles partner whose game so nicely fit her own, Anne’s speed and steadiness matching her power and shot-making.
“What’ve you guys been smoking?” asked Nora on the changeover.
They toweled off, drank water, changed sides. “New in town?” said Francie as she and Anne walked toward the baseline.
“No,” Anne said. “Just getting back into the game now that my kid’s a little older. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it.”
“Boy or girl?” said Francie.
“Girl.”
“What’s her name?”
“Emilia.”
“Pretty.”
“And what about your kids?” said Anne.
“Don’t have any,” Francie replied, handing her the balls. “Your serve.”
Francie didn’t play as well in the second set, but Anne played even better, and the assistant pro, frustrated, lost her cool a little and started blasting the ball with all her might, usually out. Six-one.
“Thanks for putting up with me,” said Anne as they went to the net to shake hands.
“Putting up with you?” said Francie. “I was on your back the whole second set.” She tapped Anne’s behind with her racquet. “Nice playing.”
After, they sat in the bar, Francie, Nora, Anne. The club had a new microbrew on tap. Nora ordered a pitcher. Francie signed the chit. “You like microbrews, Anne?” Nora asked, filling their glasses.
