“My pleasure.” Our eyes meet, and I see a camaraderie in her gaze that warms me almost as much as the first swallow of wine.
We fill our plates, and I take the first few heavenly bites. For a time, we eat and sip our wine in silence.
“How was your appointment with the attorney?”
I study Dorothy’s face. I’m still not sure whose side she’ll be on if and when she’s forced to choose. But I’m too tired to be hypervigilant, and I can’t live expecting betrayal or waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me. And it’s not as if there’s anything really left to hide.
“It was a bit of a mixed bag. The good news is that Mitch’s attorney has responded to my petition for divorce,” I say. “The bad news is that Mitch has run up way more debt than I expected, and unless I can find the money to buy him out, we’ll probably have to sell the house.”
My voice breaks on the last word. I drop my eyes to my plate and push around the noodles I no longer have an appetite for. When I’m able to speak again, I search for a less distressing subject.
“So,” I finally manage. “I was wondering if you’d like to come to the bookstore with me tomorrow?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dorothy’s protest is automatic. I listen as she lists all the reasons this isn’t a good idea, but what I’m seeing is Dorothy’s face when we found her cradling the little Holcomb twin.
“I’m sure Annell would be glad of your help. I know she really appreciated you being there for story hour last time.”
Dorothy pinkens. “I guess I could come along to help Annell out.” She eyes the glass of wine I lift to my lips. “But if you ever call me Dot again, all bets are off.”
Somehow, I don’t choke on my wine. I lift one hand and swear as solemnly as I can manage that those three letters will never pass my lips in that particular order ever again.
On the way to the bookstore late the next morning, Dorothy tries to act as if the whole outing is no more important than a run to the grocery, but her smile betrays her when Annell, who has somehow discerned that Dorothy’s invisible “do not hug” sign has been removed, greets her with an especially warm embrace.
Moments later, I catch my mother-in-law slipping pieces of paper into the book club name suggestion box. “I hope you’re not padding that thing with blank entries again to try to scare people off.”
“Whyever would I do that?” Dorothy asks as seriously as a person can when their eyes are twinkling.
“I have no idea. But it isn’t working,” I declare as I pull out my own wad of folded papers and stuff them into the box one by one, keeping a challenging eye on Dorothy. Never mind that I was up until almost midnight coming up with them. And that I may have googled just a bit when my brain ran dry.
Dorothy hums happily under her breath while she helps Annell set up the food and drink. She brightens even further when the kids and parents begin to arrive.
The Holcomb twins are barely through the front door when they drop their mother’s hands and race over to Dorothy with happy shrieks. Lacy, who spent the last story time Dorothy attended in her lap, wraps both arms around Dorothy’s leg and refuses to let go until my mother-in-law picks her up. This is further proof that children can sense those things we try to hide. That little girl knows a “Dot” when she sees one.
Jazmine
I don’t know if it’s the size of her personal cheering section—both my parents and Thea and Jamal are with me in the stands of the tennis center where Maya is playing her singles match—or something her grandfather said to her, but my daughter is completely on today.
She moves in anticipation before her opponent’s racket is even back. Aims deep and devastating forehands and punishing backhands from the baseline. Places the ball with military precision. Charges to the net, where she is a human backstop.
I hold my breath when she races for a drop shot and manages to tap it back over the net, catching her opponent flat-footed.
“Lord, that child is on fire today,” my mother says.
“She surely is,” my father replies with justifiable pride.
Maya’s up five games to four. It’s her serve. Her chance to close her opponent down.
Today there is no double-faulting. No hesitation. No letting down. I barely breathe as she fights for and ultimately wins the first point. Fifteen-love. Her next serve spins into the corner of the box and bounces away from her opponent. Ace. Thirty-love.
My heart thuds in my chest. I know just how important calm is when you’re serving for the match and how hard it is to maintain. This is where the pressure builds. This is where focus is everything.
Thea reaches for my hand, and I’m glad of the contact. My father always appears calm, but I know from experience that his stomach is churning every bit as much as mine. Come on, Maya. You can do it, I will silently.
I hold my breath as my daughter bounces the tennis ball on the service line. Once. Twice. The toss is perfect, and as her racket loops behind her head, I know exactly where the ball is going. I squeeze Thea’s hand as the ball zooms in right at her opponent’s feet and skids away. The girl flinches, but that’s the only move she makes. Forty-love.
“That’s our girl,” my father practically whispers. “She’s in the zone. She’s got this.”
I breathe but only because I have to. I’ve got a pretty great poker face, a necessity in my profession, but this is not a client I’m watching; this is my daughter. It’s personal. Oh my God. Oh my God. Let him be right. Let her win it right here.
I watch the bounce. The toss. I keep my eyes wide through the thwack of the racket on the ball. Maya is already racing to the net. Somehow, her opponent manages to get her racket on the ball and whack it down the line just out of Maya’s reach. Forty-fifteen.
Maya is rattled. This is that moment when a player is most vulnerable. But if she lets the girl score another point, she might become emboldened and tie things up. Maya needs to end this here and now.
Maya’s serve is hard and deep. It lands in the backhand corner of the box, but her opponent manages to return it.
Come on, Maya. It’s almost a prayer. You can do it.
And today she does, running her opponent all over the court with long, wicked ground strokes. When she’s tired the girl out, Maya feints slightly, then smashes a crosscourt backhand that sails right past her opponent.
Maya’s arm and racket go up in victory. Her smile of joy lights up her face. Then the two girls are reaching over the net. Shaking hands. We all jump up in excitement and applaud as Maya strides happily off the court.
We hug one another and jabber about Maya’s best shots, the aces early in the last game, her gorgeous ground strokes, the crosscourt winner, how happy she looks. We’re heading down the bleachers to say all those things to her in person when a man steps out from beneath a shade tree and approaches Maya and her coach, Kyle Anderson. They shake hands. They’re too far away to overhear their conversation, but the man is clearly congratulating Maya. Kyle is practically bowing and scraping, as if the man were royalty. That man is Rich Hanson.