Page 36 of The Heiress
“Elisha, when Phoe was little, he set up a court on our back lawn,” Mom said.
“Mom...” I said in a low growl, already anticipating the story that had been told too many times before.
“We lived in Tower Drive then,” Mom continued on, oblivious to my impending embarrassment. “We had a lovely flat lawn. Phoe used two chairs to tie a piece of rope for a net and he used a spray paint to make lines on the lawn. His father went ballistic!”
“Mom,” I pleaded through gritted teeth, but knowing there was no stopping her.
“And at Wimbledon, players have to wear white. You can’t wear any colored clothing. So Phoe would dress in a white tee and little white shorts and tennis shoes that I’d bought for him. He was just so adorable.”
“Mommmm,” I drawled as she bumped my shoulder.
Elisha chuckled. “That sounds so cute.”
“He was certainly that,” Mom said. “Cute as a button, weren’t you?” She grinned proudly, seeming to forget that I was seventeen and not seven. “And,” she announced with a dramatic cadence, “he’d make his father sit on the chair and be the umpire while the two of us played each other.”
“Who won?” Elisha asked, suppressing a giggle.
“Oh, always Phoenix,” Mom said, nudging me in the elbow. “Phoe always won, didn’t you?”
Mom skipped closer to Elisha and whispered something in her ear, sending both of them into hysterics.
“What?” I said, knowing Mom’s playful mood was at my expense.
“Nothing,” Mom said with a triumphant smirk, saved by her ringing phone. She read the screen and shooed Elisha and I forward as she stopped to take the call.
“What did Mom say?” I asked as we fell into step next to each other.
“Nothing,” Elisha teased with a laugh. “Nothing.”
I rolled my eyes, assuming it was about my absolute abhorrence at losing. Oh yeah, little Phoenix had been prone to tantrums as a kid.
I’d been introduced to tennis by Max. Our friendship went back to first grade and his mother had asked if I wanted to go to Tiny Tennis with him. The first session I was too shy to play and sat and watched, but I’d been mesmerized by Clay, Max’s older brother, who had been ten or eleven years old. Clay had hit the ball hard—so hard, and he had a proper tennis racket and tennis balls, not the short racket and low pressure balls that Max used. I wanted to play like Clay.
My impatience stalled my progress in the beginning. I didn’t want the junior racket, I wanted the real thing. I watched Clay and thought I could hit just like him. When Max was given the trophy for Best Tiny Tennis Player, I went home and cried. (Donottell Max!) Difficult to console, Mom said she would find me a coach and next season I would get the Best Tiny Tennis Player award. Mrs. Liu was an old Chinese lady who loved tennis. Technically, she wasn’t the best coach but she taught me skills that were just as important—discipline, patience and mental strength. Discipline in training would make me fitter, faster and stronger than my opponents. Patience was the key to a long career—yes, Max might be better than me now, but Max was taller and bigger—maybe that wouldn’t always be the case. I had to bide my time. Early success didn’t guarantee future success. And most importantly, developing mental strength. My competitive spirit seemed to be innate, but it had to be nurtured. It wasn’t enough towantto win, it was about figuring outhowto win—not merely hitting the ball the hardest, which is what I loved to do, but about hitting the ball smarter. The brain was more important than the hands, Mrs. Liu said. Tennis was won by outfoxing your opponent.
Mrs. Liu moved away after two summers, but her no-nonsense drills had stuck with me. The running and jumping exercises I had to do before every practice, the basic hitting routine of forehands, backhands, volley and serves, and after training, picking up every ball and returning it to the cart.
Sure, subsequent coaches had evolved my techniques, but Mrs. Liu’s legacy stuck with me—and made those tantrums a thing of the past.
The clouds above the autumn foliage darkened and a sprinkling of raindrops descended upon us, Mom’s weather predictions coming to light. I looked up, then behind, seeing Mom about thirty yards back on the move. The parking lot was in sight, but I didn’t have the car keys. My immediate worry was Elisha’s white sneakers and cream sweater would be spoiled. Come to think of it, had the girl never been for a walk in the outdoors? Because her clothes were hardly appropriate, no matter how good they looked. Impulsively, I shrugged off my black hoodie and held it out for her.
“Put it on,” I urged when she looked at me weirdly. It wasn’t waterproof, but Mom would be proud of my good manners, and didn’t girls hate getting their hair wet?
“Thanks,” she murmured, hurrying her actions as more rain fell. Elisha flicked the hood over her head before zipping it up—confirming my assumption that hair must be protected at all costs—and tucked both hands into the pockets. A quick glance behind showed Mom now in a full on sprint, the hood of her jacket up. The steady increase in rain matched the increase of my heart beat as I watched Elisha go ahead, the thought of running in the rain, of slipping and falling, making me keep to a walk. I would say I was waiting for Mom.
But before I could comprehend, Elisha had tucked her arm through mine, holding on to me firmly.
“Argghh!” she squealed, like running out in the rain was one of those crazy things people only did in the movies. Very unlike an ice queen. But I was almost oblivious to Elisha’s presence as I put my head down, watching every step I took, every turn in the trail, every loose bit of gravel. I wouldn’t relax until I was safely in the car.
Arriving at the driver’s side of the car, Mom beeped the doors open. I herded Elisha into the back seat and carefully climbed in behind her, my left leg getting drenched by the time I pulled my foot in.
“Whoa! What timing.” Mom had scrambled into the driver’s seat and turned the windshield wipers on to full speed as the downpour continued. “You two okay?”
Elisha laughed as she pushed the hood off of her head. “Yeah, that was close.”
My racing heart didn’t allow me to answer, still trying to catch my breath. Not so much from running, but being this close to Elisha. Mom waited for the exodus of cars from the parking lot before driving off, giving us a chance to buckle our seat belts.
She looked in her rear view mirror. “I feel like a chauffeur,” she said with a laugh, her tone a little too over joyous in my opinion. “Looks like we’ll be looking for some indoor activities for the rest of the afternoon,” she said before turning the music up.
