Page 48 of The Heiress
“You’re here,” he said, his eyes scanning the ball cart, the racket, the balls scattered over the court.
“Yes, she’s here,” Laura answered for me. “She needed some fresh air and then decided to walk home.” She missed out the part about feeling sick.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly, and trying to justify using his tennis gear, “I was just filling in time.”
“I stopped by the The Kitch. Izzy said you’d been in,” Phoenix said.
It took me a second to realize he meant the Covington Kitchen cafe and that he spoke of Izzy as if she was someone he was quite familiar with, a friend. “Oh yeah, I was craving a pumpkin spice latte,” I said.
“And an apple donut?” he quipped, his lips lifting in a teasing smile.
I flashed a grimace, the evidence right there on the patio table. “I actually bought it with you in mind, but the walk took a little longer than I thought,” I said.
Laura chuckled. “Well, I’m just glad you’re safe and sound,” she said, giving me another affectionate hug. “And next time let someone know where you’re going.” She waved a mocking finger at me before heading back into the house.
“Or...you could turn your phone on?” Phoenix suggested, his brow lifting. “Mom was really worried, you know. She was wondering if she should call Mrs. Pritchard.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean—”
“And me,” Phoenix interrupted, his faint glower showing hehadbeen concerned about me.
My lungs went on hiatus, forgetting to draw in any air, all I could offer was an apologetic shrug. But that was now twice in the last few days I’d gone awol and put people in a panic. Apparently I was a slow learner.
“Um, I’ll just pick up the balls,” I said, taking the racket from the cart. About to dash over to the net, I was struck motionless when Phoenix murmured, “Hey, Elisha.” The whisper of my name on his lips sent a tingle across my shoulders. “Uh,” he hesitated and scratched his neck. “Um, Mom...she’s been crazy different these past few days, like her old self.” His neck must have very itchy. “Just...thanks.” Rendered dumbstruck by what he was inferring, my heart raced, but no words were needed as he continued on. “I mean, she looks amazing today and she said you helped with her clothes and she ordered a meal in the restaurant, it was just a salad, but she actually ate most of it.”
I never knew I could be so excited about Laura—or anyone—eating a meal, or so happy for Phoenix being so happy. “Well, I’m grateful Laura took me in. This is probably the best time I’ve had since I’ve been here, too,” I said, my voice trailing off and heat spreading over my face faster than an out of control wild fire. “I mean, it’s been...nice.”
Phoenix seemed as embarrassed as I was about my gushy sentiment. He picked up a ball from the cart, tossing and catching it repeatedly. “So, were you hitting balls?”
“Trying to.”
The ball flew in my direction, my reflexes too slow.“Oops, sorry,” he said, darting off to stop it from rolling away. He grabbed it and held it at my racket strings. “Show me?”
“Show you?” This was exactly why I hated sports—the competitive aspect, being judged on my ability, yet a few minutes ago I’d been hitting steadily and it would be nice to think that three years of lessons hadn’t totally gone to waste.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not very good,” I said, taking the ball from him and moving closer to the wall. I repositioned my grip on the handle, thinking about the frying pan...and wanting to impress Phoenix. I bounced the ball a couple of times first. That’s what I noticed Taylor did before she served. Bounced the ball precisely five times before serving.
I cast a glance at Phoenix, leaning against the cart like he needed the support. Flashing a nervous smile, I bounced the ball again. Success! The ball came back to me and I swung through, Coach Zack’s directions from all those years ago—take your arm back, turn your shoulder, make contact and swing through and catch your racket over your other shoulder—all happening naturally.
I hit six in a row before the clapping from Phoenix distracted me. I stopped the incoming ball and smiled.
“I wanna hit with you,” he said. “I’m just going to change.”
“Wh—?” I was left talking to myself as he jogged off the court. If anyone had told me he’d broken his pelvis six months ago, I wouldn’t have believed them. “But—”
I wanted to say that I was hardly dressed for tennis either in my sweater and jeans. It should have been overwhelming, but with my heart swelling with pride, the strangest thing had just occurred.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to be good at a sport.
