Page 50 of The Heiress
Not finding her, Mom’s intuition led her to drive home where Elisha was in the back yard hitting tennis balls against the wall, of all things. She’d phoned me just as I’d stepped out of The Kitch, somewhat relieved because Izzy, who was working the counter, volunteered information that Elisha had bought a pumpkin spice latte, an apple donut and tipped generously.
Guilt had racked me then, because Elisha walking all the way to Main Street and back home was the action of someone who thought they didn’t belong.
And that was on me.
Elisha had confided in me that she hated being at Covington Prep, hated being away from her family, yet I’d acted like a jerk, like this was all about me.
But the chance to make it up to her came in the most bizarre way—playing tennis. Yep, the girl who was a self-proclaimed non-player knew how to hit the ball. I could see from the way she held and swung her racket that she’d been coached.
It was a scramble to change my clothes, not wanting to take too long in case Elisha decided not to wait. I shoved my feet into my tennis sneakers, leaving the laces untied. She’d pushed the cart to the side of the court, reiterating, “I’m not very good,” as soon as I came outside.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” I said, resting my foot on the seat of a chair to tie my shoes. “After watching Taylor, I just want to hit more balls.”
“Taylor’s really good,” she said.
“Yeah, she is,” I said, switching legs to tie my right shoe.
“She never brags about winning either. Didn’t she and Bianca win a state thing?”
“Yeah, they did,” I said.
“You’re really good too,” she said.
“Used to be,” I murmured.
“I don’t think I can serve,” she said.
“It’s okay. We’ll just hit.” With both shoes tied, I unzipped my tennis bag and pulled out two rackets. “Here, this one might be better.” I held out another racket, one that had newer strings. She’d been using one of my old rackets; older strings lost their tension which resulted in less control.
“Go easy on me,” she said with a wry smile.
The first ball I hit, Elisha’s return landed in the net. As did the second. She apologized profusely but I told her it didn’t matter. I hit the third ball much softer, giving her time to see the ball and prepare her racket. The rally continued, her confidence improving as she relaxed, a smile spreading across her face when I hit the ball into the net. I pulled another ball from my pocket and we carried on, sending gentle shots across the net, the way Taylor had first started with me.
In the middle of a particularly long rally, Mom came to the side of the court, waving her phone in the air and calling Elisha’s name. Elisha took her eye off the ball and it sailed straight past her. Mom whispered something in a hush as she handed the phone to Elisha.
I approached the net and Mom met me, saying, “It’s Mrs. Pritchard. She’s just checking everything’s going okay.” Mom lowered her voice further, even though Elisha had wandered to the back of the court. “Apparently she hasn’t contacted her parents.”
“I told you she doesn’t turn on her phone.”
Mom shook her head in disbelief, making me think that for all the time she’d spent with her, Elisha hadn’t revealed what she’d told me. My chest stirred knowing she’d opened up to me.
“It’s nice that you’re playing tennis with her,” Mom said, her raised eyebrows seeming to imply more than her remark.
“Watching all that tennis makes me want to play,” I replied defensively, “Doyouwant to play?”
Mom’s pursed smile was smug as she shook her head. “Just don’t overdo it,” she said, walking toward Elisha who was on her way over. “Everything all right?”
Elisha winced as she handed the phone back to Mom, saying, “Mrs. Pritchard said I should call my parents.” She handed me back my racket with an apologetic expression.
“That’s probably a good idea,” Mom said, guiding her back inside.
The desire to hit more balls vanished as Elisha went inside. I packed away the rackets, realizing I hadn’t eaten lunch. And Elisha hadn’t eaten properly either—a donut couldn’t be classified as a meal. I checked the pantry and the fridge, grabbing stuff for a sandwich, enough for two. Elisha had eaten a turkey sandwich at the picnic, one with lettuce, mayo, cheese and cucumber. She’d pulled out the slices of tomato and wrapped them in the napkin.
“What cheese should I use?” I asked Mom, who merely smiled as I placed two plates on the counter.
“The Swiss cheese slices,” Mom said, just as her phone rang. She scuttled over to the table and picked it up, going through to the living room.
With more care than I would normally take in making a sandwich, I spread the mayo evenly and layered all the toppings. I set the plate on the breakfast bar, with a bottle of juice, hoping Elisha wouldn’t be too long. Footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor but they were Mom’s heels returning. I was ready for her to razz me over making Elisha a sandwich, but all I heard was a sharp inhale.
