Page 9 of The Heiress
“No, no, sit down,” Mom said. “Mr. Frank, can I get you a drink? Iced tea? Wine? A beer?”
“Wouldn’t say no to a cold beer,” Mr. Frank said, “And please, it’s Brandon.”
Mom ushered Taylor’s Dad through to the kitchen, leaving Taylor with a horrified look on her face. There had been a bit of drama about Taylor’s scholarship to Covington Prep when it was revealed that she lived across the bridge in River Valley in a rundown rental house. The town of River Valley was divided by a river and the Covington Heights side was seen as the rich, wealthy neighborhood with mansions, the prep school, Country Club and exclusive designer stores. River Valley was considered the poorer cousin with the public schools, the mall and ironically, Whittakers Ice Cream Factory, which was owned by the Whittaker and Pennington families from Covington Heights.
In the scheme of things, the division was only apparent in sporting rivalries like football, basketball, volleyball and athletics. River Valley High had neither a tennis nor golf team. If we were at the mall or Peter’s Ice Cream Shoppe, they might sneer at us and call usStripersbecause of our striped blazers, but we’d retaliate with a call ofArvees,the nickname for those who attended RV High. No one meant anything by it and there was never any real animosity, but it was a tradition that went back to my parents’ school days and beyond.
“What’s he doing?” Taylor mouthed at me, rolling her eyes. “Flip flops?”
I laughed. “Your Dad is cool.” Mr Frank was indeed cool. He attended every one of Taylor’s tennis matches, home and away. He’d work early shifts or late shifts or double shifts at Whittakers factory to ensure he made it to her games. My Dad had very rarely made the effort, even though he lived in Rosemont, a ninety minute drive away. “And at least he’s not wearing slippers,” I chuckled, adding softly, “Mom would have taken you home, you know.”
Taylor flashed a grimace; I knew she struggled with the lavish lifestyles in Covington, still completely awestruck by our private tennis court. That was a reason I liked her so much, she was genuine, she was humble, and most of all, she was determined to succeed by sheer hard work. She was out to prove she deserved her scholarship.
“Hey, eat up,” I said, taking a small bunch of grapes and pushing the tray of fruit right at her.
She smiled and popped a strawberry into her mouth. We talked about training and doubles and qualifying for the state championships and the assignment for our photography class.
“Gah,” she suddenly said, “I was supposed to take an action shot of Max today. You wouldn’t be able to serve again, would you?”
“Have you got your camera?”
“No,” Taylor admitted, “but I can use my phone.”
“No, you can’t!” I said. “You have to describe lighting and shutter speed. Do you want to use mine?”
“Would you mind?” she asked sheepishly.
“Of course not,” I said, easing myself up out of my chair. She pulled my walking frame over and we went to my room to get my camera.
Taylor wasn’t really interested in learning how to set up the camera, happy for me to do it for her, and when I struggled to serve—my legs had gone all stiff after sitting—she suggested a volley shot where I could stand at the net and all I had to do was reach out my arm. She was about to plug in the automatic ball machine to shoot the ball at me, when Mom and Mr. Frank emerged.
“Ooh, Dad,” Taylor called. “Do you think you could toss Phoenix a few balls? I need an action shot.”
Mr. Frank pushed the cart to the center of the court and Taylor directed the throws: Higher, lower, a bit slower, not that slow, more to the left, your left, not Phoenix’s left. We were all laughing out loud, and I had to hit about twenty balls before she asked me to check if she had a ‘good enough’ photo.
Taylor was open about academics not being her thing, not that she wasn’t smart, but tennis was her priority and Bs were sufficient in her book.
“Do you play tennis, Laura?” Mr. Frank asked Mom. I tried not to look surprised at the use of her first name, but he had told her to call him Brandon.
“Not much lately,” she said demurely, scooping up the stray balls with the ball pick-up tube.
“We should have a doubles match,” Taylor said excitedly, never missing the opportunity to hit more balls.
“I think you have homework to do, young lady,” Mr. Frank said in a mocking tone.
“It’s basically done now,” Taylor said, smiling as I approved the photo. “Come on, just a couple of games.”
“Maybe another time,” Mr. Frank said, pointing down at his flip flops.
“We could play youngies verses oldies,” I said, my competitive spirit not abating in the slightest. There was no way Mom and me would beat Taylor and her Dad, and I preferred to be on a winning team.
“Ahh...what!” Mr. Frank scoffed, turning to face Mom, “that sounds like a challenge if ever I heard one, Laura?”
It was the second time he’d called Mom Laura in as many minutes.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Mom said as she emptied her tube into the basket next to Mr. Frank, shaking the balls as if they were stuck. She cleared her throat. “We’ll have to arrange that game for another time,” she said in a weak voice, hesitant and lacking any conviction.
Taylor and her Dad thanked Mom for her hospitality and she escorted them out, and that was another thing to be frustrated about. I had no energy left to wave goodbye, my body failing me—craving a horizontal position on a soft mattress.
