Edith cleared her throat. “I don’t love it myself, but I’m afraid we have to play. Lindsay and Pope are crazy about tennis, but the Senator doesn’t play, so they’ve invited Jonny Balaga to take his place.”
Pandy nearly dropped her piece of bacon.
“But I’m not very good,” Pandy protested. “Pope will only get annoyed with me.”
Edith smiled encouragingly as she helped herself to a tablespoon of scrambled eggs. “The worse you are, the better. Pope gets furious if he doesn’t win.”
“Fantastic,” Pandy said. Pope Mallachant was some kind of legendary investment banker. He was in his early seventies and was considered a “billionaire’s billionaire.” Lindsay, his third and much younger wife, was highly admired for having landed him.
Jonny Balaga was the last person Pandy would have expected to be friends with them.
“You must know Jonny Balaga?” Edith prompted. When Pandy shook her head, Edith added, “He’s down here looking for money for his new restaurant.” She dropped her voice; in an aside meant for Pandy’s ears only, she hissed, “He and Lindsay have become ‘very good friends.’”
“This sounds like a disaster,” Pandy chortled.
“Personally, I can’t stand her,” Edith said. “I would cancel if I could. But the Senator wanted to put Pope and Steven together. So I tell myself I’m doing it for the sake of the Democratic Party.”
The Mallachant house was the opposite of the Finipers’: a classic Palm Beach mansion built in the 1930s. Constructed of yellow stucco with ornate white moldings, it resembled an enormous wedding cake. And there’s the bride, Pandy thought as Lindsay, dressed in pristine tennis whites, greeted them at the door.
They followed her to the back of the house, where a table was laid with crystal, silver, and black-and-yellow enamel bees, place cards grasped between their filigreed wings.
The terrace overlooked formal gardens, a very blue pool, and a very green tennis court, complete with bleachers and those eerie salty-white stadium lights. Pandy groaned inwardly.
At least Jonny was going to be late.
This Lindsay informed them of immediately, asking them to please sit down. Jonny would join them in time for the matches.
Two white-gloved servers in gray uniforms attended to the table. The lunch consisted of three small courses: a salad of radish and orange slices sprinkled with chives; a ceviche of lobster and shrimp; followed by an espresso, which Pandy refused, and a crème brûlée, which she did not. Pope Mallachant, a tall, stooped man with hooded eyes and unnaturally black hair, explained that by restricting his calories, he was extending his life. He asked Pandy if she restricted her calories. Pandy said she didn’t. Pope Mallachant suggested she try it, pointing to himself as an example of the efficacy of his diet. He was seventy-three, he boasted, and was free of both cancer and heart disease. “The only way I’m going to die is if someone kills me,” he said.
Pandy laughed. She could never take these people too seriously. But then again, she didn’t have to. All she needed to do was be polite.
“How’s your tennis?” Pope asked.
“Terrible,” Pandy declared. And just to prove how hopeless it was, she asked for another glass of champagne.
Her champagne arrived, followed immediately by Jonny.
He may have merely walked through the French doors, but to Pandy, it felt like he had suddenly burst onto the terrace like a small, fiery sun. The atmosphere immediately changed and became lively; the women laughed and the men’s voices became lower and more knowing. Jonny went around the table, tucking his still-long hair behind his ears as he lowered his head to greet the women with kisses and the men with handshakes and pats on the back. Compared to Jonny, who was slightly tanned and slimly muscular, everyone else at the table seemed ancient.
Impatient to get to his tennis, Pope stood up before Jonny could reach Pandy. The rest of the table followed suit. Pandy wondered if Jonny had even noticed her.
As Pope led Jonny down the stairs to the court, she heard Jonny ask him whom he was playing with. Pope glanced around for Pandy, then motioned her over. “Meet your partner,” he said to Pandy. “Jonny Balaga…” He hesitated. He’d clearly forgotten Pandy’s name.
“PJ Wallis,” Pandy said quickly, extending her hand. Jonny looked at her hand, shook his head, and laughed, leaning over to give her the requisite kiss on the cheek. “We already know each other. But maybe you don’t remember.” He laughed again and strode off while Pandy hurried to the changing rooms, the skin on her neck still tingling where Jonny’s hair had brushed against it.
His hair was just as soft as she’d imagined it would be.
Her heart was still pounding as she entered the cabana. It was fitted out like a luxurious spa, with showers and a steam room, folded white towels, and the ubiquitous basket of toiletries. Arranged in one plastic tub were brand-new tennis whites still in their cellophane wrappers; in another were an assortment of new to barely worn sneakers. Pandy selected a short white tennis dress and bloomers and looked over the sneakers, flexing them back and forth to find the pair with the most give.
She changed her clothes and stood in front of the mirror. She reminded herself that just because “Beluga” was playing and they were teamed up together, there was no reason to get all churned up. She must play exactly as she would have if Jonny weren’t there.
She extracted a headband from a plastic wrapper and jauntily stuck it behind her ears. She looked in the mirror and wished she had something to put in the headband. Like a feather, perhaps.
She took a deep breath.
Let the games begin,
she thought with a sigh. She wished she really did have a feather. Something to show everyone how silly she was, which would no doubt get her quickly kicked out of the game. But there was nothing. Not even a speck of dust.