Apples Never Fall

“I was being silly, I don’t really hate cooking. I just like it when someone else puts a meal in front of me, as if I’m the lady of the manor! And it’s no big deal at all now, when it’s just for your father and me, it’s easy! Now … how are you, how was your weekend?”

“It was nice,” said Brooke. “Quiet.”

A sudden instinct, something about the tension in Brooke’s voice and the memory that Brooke had said she might drop by over the weekend but then never had, and Joy had been so busy with Savannah that she only just remembered now, made Joy say, “Did you have a migraine over the weekend, Brooke?”

“So what else has this Savannah been doing all day?” said Brooke at the same time. “Apart from cooking?”

“She’s been resting,” said Joy. “She needed a rest. I think she’s been through quite a stressful time.”

For the first couple of days Savannah had slept for long stretches, as though she were recuperating from a serious illness, and Joy and Stan had tiptoed about the house, giving each other quizzical shrugs. Initially Savannah hadn’t spoken at all, just gratefully eaten whatever food was put in front of her. It was gratifying to see the color come back into her cheeks. As the days went by she became chattier, and she seemed so interested in Joy and Stan’s lives, and to truly enjoy hearing their stories and looking at family photos. She asked them all about the tennis school: How did they come to start it? What was it like in those early days? Was it hard to find students? Did they still play? Did none of their children want to take over the business? It was Stan who answered all those questions, who seemed to want to answer her questions; he kept getting in first—it was so unlike him!—as if he needed to do this, as if her interest was fulfilling some sort of therapeutic need, giving him “closure,” perhaps? Savannah nodded along, and never seemed to get impatient when Stan spent ten minutes trying to work out if a particular tournament had taken place in 1981 or 1982.

“And what does Dad think about all this?” asked Brooke. Without waiting for an answer she said, suddenly suspicious, “Has he got her on the court yet? Does she play?”

She was so transparent. Always a Daddy’s girl. It was Stan’s approval she so desperately craved, as if it were withheld from her, and yet she’d always had it, from the moment he first held her. Brooke was Stan’s favorite. Everyone knew it except for Brooke.

“Savannah doesn’t play,” said Joy. “She says she’s not sporty. But your dad likes her.” It was actually surprising how well Stan and Savannah got on. “She and your father have bonded over some television series they both enjoy. They talk about the characters as if they’re real people.”

“Which series?” asked Brooke urgently, as if that mattered.

“Oh, gosh, I wouldn’t know,” said Joy. She’d never been a big fan of television, and the older she got the less patience she had for it—her lower back played up if she sat still for too long—whereas Stan had gone in the other direction and would sit in that recliner for hours watching rubbish.

“Right,” said Brooke.

“How’s Grant?” asked Joy. “And how’s work? I gave your card to someone the other day, now who was it? Someone who said they were having back pain, just like me, and I said, ‘Well, you must see my daughter,’ and he said—”

“Amy said something about Dad buying her a car?” Brooke’s voice was sharp.

“Who, Savannah? He’s not buying her a car, we were just talking about how we’d need to get her set up with a car at some point, and your dad was asking her if she’d consider the new Golf, so they went and test-drove one. You know how your dad loves test-driving cars, even if he has no intention of buying one.”

“How is she going to afford a car? Does she even h

ave a job?” asked Brooke.

“I think I already told you that she and her boyfriend had only just moved here from Queensland,” said Joy.

“So why doesn’t she just move back to—”

“Jo-oy! Dinner!”

“I’ve got to go, that’s Savannah calling to say dinner is ready.” She walked toward the kitchen, the phone to her ear.

“How did Dad react to the news about Harry’s comeback?” asked Brooke.

“Oh, well, Savannah has been a good distraction,” said Joy, lowering her voice, knowing Stan was already in the kitchen sorting out their drinks. She could see Savannah through the doorway with three plates balanced on her forearms like a waitress. Her haircut looked lovely.

“It will be interesting to see what he says about Dad in his autobiography,” said Brooke. “Do you think Dad will read it? Or will it upset him too much?”

“Autobiography?” Joy stopped. She spun around so she was facing away from the kitchen.

“Supposedly he’s writing one,” said Brooke. “Or he’s probably paying a ghostwriter to write it for him.”

Would they ever be free of that boy? “I didn’t know that.”

She should have predicted it. All the big names in tennis wrote their stories eventually. Everyone loved a success story. Their “So You Want to Write a Memoir” teacher had said “rags to riches” and “overcoming the odds” were the most popular themes for memoirs.

There was something demeaning about Joy doing Caro’s silly memoir-writing course, while Harry, a kid whose bloodied skinny-boy knees she’d once bandaged, wrote a proper memoir that people would actually want to read. It made Joy’s entire life feel silly. A lady’s life.

“Will you read it?” asked Brooke.