Tempest in Eden

"John's teaching me," Celia said shyly, looking lovingly at her husband. "Of course I'm not very good yet, but—"

"She's improving every day," he finished proudly. "What about it, kids? Are you up for a doubles match?"

"Did you bring your racket and tennis clothes, Shay?" Celia asked.

"Yes, though at the time I couldn't figure out why you suggested it."

"Wonderful," Celia said, clapping her hands happily.

"I don't know," Shay hedged.

"Maybe Shay feels self-conscious about her game," Ian suggested. "If she doesn't want to play doubles, you two—"

"I play a great game," she retorted angrily, interrupting his buttery drawl. Their eyes clashed. She knew hers were shooting sparks of irritation. His were guileless, but lurking just behind the innocent expression, she saw lights of amusement and victory. She'd fallen for the oldest ploy in existence.

"You men go change while Shay and I clear the table," Celia said, standing. "Shay, I know you don't usually eat breakfast, but those blueberry muffins are scrumptious."

"Thank you, Mom, but no. Coffee's enough."

"You're really far too thin."

"Now, Celia, leave the girl alone. It's chic to be slender," John said, surveying Shay's svelte form as Celia looked on.

"Then maybe you'd like my figure better if I lost a few pounds," Celia suggested, almost pouting.

John grabbed her and nuzzled her neck playfully. "I like your figure just the way it is."

Shay smiled at their display of affection, but she didn't want to admit how perturbed she was when Ian sauntered out of the kitchen. Though everyone else in the room had assayed her figure, he hadn't given it a glance.

John was right about her mother's figure. She looked cute as a button in her tennis togs. Her legs weren't as long, slender, or tanned as Shay's, but they were remarkably trim and firm for a woman her age.

The municipal tennis courts weren't as smooth as those found at country clubs, but they would suffice.

After they'd warmed up, the doubles match began. Tacitly, Shay and Ian became partners. He played well but methodically. His returns and serves were not spectacular. Celia was coached by a patient John, who didn't seem to care if they won as long as she was having a good time and not getting too tired. Shay relaxed, knowing she was playing better than anyone else. She didn't even push herself. It surprised her when Ian complimented her on a routine return and a less than fabulous lob.

"Good shot," he said laconically.

"Thanks," she returned in kind.

Except when necessary, they didn't look at each other. He certainly wasn't paying special attention to her, and she'd be damned before she'd stand before him like a tongue-tied teenager admiring his physique, which the tennis whites set off to full advantage.

What irked her was that she knew she looked good in her tennis outfit. It had a white halter top that left her back bare and showed off her tan. The white pleated skirt came to just below her hips. Beneath it her red trunks peeked out flirtatiously.

And this prude, this stick man, hasn't even noticed, she thought scornfully.

Before they had played a full match, Celia mopped her brow with a handkerchief and said she'd had enough. "Why don't we go to the market and buy those steaks you wanted to grill while the children continue to play?"

"Great idea," John concurred.

Since Shay hadn't really exerted herself, she looked forward to having the whole court to herself. She nodded in agreement.

"We'll be back in half an hour," John called as he ushered Celia to the car.

"Want to rest a minute before we start?" Ian asked Shay as the car drove out of sight.

"I don't need to rest, but if you do, I'll be glad to wait."

"I'm ready," he said grimly, and without even tossing for it, chose the side of the court with the sun behind it. "You can serve first."