The Secret of You and Me - Melissa Lenhardt Page 0,36

You making fajitas?”

“I am.”

Logan pumped her fist. “Yes.” She kissed me on the cheek and walked out the front door. I watched my daughter go, my heart soaring. Was it so simple? Was honesty all that had been missing from our relationship?

When the house was quiet, I opened my phone again. A message was there, but not the one I wanted.

The five-flavor pound cake?

Yes.

I can do that.

Up for a game?

I inserted a tennis ball emoticon at the end of the text.

High school?

Thirty minutes?

See you then.

I made sure Charlie was mowing, then I went to change.

ten

nora

Sophie was on the court, hitting balls against the backboard when I drove up. I sat in my car and watched her. She was a little slower, but still graceful, her long legs covering the court with smooth strides, her long arms just reaching shots that would be out of touch for me.

I opened my phone and looked at the text again. I’m trying to seduce you with my cooking, remember?

Provocative, but it would take more than a thumb caress and a suggestive text to make me trust Sophie Russell with my heart again.

She missed a ball and turned to face me. She stopped, smiled briefly and waved.

I walked onto the court. “I don’t have a racquet.”

Sophie lifted an extra from her bag and handed it to me handle first, like a gun.

“Damn it.”

“Come on, cowgirl up. It’s only a hundred and one degrees.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I hadn’t touched a racquet since I left.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll finally beat you.” She volleyed a ball to me.

I returned it and said, “You were serious when you said a ‘game’?’”

“Aw, are you too out of shape to play me?”

I pointed the racquet at her. “You’re going down.”

“You wish.”

We hit easy volleys back and forth for five minutes and practiced serves for five minutes more. We met at the wooden bench on the side of the court. Sophie opened a small cooler and pulled out two cold unopened water bottles. “You brought a cooler?”

“It’s the mom in me.”

“Are there orange slices in there, too?”

“No, smart ass, there aren’t.”

We watched each other while we drank, while we twisted the caps back on. A truck with a glass pack muffler rolled by, brutally shattering the relative quiet. I flinched, turned abruptly toward the truck and glared at it. Of course, it had a Confederate flag in the back window. When I turned around, Sophie was grinning. “I’m glad I’m not the only one that hates those mufflers.”

“They should be illegal.”

“I’ve got something that will cheer you up.” Sophie reached into her tennis bag and pulled out a can of balls.

“Is that...?”

I removed the lid to see the silver seal over the top of the can. I pulled the tab back and it hissed like a can of soda opening. I stuck my nose inside and inhaled the unique scent of rubber and felt. Memories of the hundreds of matches I’d played rushed through my mind, and I grinned. “The best smell in the world.”

I handed the can to Sophie, who inhaled and grinned as well. “One set, then we talk.”

Sophie won the first three games without surrendering a point. When we switched courts, she looked like she’d gone for a brisk walk. “You lied to me when you said you didn’t play much.”

“Not exactly. I haven’t played much since you left. But, I’ve played a lot recently.”

“I’m playing the rest of this set under protest.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

“Don’t you dare.” I crouched down in the ready position, determined to break Sophie’s serve or kill myself trying.

As we played, my memories of past matches were overshadowed by the sights and sounds of the current game; the pang of the ball hitting the strings, the scrape and squeak of our shoes on the court as we reached for a shot, the ball hanging, suspended, in the air before my racquet whooshed down to connect on a near perfect serve, Sophie’s grunt as she returned it, the white lines of the court wavering in the heat, cold water sliding down my throat during a water break.

My muscle memory kicked in, as did my knowledge of Sophie’s game. Sophie had east-west range and could drop a shot right on the service line, but she had never liked charging the net, and her backhand, though much better, was still her weakest link.

I broke her serve by charging the net. I pushed the idea she might have let me win the game from my