Page 118 of Summer After Summer

I want to melt into my seat. My cheeks are flaming. “I … I assumed no one read that.”

“Well, I did. And then I did some research and talked to Mr. de Keurig.”

“What does that mean?”

“I wanted you to achieve your goals. So, I suggested that the company sponsor the event in Miami. With a sponsorship of that size, we were allowed to suggest a couple of wild cards.”

“A couple?”

“One.”

“That’s how I got invited to Miami?”

“Yes.”

I’d wondered about it at the time. I’d applied, but my ranking wasn’t quite where it should have been to get in. But then I did, and I did well, and that led to the next tournament and the next and eventually to Wimbledon. “What if I hadn’t done well there?”

He clears his throat. “There was going to be a second sponsorship. But you made it to the semis so that wasn’t necessary.”

“Wow.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, I … Why do you have so much sway over your boss? That must’ve been a lot of money he spent.”

“The sponsorships made business sense. Miami is a shipping port.”

“That can’t be it, though. Did you hide a dead body for him or something?”

“No, I … his son was under my command. Between us, he was a fuck-up, but he turned his life around for a while when he worked for me. He died a few years ago, and Mr. de Keurig … he’s kind of adopted me in his place.”

“Oh, Fred.”

“What?”

“You used up that for me? Why?”

“Come on, Olivia. You know.” He reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips. “It’s five years later. And I kept waiting for you to come back into my life, for our lives to line up on our own. But they never have. You’re traveling all over the world, and even then, I was almost at one of your tournaments more times than I can count, but then something would always interfere. I was tired of leaving it in fate’s hands.”

“There were still so many things that could’ve gone wrong. If I didn’t win, for one.”

“But you did. You’re playing great.”

“And you got me invited to that event here.”

“The party, yes. The qualifier, no. You earned that on your own.”

I lean back, processing. Outside, London’s old white buildings flash by. We’ve crossed over to the south bank. “Where are we going?”

“A little place I discovered a few years ago. You’ll love it.” The car stops. “In fact, we’re here.”

Fred hops out and comes around to open the door for me. He reaches out his hand, and I take it, though I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling about what he’s just said.

He ushers us into the restaurant, and the hostess smiles at him and tells us our table is right this way. He comes here a lot, I can tell, and the hostess obviously likes him.

She leads us through the restaurant—vibrant Portuguese plates on the wall and wonderful smells of saffron in the air—and out to a small courtyard where there’s one table with lights strung above it and vines growing all over the walls.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

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