Page 6 of The Pickleball Girl Finds Her Match

“That was a long time ago, Nora. The doctor has given me a clean bill of health since I changed my diet and started exercising,” insisted Earlene.

“And you look fantastic,” said Endy, placing her hand on Earlene’s arm.

Candi adjusted the wide-brimmed hat covering her spiky gray hair. “Sweetie, we were just at the Palm Springs Flea Market, and we found something for you.”

“Oh my gosh, you three. That’s too—”

Earlene said, “We just wanted to thank you for spending so much time teaching a bunch of old biddies how to play pickleball.”

Endy’s eyes crinkled. “I mean, they’re clinics, and itismy job …”

Candi reached into the bag and pulled out a neon-green cotton T-shirt. She shook it out, then brought it up to Endy’s shoulders, letting it drape across her body. Silk-screened on the front was an illustration of a large green dill pickle wearing Ray Bans and weirdly oversized white gloves and sneakers. The shirt reached past her hips and was so huge that it seemed as if both of them could fit into it at the same time.

Endy blinked, looked down, and read out loud, “Do you pickle?”

Candi hooted with laughter and stepped back, looking Endy up and down. “It’s probably a little big for you, but we were lucky to even get this one. Huge mob scene at that table.”

Endy gave a pained smile. “I, uh, love it. You gals shouldn’t hav—”

“But we did. And guess what else it says on the back,” said Nora, her tiny body standing a head shorter than Endy. She motioned for Endy to turn the T-shirt around. Printed across the back in hot pink letters were the words: BIG DINK ENERGY.

“It says, ‘Big dink energy,’” whispered Nora with a sly smile.

“I can see that, Nora,” replied Endy, biting her lip.

Earlene clapped, and Candi and Nora joined in. “Put it on!” Candi said, and Earlene agreed. “On! On!” chanted Nora, clapping her small, wrinkled hands.

Endy’s mouth opened and closed. She chewed the inside of her cheek. And then she took a deep breath, smiling at the trio while she pulled the extra-extra-large neon-green T-shirt over her head. The hem of the T-shirt brushed the bottom of her tennis skirt. She gathered a corner of the shirt and tied it in a knot, adjusting it tightly over her hips.

Twirling in a circle, arms outstretched, Endy laughed. “How do I look?”

“Even more stunning than usual,” replied Candi, her hands covering her heart. “Girls, stand next to Endy, and let’s get a picture.”

Nora moved close to Endy’s side. “You can be like me and use the picture for your Tinder profile,” she whispered with a slow wink.

3

After The Grands went on their way, Endy sat behind her desk, then logged onto her computer and pulled up an email from Whisper Hills’ senior vice president.

The meeting was just a community gathering rather than an official homeowner’s association or country club board meeting, so there was no formal agenda, but Endy wanted to be prepared for anything that might spring up.

The monthly meetings were typically attended by a couple dozen club members, some new to Whisper Hills, some who had owned property there since the initial construction in the ’80s. Considered the original luxury and leisure spot in the Coachella Valley, Whisper Hills Country Club sat on over 365 acres of meticulously manicured grounds.

Its championship golf courses, twenty-five tennis courts, twenty pickleball courts, two bocce ball lanes, and world-championship croquet lawns were perfectly maintained, tended to daily by an army of landscapers. Diligent attention to detail and impeccable quality were the draw for the thousands of residents who called Whisper Hills home, each of them with an opinion on how the club should be run.

Endy thought back to past meetings where members might grumble about the lack of free coffee in the café, or of the price of the tennis balls they sold in the pro shop. Joel and Endy did what they could to accommodate the requests so the members consistently felt taken care of, but recently there seemed to be more complaining, especially between the tennis and pickleball players.

She glanced at her watch, then grabbed her phone and keys from her desk. She ran through the pro shop, calling over her shoulder to Maria, “I’m late! Taking the golf cart!”

The smell of freshly cut grass and the ongoing drone of lawn mowers filled the air as Endy sped toward the Victor’s Clubhouse, located at the heart of the property. She pulled next to the entryway and parked in the slim shade of a towering date palm tree.

Endy stepped up to the Victor’s twelve-foot-tall glass double entry doors, which were flanked by huge dark blue ceramic pots filled with sharp-leaved agave and dripping with jasmine vines, their blooms deliciously fragrant. Twin loveseats faced each other across a rug emblazoned with the logo of Whisper Hills Country Club. She pulled open a heavy door and was immediately greeted by the delectable smell of freshly baked bread and grilling meat from the formal dining room’s kitchen. On the terrace, Endy saw ladies sitting in the shade of the heavy canvas umbrellas, sipping iced tea and sparkling water, their crystal glasses dewy in the heat.

Endy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and let her eyes adjust to the dim indoor lighting. “Hey, Amy, am I late?”

The concierge’s eyes grew round when she saw Endy walk in wearing the bright dill pickle T-shirt, but she just nodded her head at the meeting room. “Not really, they’re just trickling in,” she said. “Might be a full room though.”

“Thanks,” replied Endy. “Would you mind checking in after a bit, just to make sure the AC is keeping up? It’s already so hot outside.” Endy knew that during these kinds of meetings, feelings and debates on issues could get heated. If they could keep the room chilly, maybe the homeowners would keep their cool.

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