Page 39 of Bad Summer People
They watched as Rachel got up and went over to Sam and Paul, who both offered their condolences. Lisa set off to congratulate Lauren, who was still making the rounds, leaving Jen alone. She felt great. Invigorated. Proud.
She saw Rachel tug on Sam’s sleeve and pull him away from Paul. Then Rachel disappeared with Sam into Robert’s tennis hut, closing the door behind them. What was she doing? Jen felt her heart quicken, and she followed them, pulling to open the door, but it was jammed. Rachel must have locked it. She knocked on it, trying to remain quiet so as not to attract anyone’s attention. She smiled at Brian Metzner as he walked by, and then stood there helplessly for at least a minute. “Sam,” she hoarsely whispered into the door. “Sam!”
The door opened, and there they were. Sam standing near the stringingmachine and Rachel leaning against Robert’s desk, next to his open lesson ledger. Sam looked strange, white and drawn, his lips parted oddly over his teeth. Rachel guiltily looked down at the floor instead of at Jen, then walked out, pushing past her.
“Sam,” said Jen.
He was staring at her as if he didn’t recognize her.
“What did she say to you? She’s a liar. Remember that. And she’s upset she lost to me.”
Sam shook his head, his curls flopping. Then he silently walked out of the hut. Jen tried to grab his arm as he passed, but he shook it off, his head down. He continued out of there, not looking where he was going, and then violently bumped into poor Micah Holt, standing next to Lauren near the bike rack. Surprised, Micah fell to the boardwalk. Sam went over and lifted him up like a little boy, placing him gently on his feet. Then Sam took Lauren’s head in his hands and whispered something into her ear. Lauren turned to face Jen, shock spreading over her pretty face like water filling a bathtub.
Sam grabbed his bike, freeing it from the surrounding ones with a strong shake, and took off, riding up Marine, away from the courts, away from Jen. She stood there and watched him go, not sure of her next move.Fuck Rachel Woolf,thought Jen. She was going to kill her. Jen went over to her own bike and took her phone out of her tennis bag in the basket. Lauren was still standing there, not having moved at all. Jen opened Signal and typed a message.
Jen Weinstein: I think he knows. Watch out.
21Robert Heyworth
Robert Heyworth was about to have a fantastic fall. But first, he couldn’t believe how seriously people were taking this tennis tournament. It was a joke. A bunch of middle-aged women, not one of them above a 3.5 USTA tennis ranking, playing each other as if they were at Roland Garros. He’d been a pro long enough to know that wealthy people loved to exaggerate their athletic abilities, but this was a new level. You’d have thought Rachel Woolf was the next Serena Williams by how hard she took her loss in the semifinals to Lauren and Jen.
Robert had watched the entire match, admiring Lauren’s legs in her white skirt. He’d coached her beforehand, last night at his place after they’d had sex. She’d been lying on his bed, naked.
“You have to keep your eyes on Rachel. If she drifts to the middle, hit winners down the line,” he’d said, tracing a line down from her breasts to her stomach with his finger.
She’d listened and executed, and Robert was proud of her. As dumb as this thing was, he wanted Lauren to win it. They were now in the limbo period between the semis and the finals, which started at 4:00 p.m. It was his job to organize the courts so more people could watch; dragging extra seats outside from the yacht club, angling benches so everyone could have a view. Willa Thomas and Micah Holt were helping with it all, bouncing around cheerfully, carefully carrying out plastic pitchers of Stella and tubs of freshly popped popcorn. The yacht club staff was a mix of locals, likeWilla and Micah, and working-class kids from across the bay in Long Island, who took the ferry back and forth and actually needed the money.
“Hey, Micah,” said Robert, sitting down for a quick break. He patted the seat next to him.
Micah, dressed in tennis whites for the occasion, came over, perching on the other side of the bench.
“Who are you rooting for?” Robert asked, grasping for conversation. Micah had been a bit standoffish lately, though Robert couldn’t say why. It’s not like they interacted beyond tasks like this.
“I guess I’m rooting for Lauren and Jen,” said Micah, eyeing him warily. “I like an underdog, and I feel that Lauren deserves this.” He quickly followed with, “She’s been working so hard. I’ve seen her out on the court with you almost every day.”
Robert was struck with the sudden feeling that Micah knew more than he should.
“What about you?” Micah asked innocently.
“Oh, I’m a neutral party,” said Robert, shaking it off. He was probably just imagining things. Robert was in high spirits. After the morning match, he’d had a few lessons, including one with Larry Higgins. Afterward, they’d sat together drinking water and discussing life, which was Larry’s favorite thing to do.
“So, kid, the summer’s almost over. What are your plans for the fall?” Larry had taken a fatherly interest in Robert, which Robert appreciated. There was always one kind older guy at the club who wanted to see Robert succeed.
“I’m honestly not sure,” said Robert. “I want to stay in the city for the year and look for work, real work,” he added. “But beyond that, I’ve got nothing.”
Larry took a long sip of water from his purple Contigo. Robert realized he knew very little about Larry, other than that his wife, Henrietta, didn’t play tennis and that he had two grown sons. Where did they live? Why weren’t they out here spending time with their dad while he was still alive?
“I have an idea for you,” said Larry, looking at him seriously, his thick white eyebrows drawn together. “I want you to come work for me.”
“But I thought you were retired,” said Robert.
“I’m semiretired,” said Larry. “I still dabble. And I need someone to source investment ideas for me and help me keep my books. I know you’re not trained in any of this, but you’re a smart guy, a lot smarter than most of the people I’ve worked with during my career, and I think I could teach you. I could set you up to get hired by a real firm in a couple of years’ time.”
This was exactly, word for word, what Robert had always hoped someone would say to him. A benefactor, at last.
“I’d love that. I’d work so hard; you know that about me. And I could scrape by on my savings from the summer,” said Robert, thinking of the tax-free $16,000 he’d squirreled away by stealing from the club.
“Oh, I’ll pay you, son,” said Larry. “I’d never hire someone without paying them; that’s called slavery. I’ll start you at a hundred and fifty thousand for the year. How does that sound?”
