stop.”
Most disconcerting was Baba’s new reluctance to linger after a session. There was always an appointment, or he’d promised to have an early dinner with Paige. Was he trying to establish some new protocol now that he was getting hitched? Meanwhile, Jillian had issued a routine dinner invitation to the couple—she reminded Baba that his fiancée had still not seen the Standing Chandelier, about which so far other friends had been spectacularly enthusiastic—but those two could never arrive at a date. She knew he’d come to cast a wider social net with Paige—all to the good, since in times past, tennis aside, unless Jillian hauled him through the door, he was capable of spending weeks on end holed up with a computer—but she hadn’t thought he’d become one of those gadflies out and about every night. Hard to arrange anyway, in a town of eight thousand people.
She’d have understood his being busy and distracted if he and Paige were in the process of planning a massive wedding. But the event on August twenty-sixth was meant to be modest. The invitations apparently went out by email to a guest list of under fifty (Jillian was surprised they could even marshal these dozens of well-wishers when Baba had long been such a hermit, but then everyone had cousins). They were eschewing the catered cakes, goodie bags, and hired DJs of the marriage-industrial complex for a simple ceremony followed by a potluck picnic. That night, to make the day more of an occasion for out-of-towners, they’d have a party with drinks and snacks back at the A-frame, with music streamed from Baba’s Mac. About all that would have been taking up her tennis partner’s time was putting together the playlist.
Jillian had offered to ask the Chevaliers if they’d be open to letting the picnic take place on their grounds. In August, the estate’s owners would be down in Byron Bay, Australia, and she was sure that they’d happily grant permission so long as everyone cleaned up after. The hills were rolling, the lawn luscious. It would be so much more private than the Boxerwood Nature Center, and not as impersonal as the Golf and Country Club, which would charge an arm and a leg—
“Jordan’s Point Park,” he cut her off. “It’s pretty, it’s public, and it doesn’t involve easily offended rich people. But thanks anyway.”
He didn’t sound very thankful. “Okay, never mind, then.”
BY THE FOURTH week of July, Jillian’s follow-through glitch was worse than ever, losing her every third point or so. Constant apologizing made her meek, and meekness weakened her strokes, when one of the aspects of her game that Baba had always relished was that she gave as good as she got. She was playing like a girl. She was playing like a girl who sucked. Tennis was a hard enough sport without the additional burden of worrying that your partner was bored or otherwise not having a good time. And he was not having a good time—or at least that’s what it looked like from the other side of the net that Friday, when he started losing numerous points from his own unforced errors, his motions phlegmatic, as if he couldn’t be bothered to chase her dreary little shots. Careful not to seem pouty or petulant or weepy and instead making a matter-of-fact and indisputable observation that this wasn’t working, Jillian suggested as they gathered balls at the net that they call it quits prematurely. It was the first time in twenty-five years that they’d curtailed their play in the absence of rain, dark, injury, or hail.
With the half hour’s early retirement, for once Baba couldn’t claim that he had to rush off elsewhere.
“Sorry,” she said again on the bench. Though it must have been ninety degrees, so frequently had she futzed up that she’d barely worked up a sweat. “Maybe I should take those lessons.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, staring glassily straight ahead. He didn’t seem very attached to the advice anymore.
When neither said anything for a couple of minutes, there was none of the serenity that usually characterized their silence. It was awkward. Awkward the way it would have been with just anyone.
“Baba.” She took a breath. “Is there some reason that you and Paige can never find a single free evening to come to the cottage for dinner?”
“We have been pretty busy. But,” he added, “it’s possible I feel protective.”
“How’s that?”
Kneading his knees, he seemed to struggle with and overcome some impulse, and then to proceed in a spirit of grim resolution. “Well, face it, Frisk. As for the whole getting-married thing, you haven’t exactly been on board.”
“How can you say that? I think it’s great! I think Paige is great! I think you make a great couple! One of those—unpredictable couples. Who might not be spit out as checking all the boxes on Match dot com, but who make a more interesting combination as a consequence of being unlikely.”
“Is that a tortured way of telling me that you think Paige and I are a bad fit?”
“No, that’s not what I meant, and not what I said, either. What’s with you? I swear, all summer you’ve been so out of sorts! Constantly taking things the wrong way. Being grumpy and distant. Ever since—”
“That’s right, ever since. Is this another plea to get me to call off the wedding?”
“When have I ever—”
“When have you not? It was obvious when I first told you we were getting married that you opposed the idea, and were hoping to talk me out of it. I don’t know what your problem is with Paige—”
“I don’t have a problem with Paige.” He wouldn’t look at her, so she leaned into his lap until he met her gaze. “I don’t. I like her. We have a few negligible differences of opinion. I don’t mind wearing a beat-up, used fur coat to keep warm. I could never give up veal chops. I’m of two minds about fracking because Virginia needs the money and I like the idea of energy independence, but that argument was stupid because I don’t actually care that much one way or the other. What’s important is she’s honest, and sincere, and genuine, and forthright. She’s nice-looking, she’s obviously loyal, and she must be pretty smart if she went to Middlebury, though I like the fact she doesn’t show off how much she knows. She’s got a way bigger social conscience than I do.”
Somehow the more Jillian piled on the compliments, the hollower they sounded, which drove her to pile on still more. “There’s something disarming about her—something vulnerable and unguarded, so I guess I understand your impulse to ‘protect’ her, but she doesn’t need protection from me. Why should she, when she’s been nothing but nice to me, to a point where I’ve almost been embarrassed—giving me that fringed shawl she found in Lynchburg, or the fig preserves from the Wine and Music Festival? Never mind if a present isn’t all that expensive, it’s the gesture. Thinking of me, even when I’m not there, and making a good guess as to what I might like. She’s never seemed wary or territorial, despite the fact that you and I are so close. Which is pretty amazing, actually.”
Throughout this panegyric touting the many fine qualities of his wife-to-be, Baba looked only the more miserable.
“Or we used to be close,” Jillian added, sitting back.
“See?” Baba pounced. “That’s what I mean. That kind of cutting aside, which says it all.”
“Oh, all what? I’m very, very glad you’ve found someone. I don’t know how to spell it out more plainly. Because what I appreciate most about Paige is that she loves you. It’s obvious every time she looks at you. In fact, there are times she can’t even bear to look at you, because it’s too much, it makes her feel too much. Why wouldn’t I want
