She reached up to kiss his cheek, feeling an intense wave of gratitude. “I’ll try. If you tell me where you’re going.”
“Me? I have a date.”
He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d announced he’d joined the CIA. Not that it was unreasonable—everyone knew he was hardly celibate when Charlie and Jake were traveling—but he never, ever went out with women when one of them was home. Or if he did, they never knew about it. Clearly this was something more substantial.
“A date? Who’s the lucky lady?”
Her father coughed. “It’s, um, someone you know, actually.”
“Someone I know?”
“You probably haven’t seen her in a while. I hadn’t either. After your mother . . . It was too painful. But we’ve gotten—” He coughed again. “We’ve gotten reacquainted lately.”
“Reacquainted? So this is not a first date?”
“No, this is not a first date. She’s, uh, an old friend.”
“This is like a riddle, Dad. Are you going to tell me?” But she suddenly knew. She didn’t know how, but she knew she was right. She could feel it.
As she watched his mouth form the words, “It’s Eileen,” she said it in her mind at the same time. Eileen. Of course it was. Her mind cycled backward, remembering the hints that had been there all along. The time when her father had told her that Amanda, Charlie’s oldest childhood friend, had met a guy and followed him to Australia. When Charlie asked how he knew such a juicy tidbit about someone she’d lost touch with forever ago, he’d murmured something about running into Eileen. When was that? Could that really have been almost a year ago? Longer? Or the time she was last home and having lunch with her father at the club and Howie had begun to ask after someone—a new friend—but Mr. Silver had cut him off with that look. And what about the time earlier that year, on the eighteenth anniversary of her mother’s death, when she and her father had visited the grave? Although they’d both gone together and Jake was out of town, there was a gorgeous peony arrangement resting in front of the gravestone and a carefully arranged handful of smooth river rocks—her mother’s favorite—resting on top. Mr. Silver hadn’t seemed surprised when he brushed off Charlie’s questions. And of course there was Eileen’s unexpected appearance at Charlie’s exhibition match at UCLA. How had she been so clueless?
“You’re dating Eileen? Mom’s Eileen?”
“It’s complicated, Charlie. I know it sounds . . . strange, but some things are difficult to explain.”
“Wow. I don’t know what to say. Just wow.”
Anderson Cooper’s voice droned on in the background. Something about a sharp increase in oil prices and OPEC. Neither she nor her father looked at each other.
“Charlie? There’s something else you should know. It’s more serious than that.”
“More serious than what?”
“We’re not just dating. We’re, uh, actually planning to marry.”
She had no idea why, but her very first thought, despite the fact that her own father was telling her he was marrying her dead mother’s best friend, was: Why is everyone in my life getting married? In quick succession she thought of the wedding—when it would be planned, how it would conflict with her schedule, what she would wear—and immediately considered the thought that Amanda and her little sister, Kate, would now be her stepsisters. Then she cycled to Jake. Had he known and not told her?
“Charlie?”
She heard his voice somewhere in the background, but her mind was in overdrive, first considering all the possibilities and then feeling guilty for being so selfish.
“Charlie? Can you say something?”
He sounded plaintive, nearly desperate for her approval, and Charlie knew that a kinder, more sensitive daughter would recognize his worry and try to set him at ease. Especially after how he’d just let her off the hook for her own epic mistake. After all, it wasn’t like her father was marrying some bimbo younger than his own daughter, a woman who would push for more children, or one of those hyper-controlling types who would try to micromanage all of them into a living hell. No. He was choosing to spend the rest of his years with someone Charlie knew to be kind and generous and filled with endless energy and concern for other people. A woman who had spent twenty-four months shuttling Charlie’s mom to chemo appointments and wig consultations and spirit-lifting shopping trips. Someone who had arranged a spontaneous long girls’ weekend in Barcelona because Mrs. Silver had always dreamed of going, and who had worked out all the details of traveling internationally with a terminal illness. Eileen had driven Charlie to weekend tennis tournaments when her father had to work and her mother was too sick to get out of bed; she had tutored Jake, first when he fell behind in algebra and again in trig; she had often put the needs of her own children second in the weeks and months after Charlie’s mom had died in order to be a constant presence in the Silver home, cooking French toast and tuna casseroles and folding laundry and holding Charlie and Jake as they woke, sweaty and weeping, in the middle of the night. She had been the closest thing to a mom they had in the darkest months, so why did it feel so strange that she would now be their stepmom? Most of all, why couldn’t Charlie set aside her own feelings for ten seconds and give her father the smile and hug he so obviously needed?
He father stood up and began to pace. “I know this must be a bit of a shock,” he said quietly.
“You haven’t so much as mentioned Eileen’s name in nearly fifteen years after she totally vanished, and now you tell me you’re marrying her?”
“She was there for this family when no one else was.”
“She dropped off the face of the earth when her husband got upset that she was spending so much time at our house. We, like, practically never saw her again.”
Her father sighed. “It’s hard . . . no, it’s impossible, to understand what goes on in someone else’s marriage. Eileen gave her time and energy for this family when we needed her most. She did it selflessly and out of love for your mother. Who, by the way, would have done exactly the same thing for her. But she still had two young daughters at home and a husband who needed her. Now clearly there were problems already—I don’t know if you remember they were divorced a couple of years later—but I don’t think we can fault her for hearing Bruce’s dissatisfaction and trying to be more present for her own family.”
“Is that the story now?” Charlie hated how nasty she sounded, especially after the kindness and understanding he’d just shown her. But she couldn’t help herself.
Her father looked at her and squinted. “I’m sure I could have handled this better. You know I’m not great at these conversations. But I think you could have, too.” He stood up and took his keys from the little mounted hook by the door. “I won’t be too late. Goodnight, Charlie.”
He closed the door quietly behind him, and Charlie must have stared at it for nearly five uninterrupted minutes, tears rolling down her face, before an email beeped on her phone. Her heart beat a little faster when she saw it was from Todd.
Charlotte,
Let’s consider this incident your first fuck-up and your last, at least if you wish to retain my services. Your brother has explained in depth to me the series of events. I most certainly understand that you did not intend to smoke marijuana, and I am also aware that merely missing a testing window with the doping officials results in a failed test, nothing more. That’s the good news. The shit news is that no one else understands either of these two points. Jake and I have been in touch with Meredith to get to work on the optics of this situation. For your part, you will:
1. Issue an approved apology via Instagram, Facebook, and your website to your fans.
2. Explain the doping test “failure.” Again, this will be approved first by all of us.
3. Convince me that you will never again attend “room parties” or any other such nonsense at any point during a t
ournament.
4. Commit to training and practicing an additional extra hour per day to prepare for Wimbledon.
I’ll pick you up at Heathrow so we can review this. I’m assuming I need not remind you how to conduct yourself on Bono’s yacht this weekend. If I catch even a whiff of pot smoke or scandal, you and I are over. Happy travels.
Todd
Charlie read it once more before clicking it closed. She’d had more than enough for one night.
19
bono on a boat
MEGA-YACHT IN THE MED
JUNE 2016
Todd was waiting in baggage claim for her after she cleared customs. He had arranged for all of them to stay in a flat in central Wimbledon Village for two weeks before the tournament began. She would train on the courts, get herself reacquainted with grass courts, and acclimate her body to the time change and food differences. It was almost impossible to believe it had been an entire year since the injury, and she still didn’t have a Grand Slam to show for another twelve months of training and traveling. But first, there was the yacht.
“Hey,” Charlie said awkwardly, unsure whether to extend a hand or offer a hug.
Todd barely glanced at her. “You got everything? Only one racket bag? Where’s the rest of your shit?”
“I brought six rackets as carry-on and checked the clothes I’ll need for the boat, but I sent the rest of my rackets and gear directly to the address you gave me in the Village. Has Nike delivered the outfits yet?”
Todd grunted. “They’re with Monique.”
“Monique?”
“Yes. She’s going over every lousy sock and sweatband with a fine-tooth comb to make sure it conforms to all Wimbledon standards. There will not be another wardrobe malfunction this year. Not on my watch.”
“That’s great, thanks. I appreciate it,” Charlie said, nearly racing to follow him out to the sidewalk after he grabbed her bags.
“That’s about the only thing you don’t have to worry about. Everything else is definitely your problem.”
Charlie was silent as they walked out to the curb. A driver would be taking her from Heathrow to Luton, one of the smaller airports on the outskirts of London, for her flight to Naples, and Todd was along for the ride. The charity event was a last-minute invitation after Venus Williams had come down with the flu. But to pull out would be effectively admitting a drug problem. Or as Meredith said, “Might as well head to Hazelden.”
Todd held the door open for Charlie and motioned for her to climb into the back of a waiting Audi station wagon. She didn’t even notice Dan sitting beside the driver until he turned around to say hello.
“What are you doing here? You know I won’t be back to hit until Monday,” Charlie said, not intending to sound quite as rude as she had.
Dan shot a look at Todd, who cleared his throat.
“What’s going on?” Charlie asked.
Todd climbed in next to her. The driver shifted into gear.
“Dan is accompanying you to Italy,” Todd said.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re sending me with a babysitter?”
Dan averted his eyes.
“What, isn’t that what you are? My minder? So I don’t humiliate myself and—”
Todd interrupted. “Call it whatever you want, Silver. Now, I understand why this trip is necessary from a public relations standpoint—Meredith was insistent you accept this invitation—and because of that I won’t fight your attending. But don’t think for a single fucking minute that you’re there to do anything except pose for cameras, look happy and sober, and wave to your adoring fans. Because that would be a huge mistake.”
“I’m not some degenerate teenager, Todd.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I don’t think that’s really fair. There have been—”
Todd held up his hand for silence. “I’ve spoken with Jake and Isabel from the WTA and they’ve drafted both your apologies and your explanations. We’ll be sending those to you shortly. She’ll also provide a media script with approved answers for questions that will inevitably arise about all of this. Do not deviate. Under any circumstances. You do not have permission to go off-script. Understood?” Before Charlie could answer, Todd’s phone rang. He slipped in his earbuds and flipped open his laptop.
The car was quiet for a few minutes as Charlie fumed. Then Dan said, “I’m not going to cramp your style. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she snapped. “I’m headed to a private jet that’s going to whisk me off to a super yacht for a few days of cruising the Amalfi Coast. How could you?”
Dan nodded.
They were quiet the rest of the drive to Luton. When they arrived, the driver flashed some identification and the car was escorted directly to the runway, where a British immigration official checked their passports from the backseat. Then a uniformed porter removed Charlie’s and Dan’s luggage and stowed it carefully in the rear cargo hold of the idling Gulfstream V.
Todd wordlessly tossed her a backpack.
“What’s this?” Charlie asked, unzipping it. Inside was a portable DVD player—the kind children used on planes—and a stack of discs. She thumbed through the titles scrawled in Sharpie: “Munich Semis ’14,” “Sharapova Kicks Ass March ’15,” “Geiger v. Atherton Singapore ’15.” The names went on and on.
“You will find the time to watch every last one, and be ready to discuss them. I’ll send a car to pick you up here on Monday,” Todd said, barely looking at Charlie. “I expect you’ll be prepared to work. Unless of course you want to flush Wimbledon down the toilet like you did Roland-Garros. In which case, you can do it alone.”
Charlie just stared at her hands.
“Good, I’m glad we understand each other.” He turned to Dan. “I’m holding you personally accountable. No drinking, no smoking, no drugs. No fucking chocolate, for chrissake. SPF fifty. Eight hours of sleep. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Dan said.
Todd pulled the car door shut and the driver peeled away.
Dan glanced at Charlie. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
Dan’s phone rang as they walked toward the plane’s lowered staircase, but he quickly silenced it.
“Is that the Paris girl?”
He remained quiet.
“Things went well, then?” Charlie asked.
Dan blushed.
“Good for you. About time you got a girlfriend, isn’t it?”
“Don’t take your Todd shit out on me,” he said quietly, motioning for her to walk up the stairs ahead of him. “He’s the jerk-off, not me.”
They reached the top of the stairs and a beautiful black flight attendant in a crisp white uniform greeted them both by name and invited them to sit wherever they’d like. “Except the two seats in the middle of the plane. Those are the owners’ favorites.”
Charlie took one of the forward-facing plush leather armchairs toward the back and motioned for Dan to sit facing her. They were the first ones on board, but the other passengers would arrive momentarily.
The flight attendant held out a silver tray with flutes of champagne and glasses of water. Charlie looked at Dan pointedly and accepted one of the waters.
Charlie cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to have tension.”
“Nothing doing with the girl in Paris,” Dan said. “I think I just haven’t gotten over a past relationship.”
“Name?”
“Katie.”
“Of course it is. How long were you together?”
“Three years. We met senior year at Duke in a creative writing class.”
“Creative writing?” Charlie asked incredulously. “I had no idea you were interested in writing! I thought
it was always tennis for you. And business.”
Dan sat up in his seat a bit straighter. “I’ve actually written a novel. Nothing published yet, but I’ll hopefully be ready to shop it around soon.”
“For real?” Charlie asked, genuinely shocked.
“Yeah. I’m almost finished with the rewrite. I try to fit it in during off hours on flights, in the hotels, the down time. I mean, when else will I have this kind of time while I’m also earning a living? Thanks to you, I can actually take a stab at this.”
Charlie thought about this. “That makes me happier than you know.” She shook her head. “Are your parents supportive?”
“Depends. I was the first kid in my family to go to college. They wanted me to study econ and learn how to take the family business from a mom ’n’ pop to something that might actually support our family for another generation.” He coughed.
“How did tennis fit in? First singles is hardly just a hobby.”
“I love playing—and I love working for you—but in school, I was doing it for the scholarship.”
“And you never thought of taking it further? You can beat me handily any old time you want.”
Dan laughed. “As Todd would say, you’re still just a chick.”
Charlie kicked him.
“No, seriously, I didn’t have that driving will to succeed at tennis. I couldn’t seem to give up everything else in my life, like writing or college.”
“Or girls.”
“Or girls. I definitely could not give up girls.”
“The male players don’t do badly in that department, I’ll remind you,” Charlie said.
“No, they don’t, do they?” Dan raised an eyebrow. “But anyway, I’m just not cut out for the schedule and the training and the single-minded focus.”