RED CLAY SUMMER
In 1998, Declan was twenty-eight and teaching tennis at the Conde Monsanto Country Club in Viña del Mar, Chile. A year earlier he had been doing engineering work in the Bolivian salt flats, a quick but well-paying job for the Inter-American Foundation. A friend suggested they do a quick tour of Chile before heading back to Missouri and he gladly tagged along. The others left after a week, as scheduled. Declan postponed. Then he made friends at the beach and postponed further. He had nothing pulling him home, not by his standards of "urgent". He wanted to squeeze the orange dry before leaving, but he'd find out on a weekly basis that the thing remained juicy.
The Conde was not the biggest or the fanciest club in the city, as it was tennis-centered and lacked a golf course. Clients were folks who didn't go as far as to require the opulence of the Granadilla or the Club Naval, but upper middle class nonetheless, some with company-assigned personal drivers, or European foreigners with high-ranking jobs. A friend of a friend knew a member, so for Declan it became a hub for tennis matches and drinks early on. He heard about the coaching job through the grapevine. He never imagined that his ranking in the Kansas City Tennis League would ever come in handier in finding a job than his engineering degree, but he wanted something that he could leave quickly. As such, it fit, as the Spanish adage said, "like a ring on a finger". He got paid by the hour, handsomely by national standards. Two hours in the mornings and afternoons three days a week, a full day on Saturdays and any one-on-ones that he could fit in between. Lots of sweat and baked-red necks, and traces of red clay dirt on everything he owned. But the staff was young and fun, and they would throw clandestine pool mini-parties every other Sunday night after it closed down for members. It got rather glorious when it wanted to.
The flings came steadily Declan's way. He knew that his being a 6-foot green-eyed American was a big part of it. Beefy within the ranges of fit. Stocked eyebrows the shape of long bricks and close-cropped brown hair that would be curly if he let it grow out. But he could get laughs, too. He found himself to be a competent teacher, patient with kids, effective even with the big groups. In short, he enjoyed it. And the college-aged women that paid for personal lessons enjoyed him in return. The hook-ups with trainees started piling up, often followed by drop-outs. Who would want an awkward lesson with the guy they had driven to the nearest motel with? Eventually, Mr. Espinosa approached him to inquire why three of his trainees had left weeks' worth of classes unused. The thought of his dad ever finding out that he couldn't keep a tennis-coaching job hurt like a whip. So he cooled it.
He took higher-level Spanish lessons. He tried out the church in his block. He bought a bike just in time for summer. Every passing day, his plans to return home drifted further away like an abandoned floatable in the club's pool.
Bianca was introduced to Declan the first day of Summer Tennis Camp, not so much the person or even the face, as he initially remained a token character in the background, but as the reason the twins were bubbly on the drive home, a big contrast to the grumbling they'd given her in the morning. Tennis camp had been her idea, a patch-up replacement for the swimming lessons they'd had to abort due to Julián's eardrum infection, which had warranted a major pout-fest from Karina. On the second day, she became friends with a young mom, who watched over her six-year-old's practice with hawk-like attention even as she talked to Bianca about schools, sun block brands and the weather. The girl was surprised to learn that Bianca wasn't the kids' mom, but their grandmother. It was a common mistake, as Bianca had become not their full-time caretaker, but close enough. She assured Bianca that she'd keep an eye on the twins, so why not stretch her legs a little? So Bianca did. She found the walkways around the grounds powerfully soothing and loved the young mom for it. The place's pine trees provided a cool shade that past year's anxieties seemed unable to penetrate. On subsequent strolls she would start humming without realizing it.
Tennis Camp wasn't just tennis, which stayed true to what had been advertised. The children had swimming time on Wednesdays and Fridays, meals, a group game time in the common room and - the twins were only five, so they would be skipping that one - an overnight camping trip. The American coach was funny. He fooled around often and made the kids laugh. With the little mistakes peppered into his Spanish, he made the moms laugh too. On Wednesday, he lined up the kids in front of the parents in the stands and simulated a military drill. He asked them questions about sun safety and gently pulled their hats down over their eyes if they didn't know the answer. Bianca felt her young mom friend clenching up on her left, but she chuckled.
"At the end of camp, I'll be making every kid play a match against their mom or dad," the coach said in Spanish. "I'd start my yoga now if I were you." From that point on, he was easy to love.
The next day, Bianca shoved her wavy black hair into a swim cap and finally tried out the pool. In her plain black one-piece and self-conscious over being the only solo swimmer, as the other the occupants were either parents with kids or noisy teens playing ball. She found it less of an issue in the deeper end and made that her turf. She covered the length twice doing the breaststroke, then thought to hell with it and dived fully, getting her hair wet. It would be frizzy all day after that, but the summer humidity had been pushing it there anyway. Between that and the walking, she began, with some guilt, to see tennis camp as a treat more for her own benefit than for the kids'.
The first time Bianca talked to Declan was over Karina's attitude. He came to her discreetly during the first break to ask if Bianca knew what was up. Karina didn't want to run, didn't want to play, and the one friend she'd made said she had given her the cold shoulder all day. Had she fought with her brother? Julián swore she hadn't. Karina kept it up for the rest of the day, but Declan was gentle and didn't push. The next morning, Declan came up to Bianca during the same break with an answer.
"I don't think she's mad at Julián, or you," he theorized. "I think Julián's made so many friends, and he's loving every day, and he's having all the fun. I think she can't help but feel ignored. She's a little, um..."
"Jealous?"
"Yes!"
Bianca found out he was right on the money. She asked Natasha, her daughter, for permission, cancelled Julián's scheduled hangout with his next-door buddy and took the two of them out for burgers and to the movies. The family time improved the chemistry between the twins, and her short talk with Karina afterwards sealed the deal.
Declan had mentally pinpointed Bianca as "the pretty lady with the Italian face", placing her somewhere between forty-three and fifty. It was difficult to say with the sunglasses on, worn by all parents at all times. He knew he was making a good impression with the whole group. He had been ending every single class conducting private talks with the parents, less about tennis and more about their kids' personal qualities. If he talked long enough, he managed to hit on exactly what either the parent or the kid was hoping to hear.
He somehow found himself having dinner at little Esteban's hyper-posh apartment at the end of the second week. His dad, Manuel, was a fellow Kansas City Chiefs superfan, having lived for a number of years in the Midwest states. He did have a better knowledge of the Broncos' current line-up, and Declan suspected his Chiefs love had been a front to facilitate the invite. Manuel was a VP for a multinational that imported lysine into Chile. He and his wife were a hip young couple, brilliant conversationalists, religious but open-minded, and for whatever reason had found Declan impressive enough for an invite - which made them intimidating. Once the subject of his being an engineer was broached, the conversation seemed to be headed somewhere fast. They asked when he was planning on returning home. He gave his same old line.
"My ticket's booked for March!"
Before the evening was over, Manuel had offered to connect Declan to acquaintances in Texas. Folks who might hire him for something. Declan put on a show of gratitude and of having every intention of pursuing the opportunity, but left their apartment deflated and with a good deal of self-hatred.
.............................................
Bianca let Rodolfo pay, held his hand on the way to the parking lot and said goodbye to his two grown daughters, who wished her a happy trip, as they wouldn't be seeing her for the rest of the month. In the car, she and Rodolfo discussed travel arrangements. He wouldn't be going on the Florida trip, but his problem-solving side, hyperactive to put it mildly, kicked in full gear regarding Bianca's choices for hotel and car rental company. He was critical of both and recommended his favorites. She could have let it turn into another small tiff, or reminded him that booking things for people is what she used to do for a living. But she chose not to, said she'd think of changing it.
She had met Rodolfo sometime around Christmas the previous year, a golfing buddy of her daughter's husband who showed interest early on. Natasha encouraged Bianca to go along with the flowers and the wine-tasting dates, and there was sweetness in her concern, as she felt her mother had been single long enough. He was fifty-three, almost a full decade on Bianca's forty-four, but had charm to spare and seemed to have read all the books on what's expected of classy older gentlemen, possibly even written one himself. They saw only little of each other every month, as his company kept him flying back and forth between Chile and Argentina. Did she miss him? She did at times. The past couple of visits, however, had been dampened by the recent drama in her family. He could have supported her. Instead, he took their side and made himself into one more voice to fight against. She still resented him.
Right after getting dropped off, she got in her own car and headed straight to the club. These weren't Tennis Camp hours and she wasn't a member, but the guard saw no problem and let her right on in. With a few hours to go until the 8 PM closing time and the sky the color of peach, she changed into her one-piece, took a shower and dove into the mostly-vacant pool. Her daughter had the kids that night, so a pleasantly empty apartment awaited Bianca after this. She loved the idea of finishing her book in bed over a mug of tea while her skin still smelled of chlorine. As usual, her anxieties seemed to dissolve into the water.
"Hey!"
She looked up. The kids' tennis coach had a fresh-off-the-shower look. She guessed he had just finished using the pool himself.
"You're the twins' mom, correct?"
"Yeah. Uh, Daniel?" she asked.
"Declan!"
"Declan! American, right?"
"That's right."
"Where from?"
"Missouri," he said, pronouncing it as a Spanish speaker would.
