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  “We could have taken my car,” he said.

  “The one with no window?” she said with a giggle. “And no shocks?”

  She had a point. Driving on a freeway in one of the richest areas of the country over potholes, bumps, pocks and ruts, Wally longed for a well-maintained goat path in the Serengeti.

  He turned to her, “You know, sweetie, Ken didn’t sound very optimistic.”

  “Well, we are a risk,” she said.

  “No doubt. After all, it was the self-employed tennis pros and tech start-up marketing directors that brought the world financial system to its knees. That’s why we didn’t get any stimulus money.”

  “Do you need to take a run?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll tell you what I need.”

  He squeezed her hand. She corner-eyed him.

  “But you always need that,” she said. “Now, watch the road.”

  “Don’t worry, everyone stays out of the way of mini-vans, you know that.”

  She stroked his arm and looked at him just a little hungrily.

  “I’ll only be in Geneva for a few days,” she said.

  He smiled. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

  “Maybe on Monday you could call a few more brokers and see if we can get any better answers.”

  “Sure. Grout the bathroom too?”

  A look. “Wally.”

  “I’ll call them,” he said.

  “This re-fi could really help our bill situation. I don’t want to have to sell the house,” she explained.

  Wally turned to her and said, “I’ll take care of it. And the kids. And miss you.”

  Rolling both eyes heavily, Danielle said, “Oh, god. I gotta go.”

  They had reached Departing Flights at SFO. Lufthansa. Danielle was flying to Switzerland to meet with some investment bankers about Swiss financing for Uthere.com, the start-up she worked for. The company made nano scale GPS tracking for transportation. It seemed like a good idea to Wally, and Danielle believed in it. Maybe too much. She had a load of stock options, but the lack of salary was beginning to affect their finances. This new investment was important. It could fund the company for a while, and everyone could get paid for a change. That would be great, he thought. His teaching income alone didn’t slake the ledger.

  Donald Grosser, Uthere’s natty, concupiscent CEO stood at the curb, grinning eagerly, waiting for her. Donald was 42 1/2, with a PhD in physics, and an MBA in shareholder schmooze. He’d had two public companies and three public divorces. An impressive and not uncommon resume for the area. Wally had seen him wolfing after Danielle at company events and could vividly imagine what he was like at the office. He wondered what Donald would do if he saw Ashley by the pool. Probably the same thing that Dick the VC had done. Stand and pant. Maybe that’s what Ashley liked about Wally. He kept his tongue in his mouth. So did Rod, come to think of it. What a great dog.

  Danielle broke his reverie, “I wish you could come and wait with me.”

  “Me too. But don’t forget, we have this extra security for a reason. When our kind weren’t wrecking the banking system, we were bombing jumbo jets.”

  “I’d keep you in line.”

  Raising his eyebrows, “I’d like that. But don’t worry. Donald will wait with you.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I want you there.” Danielle opened the Odyssey’s long door. “I love you.”

  Wally leaned over and kissed her. “I love you too. See you Tuesday.” She kissed him once more with enough chemistry to restore sight to a line judge.

  Whatever Donald had fantasized about Danielle, one thing was for sure. He had no idea what he was missing.

  Danielle opened the tailgate and snuggled her nose up to Rod Laver the Dog. “And I love you too. Bye, Mr. Laver.”

  Rod licked her nose.

  Wally came around and pulled out her bag.

  Danielle looked at him with wife seriosity. “Keep an eye on Addie. She and your girlfriend, Ashley, are cooking up something. She was way too nice this morning.”

  “It’s Ashley,” said Wally. “No boundaries at all. She was sunbathing topless by the pool this morning.”

  “Did you say something to her?”

  “Of course I did. I told her to put on sunscreen.”

  “Oh, you’re tough.”

  “And practical.”

  She laughed. “Just make sure you know where Addie is this weekend.”

  “Will do. Say hi to Roger Federer for me.”

  “Isn’t he in Paris?”

  “Martina Hingis, then,”

  “If I see her,” said Danielle.

  “If you see her,” said Wally.

  Smiling, Danielle looked him in the eyes one more time, turned and went to join Donald. He crossed scrimmage for a hello hug and kiss, which turned awkward when Danielle head faked and immediately moved upfield. Nice move, thought Wally. Nothing to worry about there. As they walked toward the terminal, Donald stayed a pace to the rear, watching Danielle’s beautiful behind swaying back and forth ahead of him. Wally was watching too and his heart was racing again. In a good way, he hoped.

  Of the many proper, substantial and morally-praiseworthy reasons Wally wasn’t interested in Ashley, there was one besides her being seventeen with a short, wealthy, unstable father that trumped all the others – he loved his wife. After nearly thirty years, Danielle still had it all. There were the adult qualities. Her humor, intellect and subtle lasciviousness. And the reasons that attracted him and just about any other man to her on first glance in the first place. The sculpted, high cheekbones. Long, dark hair. Wise, playful eyes and a figure that would still unnerve a mathematician. Danielle was clearly the best looking woman in her fifties in this town and most others. And if she were by the pool, needing some upper torso sunscreen rubbing, then–

  A voice and a whistle from his left broke into this delightful, lustful daydream.

  “No stopping or standing. Let’s move on,” the airport cop informed him sternly. She motioned him forward.

  Wally’s heart sped up again. Yes, let’s move on, he thought.

  He closed the mini-van door very carefully and wished he was with Danielle more. He wished he were with her right now. Why did these physical urges get so strong every time she left? Caveman eminent domain? Or just the thought of how enjoyable it was to be with her that way? Whatever the reason, he needed a vacation. They needed a vacation. Maybe they could take one after her company went public. Right. And hire out the bathroom re-grout. Dare to dream.

  He and Rod pulled out into the airport traffic, right behind a new BMW. Maybe if her company went public she could also get a new car. Maybe an M5. Now there was a dream. He was just separation-trippin’ now.

  Since he was on the court until six, Wally decided to pick up some dinner components at Whole Foods on the way home. Today’s cuddly little lunch was barely an Atkins appetizer. Wally wanted some man-chow. They probably wouldn’t like it, but the kids would just have to eat what he was making.

  FOUR

  It had been a long day. Wally had added a five o’clock. A new student. It was only right. And prudent. The successful pros knew that turning a new lesson down, even if it meant extending your day was bad karma. You never knew when the lessons might stop. This extra effort kept the karma curs in their cages and the mortgage holders and other wildlife in theirs.

  So Wally got home at six. Late for a Friday. And he made the first menu he could think of. Brined pork tenderloin, grilled over mesquite and almond wood. Oven polenta with mascarpone. Roasted Portobellos and Cipollinis and asparagus with a Meyer lemon beurre blanc. Wally liked to cook. And eat. His son, Deuce politely ate it all while Addie, his 17 year-old daughter, picked at the polenta, drank a Sprite and went off to a party with her friends, promising to be good and home by eleven.

  At ten-thirty, in the living room of their almost-back-to-its-2008-value West Menlo Park three-and-two, Wally was watching a pre-French-Open Roger Federer special on Tennis Channel a
nd Deuce was scanning YouTube for classic magic acts. The dishes were done and, as always, the house was as ship shape as an aircraft carrier. The exterior architecture was Maybeck modest. The Arts and Crafts furniture inside was Wally’s design, built in his shop. And the flaking grout in one bathroom would have been overlooked by Holmes on Homes. It was a West Menlo gem.

  Deuce stopped eating his ice cream and sour worm dessert for a moment and turned to Wally. “Dad, check out this Asrah.”

  Wally bent over Deuce’s iMac. “What’s an Asrah?”

  “An Aga with a cloth.”

  “Of course,” said Wally.

  Deuce clicked to the Siegfried and Roy Las Vegas show from the 1990’s. On the imposing Mirage Hotel main showroom stage, Siegfried was gesturing grandly upward to a levitating woman, covered by a thin, filmy magic show drape and hovering three feet above his head. He walked under and around the floating figure, showing everyone that it looked real and looking satisfied that it did. An assistant brought out a large hoop, handed it to him and he passed it around the figure from every angle. He looked even more satisfied. Applause. Then as the music built, Roy stepped onto the stage, into the action, whipped the shroud away and the woman vanished.

  Deuce paused the clip. “That’s an Asrah. Awesome, right?”

  “A disappearing girl? Nothing you don’t see around this house every night at dinner,” said Wally.

  Deuce, ignoring him, “Can we go to Vegas this summer?”

  Wally smiled. “You know they’re not there any more.”

  “Yes, dad. But Lance Burton is. Maybe Copperfield. I need to research my craft.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Watch this next part and tell me you don’t want to go.”

  Though Deuce was six-foot-two and looked older, he was only fourteen in human years and had the delightful energy and enthusiasm of that age. He un-paused the YouTube clip and they watched on as Roy held the sheet for a second, smiled knowingly and then with a single flick, vanished the sheet too. Siegfried and Roy both looked satisfied now. The audience went wild.

  “That’s some sheet, huh dad?” said Deuce. “So, can we go?”

  “I’ll talk to your mom.”

  “It’s for my education. Please.”

  “When she calls, we’ll discuss it.”

  “No, dad, let me. I can do it. She’ll be all guilty cause she’s gone.”

  Wally welled up with pride. They’d raised a fine kid. He even connived sweetly.

  “Okay, my turn now,” said Wally. “Check this out.”

  “Tennis?”

  “Magic.”

  “Federer?”

  “Federer.”

  Wally un-paused the TV and there was Roger Federer, midway through a classic Federerian shot sequence, showing off his unmatched grace, balletic improvisation, statistical cunning and raw power. “Now that action. Dope as a rope.”

  Deuce chuckled, “Pretty good, dad. I say he makes it to the finals.”

  “Past Djokovic? They’re in the same half.”

  “He’s still the second best clay court player in the world.”

  Wally agreed. Deuce knew his tennis.

  Wallace Woodrow Wilson II, “Deuce” to everyone, was gifted athletically but he didn’t like sports much. He had been drafted onto the best little league, soccer and lacrosse teams after every male coach voted Danielle “hottest mom.” But sports never took. He could still analyze a tennis match like Brad Gilbert, but he wanted to be professional magician. Something else he was very good at. At the moment, he was considering a delicate topic.

  Tentatively, “Dad?”

  Wally, looking up from the Federer Fest. “Yes?”

  “Your cooking’s really good. For what it is. But could we ever just have pasta with red sauce when mom’s gone?”

  Wally laughed. What a perfect evening, he thought. Maybe the Tomb Raider spheres were realigning. He loved his family.

  And then his iPhone rang. He paused the TV.

  Deuce, excitedly, “Is that mom?”

  “Too early,” said Wally. He checked the caller ID on the screen. “It’s Addie.”

  Deuce, “This can’t be good.”

  Wally, into his phone, “Addie?…Ashley? Is Addie okay? What’s going on?…Uh, hunh…Yeah…Okay, I’ll be right there. Thanks.”

  Wally clicked off the phone. “We have to go get Addie.”

  “I knew it. She’s wasted, right?”

  Wally grabbed the car keys and shot his son the famous loving, understanding parent stinkeye.

  They drove in the Odyssey over potholes and neglected street repairs through darkest nighttime Atherton. Street lights were few. Street signs were so discreet they were invisible. And addresses in Atherton were like the Isle de Muerta, only to be found by those who already know where they are. Fortunately, Wally knew exactly where they were going. The Margincalls’.

  On the way, they drove past mansions, bigger mansions and the compounds. Most of them weren’t visible from the ground, many not from the air either. Even in daylight. They could only be sensed or felt by their additional local gravity and the electronic fields they emanated, their size estimated by the running feet of sound walls and the girth of the gates. Rod Laver the Dog bounced around in the back of the middle-aged mini-van. It may have had shocks and all its windows, but these were the wilds of Atherton.

  “Is mom ever going to get a new car?” asked Deuce.

  “I hope so. Soon,” said Wally.

  Deuce, excitedly, “An M-5?”

  “For your mother?”

  “An M-3?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on some things happening for us this summer,” he said.

  Deuce looked up from his iPhone. “Are we poor?”

  “No. But not every family has an M-5.”

  “Around here?” said Deuce. “Yeah, they do.”

  Deuce looked back down at his phone, his breath caught and he stifled a laugh. “Well, here’s something I thought I’d never see.”

  “Doug Henning?”

  “Not exactly. I think you should pull over.”

  “We’re almost there,” said Wally.

  “Dad, pull over.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because Ashley has really big boobs.”

  “What?”

  Wally pulled the Odyssey off the road, almost sinking the mini-van in an untended drainage culvert.

  “Now, where did you see Ashley’s breasts?”

  Showing his phone to his dad, “Here.”

  “Which plan do you have again?”

  “And, dad, not just hers –”

  Wally’s eyes went wide.

  “Addie’s?” said Wally.

  “Yup. On her profile page.” Now, serious. “That’s something I hoped I’d never see.”

  “Me too,” said Wally.

  Wally pulled out onto the Atherton streets again and drove on a little faster.

  Deuce looked up from his phone.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What can you ethically do now?”

  Wally glanced at him, puzzled. “Ethically?”

  “Yeah. That was her no-questions-asked phone call.”

  “You’re right,” said Wally. “I can’t do anything tonight. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Sure,” said Deuce. That was stupid.

  Wally had the same thought.

  This was not going to slow his heart.

  How did single parents handle these things? He guessed he was about to find out. He sped up a little more. Those set-piece planets were starting to wobble again.

  FIVE

  Google Map the town of Atherton and nowhere in it will you find a lake, a river, a fjord or any large body of navigable open water. Atherton is land and trees and hidden houses, sometimes used by discreet fundraisers who want a little attention. However, despite the blatant illogic or because of it, the most sought-after tennis club membership in Northern California and therefore the u
niverse was one at the Atherton Yacht Club.

  The Yacht Club had no yachts. Instead, there were twenty-five pristine, immaculately-maintained tennis courts representing all the diverse surfaces of the game. Hard courts, clay court and grass courts. There were also two pools. A spa. A convention-worthy clubhouse. A formal dining room. And skeet. And, just so that the club name wasn’t complete nonsense, there was a small pond in the center of the fifty most valuable acres this side of Versailles with a few children’s boats floating lazily around in it.

  The pond and little boats were a bow to the club’s beginnings as the extended backyard of a wealthy San Francisco family’s weekend home and a place for their kids to rough it in the summers. Over the years, the sleepy getaway town and its charming, uninsulated summer cottages gave way under the weight and sway of the success and ambition of successive, ambitious generations of prosperous families to Atherton version 2011.0. But the club and its name remained. No one remembered the genealogy of the name, nor did anyone playing tennis or closing deals, particularly long for yachts or the sea. It was enough for the members that the club was ineffable, close-by, exclusive and really expensive. The tennis was also first cabin.

  Today was Saturday, May 28 on the opening weekend of Roland Garros, known to all the non-French as the French Open. It was also the weekend of the Yacht Club’s Member-Guest, or as the locals called it, Member-Ringer Mixed Doubles Tennis Tournament. Wally had agreed to partner with his student, Gina, the lawyer. Though they had absolutely no chance to win it, Gina had still held out hope. That is, right up until she saw the draw. Members who were themselves former college stars, hired former touring pros as their partners and everyone competed in one semi-handicapped flight. But the free points per set that the weaker teams received rarely offset the actual ATP or WTA points of the top opponents’ partners.

  Wally motored his GT500 into one of the Yacht Club’s slips – the ship-shape land harbor filled as always with only the most exotic and expensive sheet metal venture booty could buy. And looking as always a lot like the Frankfurt Auto Show. Except at this club, the statuesque super-model snaking a long leg and sinewy ankle from the gullwing driver’s side door of the McLaren SLR had a three year-old, a ten year-old, a Stanford law degree and this was her weekend pizza hauler.