Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"You let me win," Sergio said when he and Phil had finished their match on the tennis court and were swigging bottled water by the bench where they had stashed their gear. "With what I'd heard about you having been on the pro circuit, I thought I didn't have a chance."

"The pro circuit was decades ago, Sergio," Phil answered. "I'm just an old man today. I ran out of steam, and you're a much younger man. And you play very well too." Phil was rotating an arm at the shoulder and wincing a bit, not yet stowing his gear away as Sergio was busy doing.

"I'm not a young man either," Sergio said with a laugh.

"Twenty years or so, I'd say," Phil countered. "It makes a difference."

"Not twenty years, surely" Sergio said, with a laugh, but happy that Phil seemed to think he was about forty. "I'm fifty, and you're probably the most fit sixty-year-old in the community."

"Seventy," Phil interjected.

Sergio whistled appreciatively. "I would never have guessed," he said, "and I can see why I won the match now. You're having trouble with those shoulder muscles, aren't you?"

"It's what age—and inactivity—will do for you," Phil answered, the tone of regret and defeat coming through loud and clear in his voice.

Sergio gave him a sharp look and then turned and finished stowing his gear away. "I promised I'd come by and help you get your computer hooked up," he said, not looking at Phil, who was still looking dejected as he pulled a Polo shirt over his torso and starting putting his tennis stuff in his bag. "Any time convenient for you that I can come over to do that?"

"Sure, any time you can schedule it," Phil answered, his voice flat. And then he continued in a somewhat faraway voice, "Any time at all. I'm not going anywhere . . . any more. I have all the time in the world now."

"How about tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 p.m.? I have an exercise class to give at 2:00. I'd have plenty of time to wrap that up and get showered."

"4:00 it is then," Phil said as he turned to walk away. "And . . . thanks for helping with the computer. I'm a dunce at that. It was always taken care of by . . . let's just say that anything electronic is way beyond me. And thanks for the tennis game too. I'd gotten rusty."

"I'm the one who should thank you for the tennis. Now I can say I've played a pro—and I'm willing to bet this is the last time I win. And the help with the computer is just one of my jobs here. Happy to do it." Sergio didn't turn to watch Phil depart until Phil was almost at the gate in the tall, chain-link fence surrounding the tennis court. Phil hesitated, perhaps thinking of turning to say something, but then he resumed moving through the gate and toward the swimming pool, his body in a stance of dejection.

Sergio had meant this tennis game to be something to lift the new resident's spirits. As soon as he'd heard that Phil had been a professional tennis player when he was younger, Sergio had thought this would be a way to help the man settle in at Summerside. Many coming here as their first stop in a retirement community had trouble adjusting to the life. And it was part of Sergio's job, as the recreational director, to do what he could to get them settled in. Phil was more forlorn and withdrawn than most. Of course, Sergio had been told that Phil was here because he was recently widowed and had had a spouse who did almost everything for him.

Such residents usually were the toughest ones to fit in.

Beyond doing his duty, Sergio was attracted to Phil. Really good-looking man, Sergio thought. There's no way he would have guessed Phil had hit seventy. He had kept himself in great shape—probably a function of having been a professional athlete—and he was quite a handsome man. Yes, quite a handsome man indeed, Sergio thought.

The Three Bitches interrupted their chattering as Karen noticed that the tennis game was over and Phil was walking by between them and the side of the pool again. She nudged the other two and they went into a "we don't notice you at all, we don't even see you" pose as they scrutinized Phil's progress behind Kindles and magazines across their field of sight.

"He looks sad," Becky whispered.

"I'd still jump his bones in a nanosecond," Karen whispered back.

"He's well worth it," Annelise said smugly. "He's hung."

"You've never," Becky hissed. "You're just putting us on."

"You just don't know how to interpret sweaty tennis shorts," Annelise answered with a sniff in her voice.

The three giggled into their tanned, manicured hands. Phil just kept on walking, not looking around, although the giggles were loud enough to reach his ears. He had no time for the women of the Summerside retirement community—to him, the last stop in this life—and, considering the depth of the grief of his recent loss, his stay here couldn't possibly be too short.