Page 5

A fter The Grands went on their way, Endy sat behind her desk, then logged onto her computer and pulled up an email from Whisper Hills’ senior vice president.

The meeting was just a community gathering rather than an official homeowner’s association or country club board meeting, so there was no formal agenda, but Endy wanted to be prepared for anything that might spring up.

Its championship golf courses, twenty-five tennis courts, twenty pickleball courts, two bocce ball lanes, and world-championship croquet lawns were perfectly maintained, tended to daily by an army of landscapers.

Diligent attention to detail and impeccable quality were the draw for the thousands of residents who called Whisper Hills home, each of them with an opinion on how the club should be run.

Endy thought back to past meetings where members might grumble about the lack of free coffee in the café, or of the price of the tennis balls they sold in the pro shop.

Joel and Endy did what they could to accommodate the requests so the members consistently felt taken care of, but recently there seemed to be more complaining, especially between the tennis and pickleball players.

She glanced at her watch, then grabbed her phone and keys from her desk. She ran through the pro shop, calling over her shoulder to Maria, “I’m late! Taking the golf cart!”

The smell of freshly cut grass and the ongoing drone of lawn mowers filled the air as Endy sped toward the Victor’s Clubhouse, located at the heart of the property. She pulled next to the entryway and parked in the slim shade of a towering date palm tree.

Endy stepped up to the Victor’s twelve-foot-tall glass double entry doors, which were flanked by huge dark blue ceramic pots filled with sharp-leaved agave and dripping with jasmine vines, their blooms deliciously fragrant.

Twin loveseats faced each other across a rug emblazoned with the logo of Whisper Hills Country Club.

She pulled open a heavy door and was immediately greeted by the delectable smell of freshly baked bread and grilling meat from the formal dining room’s kitchen.

On the terrace, Endy saw ladies sitting in the shade of the heavy canvas umbrellas, sipping iced tea and sparkling water, their crystal glasses dewy in the heat.

Endy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and let her eyes adjust to the dim indoor lighting. “Hey, Amy, am I late?”

The concierge’s eyes grew round when she saw Endy walk in wearing the bright dill pickle T-shirt, but she just nodded her head at the meeting room. “Not really, they’re just trickling in,” she said. “Might be a full room though.”

“Thanks,” replied Endy. “Would you mind checking in after a bit, just to make sure the AC is keeping up? It’s already so hot outside.

” Endy knew that during these kinds of meetings, feelings and debates on issues could get heated.

If they could keep the room chilly, maybe the homeowners would keep their cool.

She entered the room and selected a seat near the door.

Whisper Hills’ senior vice president and managing director, Daniel York, stood in front of the rows of folding chairs, which were mostly filled.

He dressed in typical desert business casual—a bright-colored luxury golf polo shirt and shorts—with his ash-blond hair parted on the side and combed flat.

He wore a wide smile and would occasionally point and wink to club members he was friendly with.

“Hello and welcome, everyone,” Daniel said. He squinted his eyes at Endy and then indicated to her to close the heavy meeting room door. Chairs scraped the floor, and the whir of the air-conditioning started up as the club members made themselves comfortable.

“I see a lot of friends here, but also some new faces. How about we take a couple of minutes and have our new homeowners stand up and introduce themselves?”

Endy saw an older couple stand up and look around the room. They said they had joined the club for both golf and tennis, so Endy made a note to contact them with news about the racquet club. Four other new members stood up and offered introductions.

Once everyone had settled in their seats again, Daniel went down a checklist he held in his hand, talking about upcoming changes in the restaurant and maintenance around the grounds. Then with ten minutes remaining, he asked if anyone had questions or concerns for open discussion.

An elegant woman with her full, white hair smoothed and pulled back with a thick tortoise-shell barrette raised her hand.

She wore a salmon-colored linen tunic and linen trousers, pressed neatly without a wrinkle.

Endy saw a vintage Rolex watch on her wrist, and on her finger was a huge pear-shaped diamond ring, stacked on either side with even more diamonds.

Before Daniel could call on her, she asked, “What are you doing about pickleball?” Her voice was sure, steady, and smooth-as-butter.

“Mrs. Tennyson, so nice to see you,” said Daniel, giving her a slight bow of his head. “Thanks for asking. Why don’t I let our assistant director of racquet sports answer that—Endy?” He held his hand out to Endy, and heads swiveled around toward her.

Endy stood up, looked around the room, and smiled. “Hi, everyone. Yeah, so, pickleball is going great. Our program is growing every week. The daily drop-in matches tend to fill up. We have opportunities for all levels with—”

“That’s not what I asked,” Barbara Tennyson interrupted. “I asked what are you doing about it.”

“About—”

“Yes, about the disruption it has brought to our lovely club.” Barbara looked hard at Daniel and then at Endy.

“The noise of all those dogs barking and the loud music at all hours of the day. Not to mention that horrendous, nerve-racking sound that plastic ball makes when struck.” Endy’s eyes went round, and she glanced at Daniel.

He spoke up. “Mrs. Tennyson, I do understand your frustrations with pickleball. Your complaints have not gone unnoticed by the board and me.”

Barbara Tennyson huffed. “You’ve taken away tennis courts.”

“Yes, but we still have over twenty-five tennis courts, which is enough for the number of players—”

“That is not the point,” she replied with a slow blink. She repeated, “Specifically, you’ve taken away tennis courts and replaced them with pickleball courts.”

“Yes, but—”

“Presidents of the United States would play at Whisper Hills when it was the premier tennis country club in the nation. Why, Jimmy Connors, Martina Navratilova, and so many other tennis professionals called this their home,” she said, crossing her hands over her lap.

“Including you and your husband, Clive,” added Daniel with a deferential nod.

Barbara stilled and narrowed her eyes at the managing director. “And now those courts have been taken over by something called pickleball ?”

“Please, Mrs. Tennyson, you must understand what our club needs to do to remain competitive and up-to-date.”

“No, Mr. York, it seems that you don’t understand.

So perhaps I will attend the next board meeting and speak to those who can actually grasp what I’m saying.

” She stood, smoothed her linen slacks, and calmly headed to the exit.

All eyes were on Barbara, and the air in the room was tense.

At the door, Barbara paused then looked down her nose at Endy.

“And the club certainly does not need a full-time employee running that sport, when players may simply drop in .” She pulled open the heavy oak door and exited, a cloud of Chanel No.4 drifting behind her.

“Barbara is not wrong,” came a reply from the row of seats. Another club member, Marty Brewer, stood up. “All those golf carts parked at the curbs every day, even with the No Parking Anytime signs. The pickleball players disregard the rules.”

Kory Larson raised her hand. “My son is a successful acoustical engineer at Cruz & Cruz Noise Control, and I had him run an analysis on the noise. He said pickleball is louder than my Ninja blender.”

A man wearing a Dri-FIT T-shirt and visor chimed in. “Oh come on. You all are complaining about nothing—loosen up. Pickleball is a fun sport.”

“But it’s louder than a blender,” protested Kory. “And my Ninja is so loud that it scares my cats.” She looked around the room and said softly, “We can’t make margaritas anymore.”

Mini arguments broke out amid the crowd.

Daniel said over the din, “Alright, alright. Let’s all agree that there are issues with pickleball that the club still needs to work out.” He held up his hands, facing the club members. “But, like it or not, pickleball is here to stay. So let’s save that discussion for another time.”

He indicated for Endy to open the door. “Thank you all for coming. See you next month.”

When the room emptied, Daniel rubbed his forehead and walked over to Endy. He let out a big sigh.

“‘Big dink energy’?” he asked. “Really?”

Endy’s jaw dropped and she slapped a hand on her forehead. “Oh my god, I forgot I was wearing this T-shirt… . The Grands just gave it to me as a thank-you gift.”

Daniel chuckled. “I was wondering if you’d gotten dressed in the dark this morning.”

“Now the tennis members will think that pickleball players are foolish, or worse. I couldn’t have made a bigger mistake wearing this silly shirt to this meeting,” groaned Endy.

“It’s not about you, or even that T-shirt.” Daniel sighed. “Just what is it exactly with tennis players that makes them hate pickleball so much? I mean, the sports aren’t that different.”

Endy shrugged, lifting her palms up. “Who knows? Maybe it’s like when snowboarders came along. There was so much big hate from the skiers. Remember when some ski hills didn’t even allow snowboarders?”

“Yeah, I was one of those snowboarders.” Daniel gave a half smile. “Pissed a bunch of people off, for sure.”

“Can you imagine if something similar happens where tennis players won’t allow pickleball?” Endy mused out loud.

“It’s not impossible,” replied Daniel. “The only thing that would soothe the animosity is if there was a crossover between tennis and pickleball. Like, look at Jack Sock … previously a pro tennis player, now a pro pickleball player.”

“Jack Sock?” Endy said with a smile. “One of his social media profiles actually says, ‘Used to hit tennis balls. Now dink wiffle balls.’ And if that isn’t crossover big dink energy, I’m not sure what is.”