The Friendship List(12)
A real employee would be different than her part-time team. She would have to pay him or her every week, and do payroll.
She parked in front of Phyllis’s duplex. The seventysomething woman lived alone, with her two cats. Phyllis was a stern kind of person who intimidated Unity—not that she ever let herself show it. Until moving to Silver Pines, Phyllis had been a member of a tennis club and had played several times a week. Now she put the same devotion and energy into the local pickleball league. She was president of the club and in charge of all the tournaments. Phyllis had a forceful personality and got things done.
Unity had discovered the world of pickleball after she’d moved home and joined the league nearly two years ago. She liked the exercise, the comradery and the company.
“Good, you’re here,” Phyllis said, showing her into her living room.
They sat on opposite sofas. The room was just like Phyllis—no-nonsense and practical. Unity noticed the lack of refreshments, which surprised her. Most meetings, social or otherwise, came with at least an offer of iced tea and a cookie.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Phyllis said, her tone curt. “Several league members have been complaining about you, Unity.”
“What?” The unexpected statement shocked her. “I don’t understand. I’m on time, I support my team members. I always bring refreshments when it’s my turn.” She pressed her lips together to make herself stop talking.
Phyllis, a tall woman with close-cropped gray hair and small brown eyes, frowned. “It’s ridiculous you were ever allowed to join the league. Look at you. You’re a big, strapping girl. It’s not a fair fight. None of the other pairs can defeat you. No one wants to play against you.”
Unity felt herself flush. She suddenly felt all arms and legs, not to mention completely rejected. “I don’t win every game.”
“Nearly. I’ve gone through the statistics for the last three tournaments. You and your partner won all of them. You’re just too young and fit. The league was always meant to be for the people living here. You’re a ringer and we don’t want you around. I’m sorry, Unity, but you’re being given the boot.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“We are.”
She said we but Unity had a feeling it was more a her decision. The whole situation was desperately unfair. “But the league is open to everyone in town. There are a lot of other people under sixty-five playing pickleball.”
“They’re all older than you and mostly fat. They’re terrible players. We’ve changed the rules. You have to be fifty or over to join the league. We took a vote.”
“Without me?”
Phyllis’s expression wasn’t the least bit sympathetic. “Yes. Without you.”
Unexpected tears burned in her eyes. Unity felt exposed and foolish and ashamed. This was so much worse than being picked last for a team in school—mostly because she never had been. She loved pickleball. What was she supposed to do now?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, standing. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. Find a league with people your own age. You’ll do fine.”
Phyllis hustled her to the front door, showed her out, then closed it firmly in Unity’s face. Unity tried to summon a little righteous anger, but she couldn’t get past the giant slap of rejection.
She got in her truck, silently called Phyllis a bitch, then drove the short distance to Dagmar’s house. When she was parked out front, she called her.
“You busy?” she asked, when Dagmar answered.
“Darling, I beg you, get a phone that texts. Even my friends text rather than call.”
Dagmar’s tone was light and Unity knew the comment was teasing, only it felt like one more judgment.
“Are you busy?” she asked again, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“Phyllis threw me off the pickleball league. She said I was a big, strapping girl and didn’t belong.”
“She’s a wizened old cow who hasn’t had sex in over a decade. I’m sure her girl parts are about as interesting as day-old bread.”
Despite everything, Unity smiled. “That’s a very weird analogy.”
“I know. I was struggling to make one work.” The curtain at the front of the house moved. “Oh, good, you’re here. Come on inside and we’ll talk about it.”
As always, just being in Dagmar’s house made Unity feel better. While most of the residents surrounded themselves with items from their past—pictures, mementos, ornate pieces of furniture not suited to the smaller space—Dagmar had decorated her house with an elegant, beachy vibe. Pale gray grounded all the shades of blue. The sofas were comfortable, the accessories minimal. A white shag rug defined the living area. The blue-and-gray backsplash colors were repeated in the throw pillows.
The cool elegance was a contrast to Dagmar’s Bohemian style. Today she had on black-and-red striped wide-leg trousers and a red T-shirt dominated by a picture of Marilyn Monroe. A dozen or so bangles rattled on her wrist.
Unity unlaced her work boots at the door and walked into the kitchen. Dagmar set a bottle of red wine on the counter and got out two glasses, then opened her refrigerator. She pulled out a fresh veggie plate, two containers of dip, a bowl of hummus and some pita chips. By the time Unity had removed the cork and poured them each a glass, the snacks were set out on the island. They each took a stool, then Dagmar held up her glass.