"Thank you, sir."
"Now, about this." He took the paper from Mr. Dabney and held it up between two fingers, lightly, like something he'd found under a car seat. "I think we can all agree this was a little bit of fun. A little bit of Labor Day theater. Dabney here reminds me there's a club bylaw—what's the number, Dabney?"
"Article Six, Mr. Langford."
"Article Six. Non-members can't hold playing privileges. So, unfortunately, that part's a non-starter. Out of my hands. And the trip to Columbia—well, I'd be glad to make a donation, of course, a nice donation, to the recreation department over there on Washington Street, so all the kids can—"
"Daddy."
Whit had come up the side steps. He'd changed his shirt, but his legs were still green to the knee and he was still limping. He walked past the round tables and stopped beside his father's chair, and Dee saw Mr. Langford's hand tighten on the glass.
"Sit down, Whit."
"I lost," Whit said. "There's a line at the bottom of that paper about what happens if I lose. I wrote it. You don't get to decide whether I do it."
He turned around. He faced the veranda, the tables, the women in their hats and the men with their drinks, the members who had watched him win the junior championship twice and had his picture on the pro shop wall. He pushed his hair off his forehead with the heel of his hand.
"I took Delia Pruitt's racket," he said, "behind the maintenance shed, in July. I held it up over her head where she couldn't get it and I dared her to fight me for it. Trip and Bryce were there. Trip called her the help. I didn't stop him." He swallowed. "I'm sorry. That's the apology. Delia, I'm sorry."
"Okay," Dee said. Her voice didn't come out right. "Okay."
"But I want to say why." He looked down at his father, then back out at the veranda. "That racket's a Wilson Chris Evert, 1976. It's got J.L. written under the grip in ballpoint pen. Mr. Grant strung it for her at sixty pounds, which was too tight. She played with it every Tuesday and Thursday on Court Four until I was fourteen years old."
The veranda had gone so still Dee could hear the ice ticking in the glasses.
"Joanna Langford," Whit said. "My mother. Some of y'all played doubles with her." He didn't look at any of them in particular. He didn't have to; Dee saw three or four of the women look down at their hands. "When she left for Atlanta in April of '82, my father put everything she didn't take into the back of the Suburban and drove it to the St. Helena rummage sale. Her dresses. Her books. Her piano music. Her racket. He said if she wanted her things she could come back and get them." His voice did something there and he waited until it stopped. "She didn't come back. So I guess that was that."