"No, sir. Thank you."
"Suit yourself." Mr. Langford sat back down and turned his smile on Dee. It was a big, warm smile, and there was nothing behind it at all, like a lit window in a house where nobody lived. "And this is the young lady."
"Delia," her father said.
"Delia. Well, Delia, my son tells me you've challenged him to a tennis match."
Every table within earshot had gone quiet. Dee could feel them listening the way you can feel heat off a stove.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"He says he took your racket, and you said you'd fight him for it, so to speak."
"He took it and dared me to fight back," Dee said. "So I'm fighting back. On the court."
Somebody at the next table laughed and turned it into a cough. Whit was looking at his glass of iced tea. His ears were red.
"Mr. Langford," her father said, "she didn't mean any disrespect. She's fifteen. She runs her mouth sometimes. I'll see she stays off the property in the afternoons, and that'll be the end of it."
"Now, hold on, Raymond. Hold on." Mr. Langford held up a big palm. "Nobody's in trouble. I think it's terrific. I really do. Girl's got spunk." He said spunk the way you'd say the name of a breed of dog. "Does she play? Really play?"
"She plays on the public courts."
"The public courts," Mr. Langford said, and somebody laughed again, and this time didn't bother to turn it into anything. "Well. That's fine. That's what they're for." He turned the bourbon glass on its napkin. "Here's what I'm thinking. Labor Day weekend we've got the round robin, the barbecue, the whole shebang. Whole club's out. Instead of the junior exhibition, which, let's be honest, nobody watches, we put these two on Court One. Best of three sets. Proper umpire. Little bit of fun." He smiled at Dee. "You still want to play him, honey, you can play him in front of God and everybody."
"Daddy," Whit said, low.
"What? She asked for it. Didn't you, sweetheart?"