The Evans estate sprawled across Summit Heights like an advertisement for people who considered ordinary gardens insufficiently ambitious.
Manicured lawns surrounded ornamental fountains. Tennis courts gleamed behind boxwood hedges, and the glass conservatory caught the morning sunlight.
We'd arrived Friday evening. My parents spent dinner admiring the grounds while I remembered every childhood argument conducted on them. Augustus appeared late, still wearing his work suit and the expression of a man temporarily released from captivity.
By Saturday breakfast, our mothers had developed a plan.
"A friendly tennis match," Vivienne announced. "The weather's perfect."
I looked at Augustus.
"Friendly," he repeated. "An interesting choice of words."
"You two should play first," Mother suggested.
"Juliette was never gracious about losing," Augustus said.
"Because I rarely lose."
"An imaginative interpretation of history."
Father laughed. Naturally, nobody offered to rescue us.
