Tennis lessons—and Alice—were a hit at Mr. Hearst’s ranch.
In Alice’s first match, she and William played Teach and Charlie Chaplin. Awaiting every serve, Mr. Chaplin leaned forward, twisting his lips, which had the effect of twitching his mustache in the most humorous of ways. It was enough for Alice to double fault more times than she’d like to admit.
But playing was all in good fun. Slower paced. Less rigorous. More carefree. Alice had to admit, Teach’s solution to keep her active but not too active was ingenious. And she ate up every star-soaked minute of it.
After each win, William gave Alice a bear hug and proclaimed she was the best partner he’d ever had. Though, without fail, his larger-than-life embraces set off a fit of coughing in her. She’d bang her chest with her fist while Teach looked on with concern.
Lots of concern.
And rules.
Alice was not allowed to swim; Teach feared it’d loosen Alice’s tennis muscles too greatly.
She followed a strict diet, even stricter on account of her persistent cough.
Then there was the curfew. Always the curfew, even with Alice now twenty years old.
Sometimes Teach would slip in a morning or afternoon practice, but mostly Alice played with the many revolving guests. Her time at Mr. Hearst’s ranch, however, was not a vacation, despite feeling as if she were on the set of something make-believe, with the estate’s fourteen sitting rooms, thirty-eight bedrooms, rare paintings and tapestries, indoor Roman swimming pool, outdoor 104-foot-long pool, marble stairways, hidden passageways, and gardens and fountains galore.
Not a bad place to work. Alice and Teach would stay for a month. Alice would visit her family. She’d return for another month, then go back to San Francisco. Before she knew it, winter had progressed to spring.
She loved playing against Hollywood’s elite. Though there were quite a few who shouldn’t quit their day job, something Alice joked about with Teach.
“Yeah, well, playing someone with a lesser and slower skill set is good practice for you. In future tournament play, I want you to set the pacing. Being able to change up the speed of play is crucial. It’ll keep you in control.”
“We like control,” Alice said.
“Yes, we do. Our time at the ranch has been good for you. You’re playing like the old Alice again. Perfect timing too.”
Alice cocked her head.
Teach pulled a telegram from her pocket. “The tennis association has invited you to play a series of matches in France.”
“France!?”
Teach held up a hand, a cheeky smile on her face. “Yes, in France, and then you’ll go on to England to play in the Wightman Cup. No games from Myrick this time. You’re on the team. Just like that.”
Alice rolled onto her toes, a smile spreading across her face. “No qualifying?”
Teach tapped the telegram. “No qualifying. France, then England. We’re on our way. How’s that sound, Allie?”
“I don’t have words,” Alice said, cupping a hand over her mouth, her mind already thousands of miles away, aboard a steamship, in front of the Eiffel Tower, on the grass courts in England. With the other girls, not feeling like an outsider but part of the team. Seen. Respected.
“You don’t need words, only a racquet,” Teach said, unable to help her own grin. “But I’d like us to go visit the wizard again first. Just to make sure he doesn’t see something I’ve been missing as you’ve recovered.”
Alice nodded. And just like that they were off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Santa Barbara.
All started well with Whitey. He applauded her playing. But then, at the news of Alice making the Wightman team and going overseas, Whitey pressed his lips together hard.
“What is it?” Teach asked him.
They were sitting on his patio, the springtime air cool that particular evening. His wife brought out a tray of cocktails, her pace slowing at the look on Whitey’s face. “Oh no,” she observed. “He’s got a bad feeling.”
Alice wanted to stop the conversation right there and then. She knew her coach. She knew Whitey. She knew they were about to spout off some mumbo jumbo about something they saw in the stars.
Alice wasn’t wrong.
Teach blanched, asking Whitey, “Did you see something in Alice’s horoscope?”
He nodded.
“What is it?” Teach asked. “I haven’t had time to look.”
He started going on about her ruling planet, retrograde, the fact she was a Libra, her birth chart, him spotting a comet yesterday. A bad omen, he argued. Basically, “I don’t think she should go,” Whitey concluded.
“But I have to,” Alice insisted.
Teach wrung her hands. “Your predictions have always been solid, Whitey.”
“This is unbelievable,” Alice said. “I’m on the team. On it. No song and dance this time. And we’re going to let this opportunity slip us by because I’m a Libra?”
“What if you went with her, Eleanor?” Whitey suggested. “Keep a close eye on this.”
“Fine. Yes. That,” Alice said.
Teach shook her head. “We’ve had a profitable few months on the ranch, but someone has to pay to get Alice across the pond. I can’t afford to take two months off from teaching.”
“Everything will be fine,” Alice said, leaning forward in her seat. “I promise, I won’t do anything stupid. I won’t be strong-armed into playing a schedule like before. I’ll stick to the curfew. I won’t even eat any chocolate. No chocolate soufflé, no nothing.”
Alice could feel the internal battle inside Teach. Tension radiated from her. She sighed, the fight leaving her. “This opportunity is too good to pass up. I hope you’re wrong about this one, Whitey.”
He had the decency not to respond.
“So I’m going?” Alice said, so far on the edge of her seat she was about to topple off.
“The eighteenth of May,” Teach said in a low voice, giving Whitey a less-than-enthusiastic look. “You’ll board the SS Westernland from New York.”
Alice squealed.
* * *
Alice arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan without a train derailment, mudslide, flash flood, hay fever, or any other incident that Whitey and Teach may have seen in the so-called stars. The next afternoon, without incident, she boarded the ship that’d bring her to Europe for the very first time.
Omens shomens.
She was feeling good. Mostly. There was her lingering cough and also a lingering doubt that she’d be able to compete at the level of competition she’d face in Europe. It’d only been a little less than a year since she’d collapsed on the court. And while she loved playing against Carole Lombard and Marion Davies, they were no Sylvia Henrotin, France’s best.
In her state room bathroom, Alice smiled too big in the ship’s small mirror.
It was meant to be a “you’ve got this” visual pep talk, yet the expression came off a bit deranged looking. She shook her head while she poked through her cosmetic bag for the gold pin Teach had given her. The little racquet with the pearl ball was nowhere to be found. Her lip quivered. It was silly to be so upset over a pin, but it was important to her.
Alice groaned loudly. Loudly enough to draw the attention of the stewardess who’d been helping to put away her belongings in her room.
“Is everything all right, Miss Marble?” a petite woman with a full head of dark hair said, stepping into the open doorway.
“Yes, sorry. It’s only I can’t find a pin I could have sworn I packed.”
“I’d be happy to look for it,” the stewardess said with a smile.
“Would you? I wouldn’t be putting you out?”
“Of course not.”
“I appreciate it, very much. Thank you . . .” Alice paused, having not yet learned the stewardess’s name.
“Miss Jessop. And you are most welcome.”
Alice thanked her again, closed the door, and lifted the hem of her ball gown to use the toilet. She’d be joining her teammates Sarah Palfrey, Dorothy Bundy, and Josephine Cruickshank in the ballroom for a party with a slew of reporters, coaches, US Lawn Tennis Association members, and fellow travelers.
Alice flushed—or at least she thought she had, noticing too late she’d pushed the lever for the bidet as she stood. She held in a gasp, not wanting Miss Jessop to hear her, then let out a silent scream. Her dress dripped. By the time she changed, she was late for the party.
No bother, she told herself.
“I plan to win,” she told a reporter.
“Feeling better than ever,” she told another.
“Sure, I’ll dance,” she told a boy.
“Another, why not? I won’t turn into a pumpkin.”
“‘He loves and she loves and they love, so why can’t you love and I love too?’” she sang along with the music while dancing.
When the band took a break, Carolin Babcock cut in and took Alice’s hand. “There’s talk of a mind reader. She’s predicting everyone’s future. One of the reporters said you’re to go next.”
“Oh,” Alice said. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Of course it is. It’s all in good fun.”
Alice opened her mouth to refuse, but Carolin was even more aggressive off the court than she was on it. In a heartbeat, the girl had dragged Alice through a cluster of spectators and stopped directly in front of the psychic. “Here she is! Miss Alice Marble.”
She imagined Whitey’s hard-pressed lips and Teach’s anxious expression. Her own stomach was turning over.
The psychic was beautiful in her own way. Skin so pale she could’ve passed for albino, if it weren’t for her pale blue eyes. Her hair was a white-blonde, long and wavy. The woman stretched out her arms, palms up. Alice felt she had no choice but to place her hands in the woman’s.
She grasped firmly and said in a voice almost too soft to hear, “Look at me.”
Hesitantly, Alice met her nearly translucent eyes. Alice instantly had the urge to pull back, to suggest that someone else be fodder for the reporter’s article, but the mind reader held on tight.
Until she suddenly released Alice’s hands as if she’d been burned. Still, their eyes remained locked. “You will rise like a rocket to the clouds,” the psychic said, more strength in her voice than before.
The crowd gave an ooh sound. Many heads nodded. The trajectory made sense for young Alice. She’d proven her mettle. She’d recovered. She was raring to go.
The psychic’s next words came out eerily quiet. “You’ll rise. Then you’ll fall.”