Ashley kept spinning the racket, wary of a hustle, but the question had her pulse leaping. "Yeah. So?"

This time Paul smiled at the deliberate rudeness. He was going to like this kid, God knew why. "So, you need lessons and a decent court." He glanced at Ashley’s worn racket. "And equipment. What kind of power can you get out of plastic strings?"

Defensive, Ashley tossed up a ball and smashed it into the opposing service court.

"Not bad," Paul; decided mildly. "You’d do better with sheep gut."

"Tell me something I don’t know."

Paul drew out a pack of cigarettes, taking his time, Paul lit one, then took a long drag.

"Those things will mess up your lungs," Ashley stated idly.

"Tell me something I don’t know," the lawyer countered. "Think you can play on grass?"

Ashley answered with a quick, crude expletive, then sliced another ball over the net.

"Pretty sure of yourself."

"I’m going to play Wimbledon," Ashley told him matter-of-factly. "And I’m going to win."

Paul didn’t smile, but reached into his pocket. He held out a discreet, expensively printed business card. "Call me Monday," he said simply, and walked away.

Ashley had a patron.

The marriage wasn’t made in heaven. Over the next four years there were bitter arguments, bursts of temper and dashes of love. Ashley worked hard because she understood that work and discipline were the means to the end. She remained in school and studied only because her mother and Paul had a conspiracy against her. Unless she completed high school with decent grades, the patronage would be removed. As to the patronage itself, Ashley accepted it only because her needs demanded it. But she was never comfortable with it. The lessons polished her craft. Good equipment tightened her game. She played on manicured grass, well-tended clay and wood, learning the idiosyncrasies of each surface.

Every morning before school she practiced. Afternoons and weekends were dedicated to tennis. Summers, she worked part-time in the pro shop at Paul’s club, and then used the courts to hone her skill. By the time she was sixteen the club’s tennis pro could beat her only if Ashley had an off day.

Her temper was accepted. It was a game of histrionics. Audience found a certain appeal in her lawlessness. Growing up in the promiscuous city of L.A., Ashley learned of sexual pleasures at a young age, and molded her talent there as carefully as she did her game.