She said we but Unity had a feeling it was more a her decision. The whole situation was desperately unfair. “But the league is open to everyone in town. There are a lot of other people under sixty-five playing pickleball.”

“They’re all older than you and mostly fat. They’re terrible players. We’ve changed the rules. You have to be fifty or over to join the league. We took a vote.”

“Without me?”

Phyllis’s expression wasn’t the least bit sympathetic. “Yes. Without you.”

Unexpected tears burned in her eyes. Unity felt exposed and foolish and ashamed. This was so much worse than being picked last for a team in school—mostly because she never had been. She loved pickleball. What was she supposed to do now?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, standing. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you do. Find a league with people your own age. You’ll do fine.”

Phyllis hustled her to the front door, showed her out, then closed it firmly in Unity’s face. Unity tried to summon a little righteous anger, but she couldn’t get past the giant slap of rejection.

She got in her truck, silently called Phyllis a bitch, then drove the short distance to Dagmar’s house. When she was parked out front, she called her.

“You busy?” she asked, when Dagmar answered.

“Darling, I beg you, get a phone that texts. Even my friends text rather than call.”

Dagmar’s tone was light and Unity knew the comment was teasing, only it felt like one more judgment.

“Are you busy?” she asked again, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“Phyllis threw me off the pickleball league. She said I was a big, strapping girl and didn’t belong.”

“She’s a wizened old cow who hasn’t had sex in over a decade. I’m sure her girl parts are about as interesting as day-old bread.”

Despite everything, Unity smiled. “That’s a very weird analogy.”

“I know. I was struggling to make one work.” The curtain at the front of the house moved. “Oh, good, you’re here. Come on inside and we’ll talk about it.”

As always, just being in Dagmar’s house made Unity feel better. While most of the residents surrounded themselves with items from their past—pictures, mementos, ornate pieces of furniture not suited to the smaller space—Dagmar had decorated her house with an elegant, beachy vibe. Pale gray grounded all the shades of blue. The sofas were comfortable, the accessories minimal. A white shag rug defined the living area. The blue-and-gray backsplash colors were repeated in the throw pillows.

The cool elegance was a contrast to Dagmar’s Bohemian style. Today she had on black-and-red striped wide-leg trousers and a red T-shirt dominated by a picture of Marilyn Monroe. A dozen or so bangles rattled on her wrist.