TWICE VICTORIOUS

by Judith B. Glad

  Stell forced her big toe to sketch a cursive K in the air and started on an M. The pain in her ankle shot up her calf and across her knee. With a faint moan, she let the leg drop to the mat. "I can't." She buried her face in her hands. "I just can't, Carl." Tears stung her eyes. Giving up was the last thing she wanted to do, but the darn leg simply wouldn't do what she told it to.

  "You did fine," he said, patting her shoulder. "Most of my patients don't do that well the first time." His fingers found the source of the pain, just above her anklebone, and massaged gently until it subsided into a now-familiar ache. She gasped in relief.

  "I think that's enough for today. We don't want to overdo it." Carl went to the counter along one side of the room and made notes in his chart.

  "You mean that's all? What about my knee? And my hip?"

  "Can you come in Monday? We can start on your knee then."

  "You didn't answer me. What about my hip?" She winced as her foot touched the floor. Just bearing her weight was painful, and bending her knee or her hip was enough to make her want to swear.

  "Stell, you can't hurry the healing process. I'll do all I can to help you recover strength in your leg, but it won't happen overnight."

  "I know that." She hated the querulous tone of her voice. "But I don't have a lot of time. If I'm not back in training by June, I might as well give up the Sawtooth Classic for two years." Or forever, her mind added. Most of the women who competed at that level had started in their twenties. She'd be thirty in ten months. Would she have what it took if she had to wait another two years?

  She wasn't willing to take that chance.

  Once at home, she opened the refrigerator and stared inside. Nothing looked good. It was all too healthy, too low fat, too sensible. "What am I doing?" she said, after a moment. "I am not hungry, and I ate enough breakfast to last me all day." She slammed the door and wished she could put a time lock on it. Not to be opened except once a day.

  Although the stairs were still difficult, she was getting down them better. She simply hopped on one foot, holding tight to the rail.

  "Whoof." An hour later she was wondering how she could have lost so much muscle tone in just a few days. Stell lowered the dumbbells and let her arms hang limp. Her biceps and triceps ached, her shoulders were quivering. But she felt good.

  She lifted her heels to the edge of the bench, ignoring the twinge in her knee, and put her hands behind her head. "One...two..." The rhythmic tightening and relaxing of her abdomen told her again that she'd been lazy too long. She kept counting. "No pain, no gain," might be an outmoded concept, but she didn't have time to pamper herself.

  The doorbell rang on the fifty-first crunch. She relaxed a moment before rolling over and pushing herself awkwardly to her feet. Sweat ran down her face and tickled between her breasts.

  The bell sounded again. "Good grief. Give me a minute, will you?" She wiped her face on the towel she'd grabbed and hobbled to the intercom that Warren had set up for her. "Yes? Who is it?"

  "Adam Vanderhook."

  Oh, no! "What do you want?" He was the absolutely last person she wanted to see this afternoon.

  "May I come in?" His mild reply made her aware of just how rude she'd sounded. Stell chewed her lip. She should finish her exercise session, but now that she was on her feet, she was aware of just how shaky she felt. "I'm in the basement. Follow the path to the left and around to the back. I'll meet you at the door."

  She was standing in the open doorway when he came around the big rhododendron at the corner. As usual, he looked like he'd just stepped off the pages of the REI catalogue--sharp-creased chinos, a Madras shirt in shades of gold and green over a bronze turtleneck, an emerald parka with the KIWANDA logo on the chest, and hi-tech sneakers. His thick chestnut hair sparked with droplets from the 'Oregon sunshine' that had been falling all day, a fine, misty rain.

  "I just dropped by to..." He took in her sweaty face, her ratty T-shirt and faded jogging shorts and his smile turned to a concerned frown. "You're going to get chilled. Why don't you go shower and then I'll tell you why I came?"

  Stell's hackles rose. What business was it of his whether she got chilled or not?

  Before she could open her mouth, he said, "I'll bet those stairs are a challenge." He slipped an arm around her. "With three good legs, this should be a piece of cake."

  She was so taken by surprise that they were halfway up the stairs before she thought about arguing. By then it was easier to cooperate. Besides, it would have taken her twice as long to go up on her own, and she'd have looked ridiculous doing it.

  "What do you want?" she said again. "I'm really busy, and I haven't changed my mind." She shivered. Sweaty as she was, she probably smelled to high heaven.

  "I brought you something," he said. "But your lips are turning blue. Go get into warmer clothes and I'll show you."

  She shivered again. "All right. Wait in the living room. I won't be long."

  Once in her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was plastered to her head with drying sweat, and her T-shirt stuck to her still-damp torso. Her sports bra kept her decent, but did absolutely nothing to conceal her erect nipples. Heat flooded her cheeks. "I do need a shower," she muttered, pulling the shirt over her head. He'd suggested it. So let him wait.

  Clean, combed, and even perfumed, she opened her closet. But instead of pulling out her last clean pair of jeans, she reached for a rich royal purple velour jumpsuit. It was a lot more comfortable for lounging than the jeans, and always made her feel softly feminine.

  Of course, the jumpsuit demanded her silver hoop earrings and a touch of lipstick. And silver thongs instead of her usual fuzzy bedroom slippers. Stell caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored hall closet as she approached the living room. Except for the light knee brace, she looked as feminine as she felt. For a moment she almost went back and changed into her jeans. What was she trying to prove, anyway?

  She wasn't going to model for him, no matter what. She didn't have time, even if she'd wanted to. Just getting back in shape was going to take all the time she could spare from work.

  Adam Vanderhook had certainly made himself at home. Her insulated carafe sat on the coffee table beside two of the delicate china cup-and-saucer sets her mother had collected. She hadn't bothered with them for months, even though she'd always enjoyed the feeling of elegance she got when sipping from one of the ornate cups. They didn't go in the dishwasher, and she had eliminated all inefficient activities from her life long ago.

  "I didn't know if you took sugar or cream?" Adam gestured at the tray, and she had to chuckle. The cream was in her only pitcher, but the sugar was in a cereal bowl. Dad had broken the matching sugarbowl years ago.

  "Just black." She sat on the sofa and settled her leg on the cushion he'd placed beside the tray.

  "I hope you didn't want caffeine in your coffee?" He handed her a steaming cup.

  "Only a cup in the morning." She often bought a cup of hi-test coffee at the neighborhood convenience store after her morning ride, even though she wouldn't have it in the house.

  He took the wing chair again, sprawling out as if he lived there. "For a jump start?"

  She couldn't help but smile back at him. At the same time, she wished he weren't so darned attractive. Staying irritated with him was virtually impossible, yet she needed to. Her life held no room for boy-girl games right now.

  They sipped their coffee in silence, until Stell realized she still didn't know why he was here. "What do you want?" she said, for the third time.

  Picking up a package from beside his chair, he held it out to her. "I brought you this."

  Stell took it, curious. A little suspicious.

  "Go on, open it. Nothing will bite you," he said.

  She tore the paper open. Silky fabric fell out, slithered off her lap and onto the floor. Before she could reach down, Adam had picked it up. "Thanks," she said, holding it up.

  When she got a good look at what she hel
d, she almost laughed. Tights, of a heavy, slick knit, about the size her nine-year-old cousin might wear. She looked at Adam, whose lips were quivering, as if he was about to burst out laughing. "Uh, Adam, I don't think--"

  "They'll fit," he told her. "They might even be a little big."

  "I don't think so." She laid them against her. The bottom of one leg barely reached past her knee, and she thought one of her thighs might fit nicely inside the waistband.

  Adam's chuckle made her look across at him. "Okay, what's the joke?" She was not amused.

  "No joke. These are a product we're testing. A new fabric with a lot more stretch than Lycra. It's made from a tightly coiled monofilament, and it will-- Never mind the technical details. The important thing for you is that they should work like good support hose, giving when you bend, tightening when you straighten. They'll enhance blood flow in your legs and keep your feet from swelling when you sit a long time. They're cool to wear, because the fabric breathes. Best of all, they should make your leg feel better, less tired at the end of the day."

  Again she held the tights up and looked at them. They still looked like they were made for a small, very skinny child. "And you think these will fit me?"

  "My sister, who's taller than you, but not quite as...as muscular, loves hers. They're the same size."

  "And you want me to be another guinea pig?" Actually, the tights sounded like just what she was looking for. Her cycling tights were not comfortable for everyday wear, and they were far too warm.

  "Actually, yes. Do you mind? We have a couple of dozen people testing them, but they're all using them for active sports. I'm hoping you'll tell us they're just as good for...well, someone who isn't quite as active."

  She bristled. "A couch potato, you mean?"

  "I mean someone who is temporarily unable to be as active as she'd wish." His voice was level, with just a hint of exasperation. "I want to know if they ameliorate some of the stress on your knee."

  So did she. At this point she'd try anything that might help. "Thank you, Adam. I'll wear them often and will give you a full report."

  He leaned forward and refilled their cups. "Just don't think the tights can take the place of your brace."

  Like it's any of his business. "I really don't need it when I'm not walking, but my wearing it keeps my Physical Therapist happy."

  One eyebrow rose. "I see. So your leg isn't as badly damaged as they thought at first."

  "Oh, you know how conservative medical people are," she said, waving her hand.

  Adam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Not smiling in response, he said, "Yes, they can be. Maybe you should be a little conservative, too."

  All her bottled-up frustration burst forth. "I haven't got time! Every day I waste means lost conditioning, lost strength."

  His eyebrow went up again.

  "Oh! You don't understand!"

  "Try me."

  "If you'd ever competed, you'd know why I can't afford to be off my bike for any length of time." The very thought of weeks, even months without being able to ride scared her worse than anything ever had before.

  His mouth twisted, as if he were in pain. "Obsessions are unhealthy," he said, his voice flat, lacking its characteristic warmth and timbre. "Isn't it about time you did something worthwhile with your life?"

  Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why...what...you...you meddlesome--" Biting her lip, Stell stood and tried to pace. The elastic support still restricted her knee's motions somewhat, making her limp instead of stalking. The uneven motion frustrated more than it relieved. A couple of turns and she came to a stop in front of him.

  "What makes you think you can evaluate what I do with my life?"

  He spread his hands placatingly. "I can't."

  "And who told you it was your business, anyhow?"

  "No one. Yet."

  The third word was soft, almost inaudible. It sat between them like a thrown gauntlet.

  "I suppose my cycling might look like an obsession to someone like you." She ignored his sudden scowl, cut him off before he could speak. "But it's not. Not like, oh, wanting to be filthy rich, or collecting all the Faberge in the world. Those are obsessions." It seemed very important to make him understand.

  "Cycling is my life right now, but it won't always be. Just until after the Sawtooth Classic. I'll slack off then, put cycling back in perspective."

  "I wonder." Before she could explode at his doubt, he smiled. "What got you started in bicycle racing?" It wasn't an apology, but it was a peace offering.

  She decided to accept it. "I got into it more or less by accident," she recalled, staring at the portrait of her parents over the mantel. "When I went to work for Wilkins, Wasatch, and McGonigle, I was fresh out of college and I hadn't been on a bike since I was a kid."

  He made a sound, but when she looked over at him, he waved her to continue.

  "Dad was diagnosed with cancer that fall, and went through some pretty miserable radiation and chemotherapy. He was sick a lot, and we couldn't really afford to hire nurses twenty-four hours a day. So I took care of him nights and weekends." She remembered how it had been, with Dad doing his best not to be a burden, stubbornly insisting he could do for himself, when she knew he was horribly nauseated most of the time.

  "I really didn't mind. And it wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been trying to prove myself at work, too." Looking across at him again, she saw sympathy in his eyes, and encouragement for her to continue her story. "Do you know anything about accounting firms?"

  He shook his head.

  "They don't know the meaning of the forty-hour week. Not during tax season, anyhow. After the first of the year, I started putting in fifty, sometimes sixty, hours a week. By April fifteenth, I was a basket case." She could laugh about it now, but she never again wanted to feel that lack of control, that emotional helplessness resulting from stress and exhaustion. "Dad was a lot better, thank God! He went out and bought us bikes."

  Adam stretched across and picked up the carafe. After she shook her head, he refilled his cup. "Two?"

  "One for him, one for me. He'd always wanted to do a bicycle tour of France, he said. If he didn't do it then, he'd never do it." What a wonderful time they'd had, planning their trip, reading the brochures they'd sent for. Riding every night, even when it rained. "By fall we were in pretty good shape. We decided to go in June. I would take six weeks off work, without pay if I had to, and we'd camp when the weather was good, hotel when it wasn't."

  Oh, how they'd enjoyed their planning that fall and winter. Even when tax season started, she'd unwound by pouring over brochures with Dad, reading the books about France he brought home from his weekly trips to the library.

  "In April they found another tumor. They operated, but it was too late." She still felt the pain of those awful six months. Dad had lingered until November, dying the day before Thanksgiving. He encouraged her to keep riding, just for the stress relief, and it did help, tremendously.

  "It was Dad who entered me in my first race. I hadn't wanted to, but he convinced me. That was in July, six years ago."

  "Did you win?"

  She'd almost forgotten him, lost in memories she usually kept at bay. "Win?" Her laugh was shrill in her ears. "I didn't even finish the race. My back tire went flat on the last lap."

  "Oh, no."

  "Oh, yes. It was humiliating. I'd never failed at anything in my life. And Dad...." She grimaced. "He laughed."

  "I'll bet you were furious."

  "I was livid! The next week I went out there determined to win, just to prove I could." And for Dad, who'd believed she could do anything she wanted to, if she wanted badly enough.

  "And?"

  "I came in third."

  "That's not so bad."

  "It is if there are only three people in the race."

  She forgave his laughter. After so long, it was funny even to her.

  "When did you quit Wilkins, et cetera?" Adam had found himself admiring her
as he listened, even though her suggestion that he wouldn't understand because he hadn't competed had cut deeply. But she couldn't know, and he wasn't going to tell her.

  That was all behind him.

  "Two years ago. They didn't approve of all the Fridays I took off to go to races, even though I charged them against vacation time. Mr. Wilkins, the senior partner, thought anyone who didn't want a two-week vacation every summer was a little strange." She shook her head, and the light caught the bold silver hoops in her ears. Adam noticed again how striking she was. "He also thought I shouldn't be giving so much of my time and energy to anything besides my profession."

  "Rick says you have a bookkeeping service now. Is your office here?" Certainly this house looked big enough that she could devote an entire floor to her business if she chose. He wondered if it was the family home, or if she'd bought it as an investment.

  "Downstairs. With the basement opening into the back yard, I have a wonderful view from my desk."

  "What will you do when your business outgrows your house?" With the garage taking up a fair portion of the lower story, there couldn't be more than a couple of rooms down there.

  "That's not likely. I barely have enough clients to keep me busy about half time. And that suits me fine. I make enough to get by, and that's all I need."

  "But don't you want to grow, to expand?" That she might not was incomprehensible to him.

  "I want to have time to train and freedom to go to whatever races I chose. That's why I'm choosy about which clients I take on. Some businesses would be too demanding of my time and energy."

  The purple fabric of her jumpsuit clung to her small, high breasts as she reached back to lift herself off the sofa. Adam's awareness of her as a woman, slowly and quietly simmering ever since she'd opened the door, burst into full boil. When she winced as she set her bad leg on the floor, he was beside her instantly. Again he pulled her against himself, wanting once more the feel of her strength and suppleness in his arms and against his body.

  She resisted his embrace and he released her almost too soon for his body's instinctive reaction. "Sorry," he muttered, but he wasn't. He wanted her next to him, wanted to hold her, cherish her. "Are you all right?"