"Did you say that you ran today?" she asked.
"Umm-hmm."
A sudden excitement lit her face with a smile. "That's great." She placed one hand on his arm. "I missed you today."
"Oh?" That twinkle returned to his eyes.
"I meant," she stressed sternly, dropping her hand to her side, "that I kept thinking you were probably sleeping in. Letting your muscles shrivel."
"Not me," Ian assured her. "The painful memory of getting them stretched out is still too clear."
"Good!"
They lapsed into silence once more, and Andrea was amazed at how sensuality seemed to radiate from him. She started to feel jumpy inside and longed for him to say something. He appeared to be happy with the quiet.
"W-well," she stammered. "We'll meet the same time tomorrow?"
Ian nodded. "Take up right where we left off."
He started to leave, then turned back. "I almost forgot. I'm supposed to invite you to dinner tonight."
"Oh, but—"
"Denise mentioned something about a painting you wanted to see."
"Yes," Andrea said almost to herself, remembering the special painting Denise had told her about.
"Great!"
"Oh, no, that's not what I meant."
Andrea saw his face fall and she felt a little guilty at having misled him, no matter how unintentional it was. "I'm a mess. I'm not dressed to go out." She searched for an excuse.
"You are a mess," he said.
He stepped toward her. Pulling out his handkerchief, he gently rubbed a spot on her temple.
He was so close. It was as if there was no air in the room. Andrea couldn't take a breath. Oh, God, she thought. Why did her body react so strongly to him?
"You must have been working in the garden," he said. "I've been looking at this smudge of dirt since I arrived."
The row of cabinets behind her kept her from stepping away from him.
Do something! her mind screamed.
She snatched the hanky from his hand and rubbed at her face. "Well, why didn't you tell me?" she snapped.
"Because you look good dirty."
He laughed at her scowl.
"Denise'll be upset if I don't bring you home. She wants you to see her studio. You look fine as you are," he said. "We're only going to cook burgers on the grill."
She hated the thought of Denise being disappointed. What could it hurt? she asked herself. They wouldn't be alone with Denise and Harry there. And maybe she'd get a chance to talk to Harry again about volunteering some of his time to her track team.
"Well, let me at least wash my face." She turned and left the room.
The aroma of hamburgers grilling over hot coals was mouth watering. Stepping out onto the cedar deck, carrying an assortment of condiments to the table, Andrea looked over at Ian and smiled once again at the silly apron he was wearing—Chief Cook And Bottle Washer, indeed. He was busy turning the meat with a long-handled utensil.
She'd had dinner at the homes of her students only twice before, and both times she and the family she'd eaten with had felt awkward, out of place. But sharing this picnic with Ian, Denise and Harry felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"Help!"
Andrea's eyes darted to where Denise was coming through the door with an armload of food and other picnic trappings: a bowl of potato salad, one of coleslaw, paper plates, napkins and plastic utensils, all precariously balanced.
"Here," Andrea offered. But as she reached for the two bowls, Denise tipped one and Andrea had to shift quickly to keep it from falling to the floor. In the process, some of the slaw dressing sloshed onto her blouse.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Denise said.
"It's okay," Andrea insisted. After setting down the food, she swiped at the spot with a napkin. "See, it's fine."
"Denise, take Andrea upstairs and help her get cleaned up," Ian suggested. Then he pointed to the grill with the turner. "It'll be a while before these are ready."
"But—" Andrea started to protest, but was interrupted by Denise's whisper.
"I can show you my painting."
They smiled at each other conspiratorially and Andrea nodded. They went inside and ran up the staircase.
Denise showed Andrea to the bathroom, and Andrea ran cold water over her soiled hem until no trace of the stain remained. She blotted it dry with a towel and smiled at Denise. "Good as new," she pronounced.
"My studio's down here."
Denise led her to the end of the hall and opened the door to a bright, sparsely furnished room. "This is it," Denise announced proudly.
"Denise, it's perfect." Andrea looked around. "It's so bright."
Windows on two sides of the room let the sun stream in most of the day. There were clean canvases leaning one against the other along the walls on one side of the room. Partially and fully completed works lined the other side.
There were two easels, one by each window, and two stools, the only furniture in the room besides a set of floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves that were crammed full of paintbrushes, tubes of pigment, turpentine and every other imaginable painter's paraphernalia.
"It's wonderful." Andrea stepped farther into the room, glancing at the paintings that lined the floor. "It looks like you've been busy."
"Oh, I haven't done all these since Dad set up the studio," Denise explained. "Most of them were stored in the back of my closet." She grinned. "Now there's plenty of room for my shoes."
Andrea studied one still life that looked so real she wanted to reach out and touch it. Another painting of a lake at sunrise captured a serene mood as a dragonfly rested on a bent reed.
"Your work is excellent."
"Thanks, but I'm frustrated that the shading on this one isn't exactly right." Denise stooped over to give the canvas a critical examination.
Andrea moved to stand beside her.
"Well, it looks good to me, but then I don't know a whole lot about art."
"See—" Denise crouched down "—the light was..." Her voice faded and she stood and smiled. "You don't need to hear me complain."
"Maybe Mr. Webster can help." Andrea mentioned the school's art instructor before remembering the rumor that he wasn't a very talented painter.
She could tell by Denise's reaction or lack of reaction rather, that the teenager wasn't thrilled with the suggestion.
"This is the painting I'm doing for Pops." Denise uncovered one of the easels to display an unfinished depiction of a small trophy sitting on a table. A cleated running shoe lying on its side was penciled in, waiting to be painted. Bright ribbons and medals looked as though they'd been tossed around the base of the tall golden trophy.
"It's wonderful," Andrea said.
"That's what Pops won at the first Wilmington Challenge."
"He'll love it!"
"I hope so. I'm going to try to have it finished so I can give it to him the day of the race."
"It's going to be a day he'll never forget."
While Denise covered the painting, Andrea went back over to the still life she'd admired earlier. The colors of the flowers lying beside a vase intrigued her.
Pale mauves, pinks and blues mingled with several different shades of green.
"I like this," she said finally.
"It's my favorite, too." Denise stuffed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. "I've been thinking of going into town to see if one of the shop owners would take it on consignment."
"Denise, that's a great idea!"
Andrea was proud that Denise had the wherewithal to make plans to utilize her talent.
Denise shrugged self-consciously. "Maybe I could pay Dad back for all the supplies he's bought me lately."
Draping her arm around the teenager's shoulders, Andrea said, "From what your dad tells me, you two have been spending a lot of time together."
Light danced in Denise's eyes. "Yes, and it's been so great. I'm glad you're training him for the half marathon. He's home more often, and I've never had this
much time with him before."
"I'm glad," Andrea said.
"You know..." Denise's smile vanished and she looked at Andrea solemnly. "He couldn't help missing the meet."
The girl's tone told Andrea that Denise felt the need to defend her father.
"I understand that." Andrea nodded.
"He called to explain why he had to stay over. I shouldn't have been so disappointed."
Denise's eyes pleaded for Andrea's approval.
"Your dad explained everything to me, too," Andrea assured the girl. "You're right, he had no other choice but to stay."
Denise smiled timidly, relief filling her eyes.
"Come and get it!" Harry's voice filtered up to them, and they started for the door.
"You go ahead," Andrea said, stopping at the bathroom. "I want to powder my nose."
She slipped into the room and shut the door. Taking a deep breath, she stared at her image in the mirror as a wave of memories flooded through her.
Denise's excuses for Ian concerned her. She remembered experiencing the same powerful ache to justify her own father's behavior many years ago. When she was young, she'd invented the dream that he'd had no other choice but to take care of his business interests.
It hadn't been until she'd grown up that she'd let herself believe the truth: he'd loved his business more than he'd loved his own daughter, and he had been the only kind of father he could be. A lousy one.
After realizing the truth about Robert, Andrea had stopped making excuses for him and had started blaming him instead. And it had done her a world of good.
She leaned back against the door, wondering how long it would take Denise to stop absolving Ian and start reproaching him.
Sure, Ian had been home for the last month, and Denise had been in heaven, but after the half marathon, he would probably go straight back to his previous routine. Then how long would it take Denise to wake up and see what kind of relationship she really had with her father? How long before her blinded love for him turned to accusing scorn as Andrea's had for Robert?
Andrea sighed despondently, hating the thought of how such a revelation might embitter Denise and wishing there was something she could do about it.
"Those hamburgers were delicious," Andrea complimented, wiping her fingers with a napkin.
"Thank you." Ian reclined in his seat.
Harry rubbed his stomach, saying, "I'm filled to the brim."
"Help me clean up, Pops?" Denise asked Harry as she started gathering the paper plates into a pile.
"Oh, I'll help with that," Andrea offered quickly, hopping up from her seat.
"I'm no invalid." Harry practically growled the words, and Andrea froze.
"I didn't... I'm sorry." Andrea swallowed and lowered herself back into her chair.
Harry snatched the bowl that held what little remained of the potato salad and set it in his lap before wheeling his chair toward the door. The edge of his wheelchair caught an aluminum lounger that was sitting on the deck and he dragged it several inches. He stopped and thrust the chair away from him and it clattered loudly.
"I didn't mean to hurt his feelings," Andrea said to Ian after the his father had entered the house.
"I know you didn't." Ian reached over and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "He's been awfully sensitive since I arrived this morning. Something must have happened while I was away, but I have no idea what it could have been."
His skin felt warm against her fingers, and his thumb began to make tiny circles across her knuckles. Her heart fluttered and she pulled her fingers from his grasp and placed her hands in her lap.
"So," she said, hoping he didn't observe the anxiety that was churning inside her, "I'm glad you increased your mileage today."
"You know, it wasn't as tough this time."
He gave her an easy smile, and Andrea was almost sure he hadn't noticed her reaction to his touch.
"Good." Andrea leaned toward the table. "Ian, I've been wanting to ask you something. When I saw you in the restaurant and stuffed that pack of cigarettes in your drink—" she blushed as she brought up the incident "—I told you that you should consider quitting. I haven't seen you with a cigarette since. Have you had any trouble breaking the habit? I know a lot of people find it almost impossible."
Ian laughed. "You demanded that I stop."
"Yes, well..." Andrea's color deepened, and he laughed harder.
"No," he said. "I didn't have any trouble quitting because I never indulged in the habit to begin with."
"But—"
"Those were Pamela's cigarettes." Ian's eyes lit with humor as Andrea's face turned beet red.
Andrea groaned, covering her eyes with her hand. "I'm so embarrassed."
"She didn't mind," he told her. "As a matter of fact, she thought it was funny. She was delighted. Her exact words were, 'There's one lady who just might be able to handle you.'"
He rested his chin on his fist and stared at her a moment before softly saying, "And, you know, I think she may be right."
His eyes took on a warm glow and Andrea's breath caught in her throat.
"Well, I—I," Andrea stammered, "I am a tough coach."
Her eyes darted from her hands that were folded on the table in front of her to his face and back again. She was sure he was about to say something else, but Denise came outside and plopped down in her seat.
"You guys look guilty as sin," she observed, laughing. "What've ya been doin'? Making plans to rob a bank or something?"
"I was just telling Andrea about Pamela."
"Oh, Pamela!" Denise exclaimed, her face lighting up. "She's wonderful! She works for Dad. And she's been doing all his traveling so he can be at home."
"But not without a hefty raise, I might add," Ian said.
Denise turned adoring eyes on her father. "But it's been worth it."
"It's been worth it." He nodded, giving his daughter a warm smile, and then gazed at Andrea.
"But what about her family?" Andrea asked. "Won't they be upset with her traveling so much?"
"No way," Denise said. "She's been harping on Dad to promote her for ages."
"Denise is right," Ian agreed. "Pam's a real career woman. And she loves to travel."
Harry joined them then; all traces of his earlier ill humor were gone.
"Tell your dad about the relay race yesterday," he said to Denise.
"Well, Miss O'Connor had all of us practice passing the baton all week, so we were ready." Denise's shoulders leveled proudly. "She had me running the first leg of the race. I'm not quick, but I have staying power. Right?" Denise directed her question at Andrea.
"You bet," Andrea agreed.
"Are you kidding me?" Harry commented. "You flew around that track."
"I was scared to death that the other runners would pass me." Denise laughed.
Harry looked at them all, his face animated. "And I've never seen a smoother baton handoff. All those kids did a great job yesterday." He eyed Andrea. "You're a good coach."
"Hear, hear!" Ian added, lifting his can of soda to his lips.
"Thanks," Andrea murmured.
"And that girl who won the high jump..." Harry snapped his fingers in the air, trying to recall the name.
"Sara." Denise and Andrea offered it in unison.
"That's the one." Harry's craggy face took on a youthful glow. "That's a rare technique she uses, lifting her pelvis at the height of her jump. I don't know how she does it."
"You know, I've studied her jumping style every day and I can't figure it out, either." Andrea grinned. "Sara doesn't even realize she's doing it."
"If you could figure out how she maneuvers her body that way," Harry said, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, "you could get the other jumpers to try it, too."
Andrea inhaled deeply, brushing her fingers through her hair as an idea hit her.
"Would you consider coming to track practice this week, so we can watch Sara together? Maybe between the two of us, we can figure
out what she's doing."
A strained hush fell over the table, and Andrea had an instant to regret her request. She could see Denise out of the corner of her eye, sitting frozen, waiting. Andrea wondered what Ian must be thinking.
Harry wore a closed expression. But slowly color filled his face, and Andrea could see his anger quickly building.
She suddenly wished she hadn't said anything and wondered what she could say to make things right.
"I'll understand if..." she began.
Harry's open palm crashing down on the table top silenced her.
"When will people learn that I don't want or need their pity!"
Without waiting for a reply, he wheeled himself inside.
Chapter Seven
"Pops!" Denise fled from the table and disappeared into the house.
Andrea stared at the empty doorway, horror-stricken that she'd offended Harry. She hadn't meant to intrude, but she'd been so sure he could really help her students.
When Ian's warm hand enveloped hers, she turned toward him.
"I'm sorry about this," he said. "I'm going to go talk to him. I'll only be a minute."
Ian rose, but Andrea clasped his hand in both of her own.
"Wait," she pleaded. "I think I know what's wrong."
Ian lowered himself back into his chair, an inquiring look in his eyes.
Holding on to Ian's hand comforted her and made the telling easier.
"It all started yesterday," she explained. "During the track meet, I asked Harry if he'd consider coming to practice to coach the kids." She searched Ian's face for signs of disapproval, but saw none. "He knows so much about running. He shouldn't let all his knowledge go to waste."
She hoped Ian understood her motives. Her reasons for asking Harry hadn't been selfish. Sure, her runners would benefit from Harry's influence, but she was sure Harry would gain from the experience, too.
Andrea knew there was no way she could give Harry the ability to run, but if she could get him involved in the sport again, even in a small way, she could help him to see that his life was far from over.
She probed Ian's expression. Did he understand?
Taking Love in Stride Page 8