by Alyssa Kress
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Eighteen, nineteen, twenty." Erica counted over the figure of Mrs. Wilson, a well-maintained woman in her mid-fifties who, at the moment, was lying on her back in the weight machine, lifting ten pounds over her head. In the hope of gaining as a client Mrs. Wilson—and her nine exercise-minded friends—Erica had rented use of this gym on Main Street for the afternoon. Fortunately, she'd managed to schedule three other prospective clients before Mrs. Wilson.
In a row. Otherwise she'd be obliged to pay for an extra hour. Erica wouldn't get even a five-minute break, but it would be worth it if she could build up her practice.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two," Erica counted, watching Mrs. Wilson's form. It was impossible to miss the designer label blazoned on her tank top. Erica was pretty sure Mrs. Wilson's bright purple leggings alone cost as much as the two-hour rental of the gym.
"Twenty-five and done," Erica declared.
Mrs. Wilson looked winded and displeased as she rose to a sitting position.
"You did really well," Erica offered. "Now I'd like to move on to your upper abs. We'll go to the mats for crunches."
Mrs. Wilson brushed a lock of expertly dyed blond hair out of her eyes. "Shadawn always had me do squats next."
Shadawn again. It was the fourth time Erica's prospective client had mentioned her previous physical trainer in the last quarter hour. This woman had apparently been a paragon, perfect except for the unforgivable flaw of moving away to Philadelphia three months ago with her new husband.
"If you'd prefer to do squats next, that's fine with me," Erica claimed. She told herself she was catering to a client's wishes, but she suspected she was acting like a pushover. Part of her job was to take charge.
"No, we can do crunches." Mrs. Wilson shrugged. Whatever enthusiasm she'd had at the beginning of the session was quickly ebbing.
This was Erica's fault. She should have kept control and provided structure. Now her client was feeling rudderless.
"Crunches it is." Trying to repair the damage, Erica added some incentive. "That upper ab strength assists in all kinds of everyday motions and helps define your figure."
On the pale blue mat, Erica's disgruntled client settled herself on her back and raised her knees.
"Ready, go." Erica knelt next to her and counted each time Mrs. Wilson rolled her elbows toward her knees. "Good, good. Try to relax your neck."
"That's impossible," Mrs. Wilson huffed as she continued the sit-ups. "Shadawn never told me that."
Erica bit her tongue. "There are different methods."
Mrs. Wilson grunted.
The session was getting away from Erica. Of course, the one time Erica was really on the line to do a good job and impress the client was the one time she crashed and burned. She'd had six other first-time sessions with prospective clients in the last week. All six had signed up for bi-weekly sessions. Under normal circumstances, Erica would have found such data cause for celebration. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was a start.
But circumstances were not normal. Judge Devon was expecting her to have a full-fledged business by next week. If Erica could win over the difficult Mrs. Wilson, she'd gain Mrs. Wilson's nine lady friends—Mrs. Wilson had already told Erica they all wanted individual sessions along with the group time.
"Forty and done," Erica told Mrs. Wilson, whose crunches were becoming observably more wobbly.
"Thank God," Mrs. Wilson said in a gravelly voice, sitting up. She set her forearms on her knees and wrinkled her nose while looking around. "This floor is— Is this the best place you could find?"
Erica regarded the expanse of new wood plank flooring. It looked good to her, as did the clerestory windows at the ceiling, which allowed indirect light and gave the whole place an airy feel.
But she swallowed her irritation and looked toward Mrs. Wilson with a smile. "I'm open to suggestions. Do you know some other place you'd prefer?"
Mrs. Wilson lifted her shoulders. "Anywhere."
A new surge of irritation had to be tamped down before Erica had the inspiration to ask, "Where did you meet Shadawn?"
Mrs. Wilson's eyes lit up. "She had her own gym. In her house. With a view of the valley."
Of course she had. Shadawn had been perfect. "Biceps are biceps no matter what the view. I'd like to see some work go into your arms."
"I hate arm exercises."
Clearly. Erica had noticed how underdeveloped Mrs. Wilson's arms were compared to her legs. It was a trainer's job to keep her clients balanced no matter their personal preferences. On the other hand, she did want Mrs. Wilson and her nine friends as clients. "We'll build up slowly."
Mrs. Wilson heaved a long sigh. "If you insist."
"You'll be happy later." Erica smiled at her as she rose to her feet.
Mrs. Wilson did not smile back. She pretty much scowled as Erica handed her the weights from her rolling gym backpack.
Something. Erica had to do something that would impress or please the difficult and wealthy Mrs. Wilson. And then she had to think of a way to get about thirty more clients through the door.
Would even that impress Judge Devon? Erica had no idea. If she had as many clients here as she'd earned at the height of her career in Los Angeles, she probably wouldn't impress Judge Devon. To be truthful, there'd never been a "height" in her career. She'd only ever barely scraped by. Never had she been able to gather together enough cash to expand her business.
She certainly didn't own two profitable sporting goods stores. This was the kind of financial stability the judge was looking for, what she would deem adequate.
A tight sensation began to climb Erica's throat even as she began counting for Mrs. Wilson to lift the weights. Maybe she should have surrendered, not been so full of pride. For Liam and to do the right thing, maybe she should have accepted Brennan's pitying marriage proposal.
"Elbows in," Erica cautioned Mrs. Wilson.
"Okay, okay."
Erica breathed along with Mrs. Wilson, forcing down her anxiety. They managed to finish out the session without too much more grumbling and not even one more mention of the great Shadawn.
As Mrs. Wilson was reaching for her designer jacket, Erica asked. "Same time next week?"
The older woman didn't meet Erica's eyes. "I'll let you know." She handed Erica a check for the session and marched out the double door to the street.
Quickly, Erica gathered the weights and the other equipment of her own that she'd brought. Her head ached and her throat felt uncomfortably tight.
But she would not cry. She would not submit to that ultimate humiliation.
Besides, Mrs. Wilson might call. She and her nine friends.
Erica was not yet proven to be a complete failure.
