by Donna Fasano
So, she thought, he wants to run in the race for his father. The fleeting sense of admiration she felt toward Ian and his noble gesture quickly vanished as she remembered the type of man he was. She might not know him well, but she knew his kind.
He was a dominating businessman, completely immersed in his work, just like her father had been. His wheeling and dealing overrode everything else in his life, even his family's welfare. Somewhere in her reproachful musings, memories of her own father's morbid drive to succeed became mixed with her thoughts of Ian until, finally, she couldn't discern one from the other. All she knew was that this man didn't have it in him to commit himself to anything other than his business.
"Andrea? Andrea, have you been listening to me?"
Ian's voice pulled her back to the present. She took a deep breath and focused on his face.
"Yes, I've been listening."
"Well, what do you say? You'll help me, right?"
"No," she said bluntly. "I can't." She saw his eyes fill with disappointment.
"But, why?" He paused. Then his face lit with a new idea. "Of course, I'll pay you for your time," he offered.
Andrea barely contained a snort of contempt. "I'm not interested in your money. I can't help you."
"You can't?" His friendly manner disappeared as his eyes narrowed scathingly. "Or you won't?"
"It doesn't matter which."
Why was this woman constantly bent on thwarting him? Ian wondered. Yesterday she refused to put Denise back on the track team, and here she was today rejecting a chance to help him do something good, something that would make his father very happy. Granted, she'd been right to take his daughter off the team. But why was she turning him down? This made no sense.
"You're still angry, aren't you?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"You won't help me train—" his voice became louder as his temper heated "—because I went to see Mr. Scott yesterday rather than coming directly to you. I explained my reasons for doing that. Why can't you try to understand?"
Andrea stood. "You're the one who doesn't understand. I am not angry about yesterday. That's not why I won't help you."
"There! You admitted it yourself." He shot up from the chair. "It's not that you can't, it's that you won't. I want to know why."
They glared across the desk at each other, neither willing to back down an inch.
Reprehension built inside Andrea, hot and strong, as she thought about everything she disapproved of in this man. The fear he evoked in his daughter. His absences while on business that left Denise virtually parentless. His ignorance about Denise's talents and desires. The way he barged into the school yesterday. Even his inability to find his way around the school building when any idiot could have figured out the principal’s office was always located near the main entrance. And now his arrogant demand that she drop everything to prepare him for a run that he would never have the willpower or the discipline to even train for, let alone finish. All of these tidbits added together could only equal one thing—that Ian's character mirrored her own father's. And that realization filled her with criticism.
"You want the truth?" she challenged.
His expectant silence urged her to continue.
"You don't have what it takes."
She anticipated his affronted anger and was confused by the droll smile that ever so slowly curled the corners of his mouth.
"And how have you come to that conclusion?" he asked.
"Let's just say you remind me of someone I knew."
His smile broadened. "That's a dangerous practice, comparing one person to another. Especially when one is a virtual stranger."
"Nevertheless," she said, "I think it's perfectly natural to use past experiences when planning present actions. And your resemblance to this person from my past leads me to believe that helping you to train would be a waste of my time and effort. Yours, too."
His short bark of laughter wasn't because he was amused, and Andrea could see the tension building in him.
"You're so damned self-righteous," he said. "This person I remind you of wouldn't happen to be this Robert that you mentioned yesterday, would it? The traveling businessman that you spoke of with such disdain? Who was he anyway? An ex-boyfriend? A lover?"
"It doesn't matter!"
"Oh, yes, it does! It does when you use your memories of this guy to refuse to have anything to do with me."
Andrea hadn't realized it, but they had both leaned against the desktop until their faces were only inches apart, their gazes glaring.
She straightened, crossed her arms and took a deep breath.
"Robert was my father," she said matter-of-factly. "And he treated me the same way you've treated Denise. He flitted in and out of my life. Home long enough to decide what friends I should have, what schools I should attend, but never long enough to see if I was happy or if any of his plans came to fruition. And nothing, absolutely nothing, stood in the way of his never-ending search for fame and fortune, which came in the guise of that one grand-but-always-elusive business deal."
She saw Ian frown and her voice fell into a flat monotone as she continued, "And you, Ian Powers, are just like him. You can say you love your family all you want, you can make them all kinds of promises, promises you think you'll keep, but when that phone rings and that irresistible transaction is dangled in front of your face, you're going to be out of here. History. On the next plane to Seattle or Hong Kong or wherever."
Ian's frown deepened and he slowly nodded his head. "You've summed me up quite well, haven't you?" Then he added, "Especially for only having spent a total of twenty minutes with me yesterday."
"I think I have."
"Since you have me summed up so neat and tidy, I guess I'd be wasting my breath telling you that you're wrong. Granted, you did point out some weaknesses in my relationship with Denise. And I'm taking steps to correct them. I've arranged my schedule so that I can—"
"Look," Andrea interrupted, "nothing you can say is going to make me change my mind. I don't believe you could commit yourself to train for that run. And, even if you could, there's not enough time. Normal training for a half marathon would take six months, maybe longer. The Wilmington Challenge is in four. You'd need a tremendous amount of determination to train for a half marathon in that short a period of time."
"This is important to me," he stressed. "I can do this...."
But his voice died when he saw the clear finality in the quick shake of her head.
A knock on the door made them both turn toward it. Without waiting for a summons, Mr. Scott poked his head into the office.
"Miss O'Connor, do you realize that there are unsupervised teens out on the track?"
"Yes, and I'm on my way," she said.
"It is not your job to be on your way," Mr. Scott pompously pointed out. "It's your job to be out there."
Andrea snatched up her clipboard and stopwatch. "I understand that, and I'm—"
"This is my fault," Ian said, pulling the door open wide so the principal could see him.
"Well, Mr. Powers, hello." Mr. Scott's tone changed so abruptly, Andrea rolled her eyes heavenward. "If you were having a problem," he said, "you should have come directly to me."
"As a matter of fact, I would like to speak to you if you have a moment." Ian stepped out into the hall, guiding Mr. Scott along with him. He closed the door, leaving Andrea alone in her office without so much as a farewell.
On her way out to the track, Andrea sucked air into her lungs and exhaled with force. "Ian Powers," she muttered, "you are bound and determined to get me fired."
Later that same evening, Andrea stood in front of her closet, so angry she could barely breathe. She kicked off her royal-blue pumps and reached down to snatch them up.
"The man is infuriating!" She flung one shoe into the bottom of the closet, where it collided with several other neatly ordered pairs. The other shoe followed, its impact scattering shoes everywhere.
&
nbsp; Gunther whimpered, and tucking his tail between his legs, slunk out of the bedroom.
"How could that man think he could force me to do this?" Reaching around behind her, she struggled with the zipper of her yellow-and-blue striped shirt dress. "I won't do it! Ohhhh," she moaned when the zipper became stuck. "Damn you, Ian Powers!"
She yanked hard and was rewarded with the sound of ripping material. "Damn! Now look what he's made me do."
She pulled the dress off and sat on the edge of the bed to examine the small tear in the brightly colored fabric. Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes and let the aggravating scene play through her head. Mr. Scott might have been the one doing the urging, but Andrea knew without a doubt that Ian Powers was the instigator.
Having showered and changed after track practice, Andrea had stayed at school to grade several sets of written tests. Mr. Scott's visit to her office had surprised her; he usually summoned teachers to his private domain if he wished to speak to them.
"I think I've found a way to provide that new track equipment you've been wanting," Mr. Scott had said.
"You have?" Andrea had been stunned. But, looking back on it, she should have been suspicious at the offer. Mr. Scott had never been a willing participant in a discussion about the much-needed equipment.
Andrea had dropped her red pen on top of the pile of test papers, her eyes narrowing. "You're not going to suggest that the kids raise that kind of money on their own, are you?"
"No. No, nothing like that," he'd assured. "This is a great idea. And not much work for you, either."
Andrea had looked at him, unable to restrain the dubious expression that crossed her face. Watching the principal strut toward her desk, she'd thought that all he needed to do was tuck his thumbs behind his polka-dot suspenders to complete the look of utter pomposity.
"I do have to admit that I didn't come up with the idea all on my own. As you know, Ian Powers asked to speak with me this afternoon. Well, Ian—" Mr. Scott had looked down his nose at Andrea "—he invited me to call him Ian. Well, he told me he'd like to make a gift to the school. Something that the physical-education department might need."
Andrea had known immediately where the conversation was leading. She'd felt her shoulder muscles tighten and she'd pressed her lips together as the first stirrings of anger had surged through her.
"I told Ian of your desire to have some new equipment," Mr. Scott had continued, "but there's one little catch."
"Oh?" She'd raised one eyebrow, the only indication of her fury.
"Yes." Mr. Scott had looked uneasy, then he'd cleared his throat. "He would like to take just a little of your time to train for some race he wants to compete in."
She should have known! Ian Powers had once again gone over her head to get what he wanted. Andrea had become uncontrollably livid. She'd stood so quickly that her chair had tipped backward and rammed against the wall.
"Did he happen to mention that I already refused to train him?" She'd stared, unperturbed, at Mr. Scott's astonishment.
"Umm...w-well..." he'd stammered.
"I told him that there wasn't enough time—"
"He told me," Mr. Scott broke in, "that you were being unreasonable. He told me you were angry that he'd tried to force you to put Denise back on the track team."
Andrea had glared at him. "No matter how generous Ian's offer is, it couldn't possibly cover the cost of the equipment I need."
"It's a very generous offer," Mr. Scott had informed her.
She'd ground her teeth and inhaled slowly, trying to regain her control.
"Look," the principal had said, his voice taking on an irritating quality of appeasement, "if you'll take the initiative to raise some of the needed funds on your own, then I'll see if I can get the school board to allocate your department something from the budget."
But when he'd witnessed the stubborn set of her jaw, Mr. Scott had raised his mulish chin to regal heights and stared down his nose at her. "You know that this school has been in need of new equipment for some time now," he'd stated, daring her to dispute. "And the means to get it is within your grasp. Ian Powers isn't asking for anything more than your time and expertise. I'm sure that you'll agree that it's your duty to this school and to your students to overcome any petty grudge you might be holding against this fine man. It's in your students' best interest that you do."
He'd then stomped out the door, leaving Andrea fuming.
Gunther's whine from somewhere beyond her bedroom brought her back to the present. Andrea threw the torn dress on the bed and called the dog to her.
"I'm sorry I scared you," she crooned, smoothing the shepherd's soft brown coat. "It's just that I'm so mad at that man. He's infuriating!"
Gunther barked.
"I'm glad you agree." She smiled and patted his head. "What say we go out for a run? Maybe that will take my mind off all this."
Gunther barked twice in quick succession and ran for the door.
"Well, wait a minute, you big lug." Andrea laughed at the dog's exuberance. "I need to change. I can't run around town in my slip!"
~*~
The Wilmington skyline was silhouetted by a rosy haze as dusk enveloped the city. The evening breeze cooled Andrea's damp skin, and a quiet euphoria calmed her spirit. With Gunther close at her heels, she barely felt the pavement under her feet. She breathed deep and even, letting the sensation of "runner's high" wash over her.
All of the day's stress completely disappeared; her troubling thoughts melted away. Even though every muscle in her body was working to the limit, Andrea experienced a keen sense of relaxation. This was why she ran—this feeling of nirvana that few people ever experienced.
Turning onto Delaware Avenue, Andrea glanced at her watch and was surprised to see she'd been out for more than ninety minutes. She broke her stride to reach down and ruffle Gunther's fur.
"One more block, fella, and then we'll head for home."
They crossed the street and Andrea stopped short. Halfway up the block she saw Ian helping a statuesque brunette out of a car. The couple stood for a moment of conversation, and Andrea saw Ian's face light with laughter. All that could be seen of his date were voluptuous curves and a cascade of dark hair, but Andrea knew by the admiration she read on Ian's face that the woman must be beautiful.
Andrea watched them enter a restaurant and suddenly all the tension and irritation that she'd worked so hard to exorcise from her mind came flooding back to knot in her chest. She trotted on, passing the doors through which Ian and his date had disappeared.
"Who does he think he is?" she muttered. He was so damned smug. He knew she couldn't refuse to help him train if he offered the school that equipment. He was forcing her to help him.
When she reached the end of the block, she didn't turn toward home as she had promised Gunther. Instead, she turned right. And at the next corner she turned right again, circling the block of the restaurant where Ian was dining.
"I won't do it!" she said aloud. A man standing at the bus stop cast her a sidelong glance and she felt her cheeks flush.
But reality focused slowly, becoming crisper, more clear with each bouncing step. Her students needed that equipment. The equipment they had been forced to use was plain worn out, and Mr. Scott had no intention of purchasing new equipment. He'd stated that over and over.
She circled the block again. Damn it! She had to get that equipment for her students, her kids. And it looked as though training Ian Powers for the half marathon was the only way she was going to get it.
So, she decided, you have to give in. Her ire raged inside her. But there was nothing that said she had to give in graciously! The thought made her smirk.
She picked up her pace, racing around the corner and up the steps to the entrance to the restaurant.
"Sit. Stay," she ordered Gunther over her shoulder. The shepherd sat back on his haunches and watched his mistress enter the building.
Andrea brushed past the protesting maître d' and stopped i
nside the crowded room only long enough to scan the throng of people. Spotting Ian immediately, she marched toward the table where he sat with the gorgeous, raven-haired woman.
"So," Andrea announced, "you've gone over my head once again."
Ian jerked around to face her.
"Andrea!"
The astonishment contorting his features generated an immense satisfaction in Andrea.
She raised her eyebrows mockingly. "Don't twist my arm too far, though. It might break."
Ian bent to whisper something in his date's ear. Andrea's eyes traveled over the woman's cover-girl face, contoured cheeks, lushly mascaraed lashes, creamy red lips and she realized for the first time what she must look like—wilted running clothes, flat, damp hair, and lots of sweat-soaked skin.
Ian stood. "Let's go to the lobby and talk about this. It's really not like you think."
His placating tone and barely concealed smile struck a match to her embers of anger. Was he laughing at her?
"It's exactly like I think. And we don't need to go anywhere."
A number of patrons stopped eating and watched the scene with interest.
"Sir, should I escort the lady out?" The maître d' had come up behind Andrea.
"I'll handle it," Ian said over her shoulder.
Andrea pointedly ignored everyone but Ian.
"You want a coach, you've got a coach." She plucked the forgotten highball glass out of his hand. "But no more alcohol." She snatched up the pack of cigarettes sitting on the table and crumpled it in her fist before sticking it, open end first, into the glass. "And no more smoking. If you want to run, you’ve got to be able to breathe." Then she picked up the small plate of fancy puff pastry canapés that had been sitting on the table, the luscious scent of bacon and chives wafting past her nose. "And no more junk food." She tipped the plate into the amber liquid in the glass. One of the appetizers plunked into the liquor while the other two bounced off the cigarette pack onto the tablecloth. "Order lean protein. Grilled. And plenty of fresh vegetables. No dessert." The glass and the empty plate thumped against the table when she set them down. "I'll see you at the school in the morning. Six o'clock. Sharp."
