by Donna Fasano
"You don't want an old man's opinion."
"You're not so old, and I certainly do," she said. "I'd like some advice."
"Well, remember that advice is free and you can take it or not," Harry stated dourly. "But I think you should line your sprinters up in the starting blocks and have two people string a line across the track about waist high and four yards in front of them. Have them practice starting with the idea of staying low enough to clear the line. Their momentum alone will take at least a full second off their best times."
Andrea noticed that as Harry let himself get caught up in talking about running, his face transformed. His narrowed eyes and glowering expression brightened considerably. And even though the look couldn't be called smiling, it was definitely more affable.
"You know, you should come to track practice after school and give the kids some pointers." Andrea could see that Harry loved the sport of running, but still she fought the impulse to step back in anticipation of the response her suggestion would bring.
An excited uproar from the crowd made Andrea turn her head toward the track just in time to see one of her hurdlers catch her knee on a metal hurdle and skid to the ground, grazing knees, palms and chin in the process.
Calling a hurried "Excuse me" to Denise and her grandfather, Andrea sprinted toward the injured runner. After discovering that, other than a few scratches, the girl's pride was what had been injured most, Andrea asked if she wanted to finish the race.
"But I'll take last place." The disheartened teen swiped at her eyes and sniffed loudly.
"Yes, but last place is better than no place," Andrea encouraged her. "And it's the best way to show them that you're not licked."
The girl smiled with trembling lips and trotted off down the lane, jumping the hurdles slowly, but perfectly. She finished amidst a flurry of applause from the stand of spectators.
Andrea didn't have a chance to think about Harry Powers again until she called Denise to get ready for the eight-eighty relay race. Denise was running the first leg, and Andrea wanted all four runners to take a quick practice at handing off the baton. They had performed the skill flawlessly at track practice yesterday, but Andrea knew more practice could only make them better.
"You really got to Pops when you told him he should come to practice," Denise said while they waited for the others to spread out across an open piece of ground.
Andrea pressed her lips together with remorse and nodded. "I know and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have opened my mouth like that."
"Don't be sorry." Denise grinned. "I've wanted to say those very things to him a hundred times, but I didn't have the guts."
"Well, it didn't help any if all it did was make him angry."
Denise shrugged. "He'll get over it. And maybe it'll make him think. I know he'd be happier if he were involved with running in some way."
"You're pretty smart, you know that?" Andrea asked, tugging on Denise's pony tail. "Now, let's see you hand off that baton as beautifully as you did yesterday."
The four runners' perfect timing in the delivery of the baton to one another during the relay race helped in their victory. The team took first place and pushed the Striders that much more ahead of the other team. The four girls were panting but exuberant with their win.
Andrea spent the next hour supervising field events: the long jumps, high jump and discus throw. Even though she was kept fully occupied, thoughts of Ian chiseled into her mind and she found herself glancing repeatedly toward the bleachers.
She hoped he would come. For Denise's sake, of course. Anxiety began to build inside her. An anxiety she hadn't felt since she was a teenager, hoping for, craving her father's presence at some function or other.
What are you doing? she asked herself. How could she be so gullible? Ian wasn't going to show up. Just like her father had never shown up. Ian was who he was, a business man with a one-track mind, and she couldn't change that.
It made her furious to think that Ian could stir those painful memories that she'd buried deep. She couldn't believe she was looking for him. But still she kept glancing toward the gate.
The mile run, the last event of the day, was getting closer. Andrea could see Denise becoming more agitated by the minute. She once again walked up to the parking lot looking for her father. Andrea was becoming more and more angry with Ian. How could a parent do this to his child?
"Ian shouldn't have promised her he'd come," Andrea told Harry as she watched Denise go out through the gate and jog up the grassy slope toward the lot.
"It must have been something important to keep him away," Harry said.
"I guess you're right." But Andrea's voice held an edge. She'd made the statement only to be polite. Inside she fumed, remembering the hundreds of times that very excuse was given to her by well-meaning people as a justification for her own father's absence.
Andrea knew those excuses, even though born out of the best intentions, wouldn't help Denise. Just like they had never helped her. Denise needed to clear her mind and concentrate entirely on running her race. Andrea knew that was the only way the girl would get over feeling dejected.
"Denise," Andrea called, meeting the sullen teenager halfway from the parking lot.
"He's not coming."
"Look, you've got to forget about that right now," Andrea stressed. "It's time for you to run your mile. Are you up for it?"
Denise nodded solemnly.
They hustled back to the track as the runners were called to take their marks.
"I want you to focus on the track in front of you." Andrea squeezed her shoulder. "You can win this if you put your mind to it."
"I'll try," Denise said.
The gun went off and Andrea called, "Be tough!"
As the runners rounded the first lap of the race, some of them began to straggle behind the rest. Denise wasn't in the lead, but she was staying with the head pack and Andrea knew she was saving her strength for the final and toughest lap.
Three of the competitors dropped out during the third lap and as the remaining runners went into the fourth, Andrea watched as Denise lengthened her stride. She passed into second place and in the last quarter lap, she passed the leader, crossing the finish line the winner.
Andrea heard the crowd yelling for her and realized that her voice was loudest of all. The Striders gathered around Denise, clapping her on the back and cheering. Harry Powers looked proud enough to cry, his craggy face lighting with a huge smile.
"You did it," Andrea hollered above the others' voices as she made her way through the press of bodies toward Denise.
"I can't believe it," Denise panted.
"I knew you could do it!"
"So did I!" Harry had wheeled himself beside his granddaughter.
"Pops!" Denise threw her arms around the old man. "Thanks for being here." Pulling back to look at him, she suddenly burst into tears before running off toward the locker room.
"What's with Denise?" The girl who had skinned her chin looked up at Andrea with curious eyes.
"She'll be all right," Harry proclaimed gruffly. "She's just overexcited." He turned his chair and started toward the parking lot.
"She'll be okay," Andrea assured the concerned team members. But she wondered if she was telling them the truth.
"Denise," Andrea called as she pushed open the locker-room door. She'd tried to plan what to say in the short time it took her to walk up to the building, but she was afraid that no words she could prepare would make Denise feel any better.
"I'm in here."
Andrea rounded the corner into the rest room and found Denise staring, red eyed, into the mirror. When Denise saw her coach, fresh tears fell down her cheeks.
"Why didn't he come?"
Silently, Andrea enfolded Denise in her arms and hugged her tight.
"If he loved me, he'd be here." Denise's voice was muffled against Andrea's shoulder.
Andrea sighed deeply, fighting tears of her own.
"I don't know why he di
dn't come," she said softly. "But I've spent the last four weeks getting to know your dad and I do know one thing—" Andrea tipped up Denise's chin so their eyes met "—he loves you, Denise. Very much."
After Denise calmed down, the two of them sat on the wooden bench in the locker room.
"It wasn't always like this," Denise explained. "We used to be a real family. We used to be so close." She blew her nose on a tissue. "But after Mom died, everything changed. Pops came to live with us, and all Dad did was work."
"Maybe your mother's death was hard on him and his work was cathartic."
"But it's been years. Years."
Having been there herself, Andrea knew there was no excuse good enough for a child in Denise's place, but for some unknown reason she had this overwhelming urge to try to explain Ian's behavior.
"I know, honey, but he's your father and he wants to give you everything he can, everything he thinks you need. So he has to work." Guilt, thick and heavy, washed over Andrea as the words left her mouth. She, too, felt Ian should have attended the meet today, and here she was giving Denise the very excuses she'd hated to hear as a child.
"But I need him."
"I know. I know." Andrea shook her head. "It's hard to be a single parent. It's almost impossible to be the provider and caretaker both at the same time." She ran a hand down Denise's silky ponytail. "That's why you have your grandfather."
"Yeah, Pops loves me."
"Denise," Andrea chided mildly, "your father loves you, too."
"I know that. But I get so disappointed, and then I feel angry and I know I shouldn't."
"I understand." Andrea's tone was consoling. "It's tough being a kid these days."
Denise sighed.
"That was a fantastic run," Andrea said. "It won the track meet for us."
Chuckling, Denise said, "I didn't know that. I must have done all right."
Dropping her hands to her lap, Andrea asked, "You okay now?"
Denise nodded and smiled. "Thanks for talking to me."
Andrea held the door open for Denise to pass. "Wait. I've wanted to ask how the painting is going."
Denise's expression brightened. "It's great. The studio is terrific. I'm painting Pops something special."
"I'd love to see it," Andrea said. "When it's finished, maybe you'll bring it in?"
"Sure."
As Andrea watched Denise walk to the special van that enabled her grandfather to drive, her mind was cluttered with a multitude of emotions. She felt sorry for Denise. She was aggravated by the reticence Harry showed when Denise had burst into tears. But most of all, she was angry with Ian.
He'd forced her to lie to Denise, and she planned to let him know exactly how she felt about that. She'd see him tomorrow morning. If he showed up.
~*~
Sunday afternoon Andrea found herself weeding the flower border in the backyard. She'd never been more depressed than she was today. She'd waited for Ian this morning and he never made an appearance. She had known he wouldn't. Why, then, was she so disappointed?
She chopped at the weeds with a vengeance. Gunther nuzzled her with his cold wet nose and dropped a slimy tennis ball beside her. She picked it up with gloved fingers and heaved it.
"Go get it, boy."
Gunther bounded after the ball, and Andrea turned back to mutilating the weeds.
After several well-aimed jabs at the unwanted plants, she sighed and sat back on heels. It was warm for May, and she swiped at her forehead with the back of one hand. She sighed again and remembered this morning's run.
She'd waited thirty minutes past the time she and Ian had arranged to meet before setting out without him. Despite the beautiful day and Gunther's company, it was the most desolate and lonely run she'd ever experienced.
Even now she felt covered with a cloud of isolation. She spent a great deal of time alone and never had she been bothered by solitude. In fact, she enjoyed it.
It wasn't until Gunther whined that she realized he'd brought his ball back and had dropped it into her lap to be thrown again. She tossed it and stood, removing her work gloves and dusting off her trousers.
She went into the kitchen and soaped her hands under warm water at the sink. She didn't feel angry at Ian any longer. She was just disappointed with him.
What was so important that would make Ian miss the track meet that he'd promised Denise he'd attend? Important enough for him to miss their scheduled run? Did he plan on continuing his training? If so, when?
The questions rolled around in Andrea's head until she thought she would scream. She wished he were here right now so she could vent some of her frustration at the source.
Drying her hands, she thought about how nice it would be to get a few answers to her questions. And slowly her anger returned.
Good, she thought, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She could deal much better with anger than she could with this hollow emptiness she'd been feeling. And she couldn't wait to see Ian!
At that moment, the front doorbell chimed.
Chapter 6
Andrea crossed through the living room, still clutching the tea towel she'd used to dry her hands, and pulled open the door.
Ian. His name rang loudly in her mind, but she was momentarily shocked speechless at the sight of him. She'd been thinking about him so intensely all weekend, she wondered if she'd conjured his image.
Immediately she was assaulted by his raw sensuality, the sensuality she had vowed to ignore. It was hard to shun something so powerful, so distinct. Especially when he looked so good standing there in his shorts and casual cotton pullover. But then he'd look good in anything, she thought. Or nothing.
That shocking reflection snapped her out of the intimate vision that had popped into her head, and she stared at an obviously amused Ian. It annoyed her that he seemed to constantly read her thoughts, perceive her longing.
It's your imagination, she scolded herself.
Placing one hand on her hip and one on the doorknob, she tilted her head and glared. The twinkling in his eyes vanished and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He pulled one arm from behind him and offered her a bundle of fresh-cut tulips.
"A peace offering," he said.
She silently took the flowers from him, fingering their delicate petals, but when she lifted her gaze, her eyes were still ice cold.
"Come on, Andrea. Let me come in. We need to talk."
"You wouldn't survive a conversation with me right now," she informed him before stepping back and flinging the door closed.
As she turned and headed for the kitchen, she heard Ian stop the door from shutting completely by sticking his foot in its path.
"Ow!" he yelled. He shoved the door open and was hot on her heels in an instant.
"What is it with you?" he asked, following her into the kitchen.
Andrea ignored him, reaching into the cabinet under the sink and pulling out a white milk-glass vase.
"Andrea." Ian crouched down beside her.
Andrea stood and flipped on the tap, filling the vase with water.
Ian heaved a sigh and lifted himself up from where he'd been squatting.
Using his index finger, he brushed at a strand of her hair that was clinging to her jaw.
"Talk to me," he coaxed.
Still refusing to acknowledge his presence, Andrea began to arrange the bright tulips in the hobnailed vase.
"There's no use in trying to hide it," he said silkily. "I know you're angry."
"Ian..." Falling for his teasing lure like a trout swallowing a baited hook, Andrea pushed his caressing hand away. "Angry doesn't even begin to describe the way I feel." She moved the vase of flowers over to the table, amazed at how steady her hands were when her insides were trembling so violently.
She was hit with a rush of emotion—from relief that Ian was back, to disappointment at his lack of commitment to the training; from sheer pleasure at seeing him, to fury that he'd expected a puny bouquet of flowers to exonerate him.
"I've come to explain—"
"Just save your explanation," Andrea interrupted. "Go bare your soul to your daughter, she's the one who needs to hear your excuses."
"I've apologized to Denise," he said quietly.
"And she's forgiven you?"
He nodded.
"Well, I'm not a gullible, sweet tempered sixteen-year-old."
"You can say that again." Ian's words were weighted with sarcasm.
Andrea glowered at him. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Ian shrugged and grinned. "That you're certainly not sweet-tempered today."
"How can you expect me to be?" Andrea pulled out a kitchen chair with force and sat down. "You committed yourself to train for the Wilmington Challenge. You literally forced me to coach you. And after four solid weeks of hard work, you just decide not to show up one day. An important day! A day we were scheduled to increase mileage."
"Andrea, I had to go—"
"What?" she interrupted again. "Did you get wind of a business you could buy for a song?"
"It was a little—"
"Some poor bankrupt store owner who had no other choice but to sell?" Her voice rose, and she felt herself losing control.
"If you'll let me explain." He pulled a chair close to her, sat down and took her hands in his.
Andrea wasn't aware of the tears that spilled down her cheeks as she dug into her memory, thinking of the hundred and one excuses her father had given her for his absences and failings. He'd never been there when she needed him. Never. And now Ian was doing the same thing.
"Andrea, I can't believe you're so upset." Ian's fingers slowly rubbed her wrist. "I didn't completely ignore my training. I ran this morning before I caught the plane home. I even added a mile."
She sniffed and then breathed deeply, feeling numb and barely hearing his words.
"Denise was so disappointed," she mumbled. "There were so many times that I felt the same way when I was her age." She shook her head. "Every time I expected my father to show up, he never did." She'd been gazing off, but now looked into his eyes. "Ian, you shouldn't do that to Denise. It hurts too much."
