by Donna Fasano
"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 7
"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?
His features were somber, pensive.
"I must be blind," he finally said.
Andrea's brow knit with confusion, and Ian sighed heavily before explaining.
"The first time I met you, you told me that my relationship with my daughter wasn't all it could be. And you were right." He looked away a moment, as though gathering the courage to speak. "And now you're telling me that my father isn't happy."
His eyes returned to hers, his gaze fervent and heavy.
"And again I see that you're correct in your observation. My father isn't content with his life, I see that now. But how is it that I've lived in the same house with Denise and my father and I haven't recognized their needs?"
Andrea's heart twisted at the look of self-reproach on Ian's face. From the very first, she'd wanted to make him see his shortcomings as a father. But she was sure that it had had more to do with her relationship with Robert, her own father, rather than Ian's relationship with Denise. Somehow she'd thought that pointing out Ian's fatherly flaws would purge herself of her own agonizing memories. But she was wrong.
She was filled with misery at the thought of having induced Ian to feel guilty. What had she been thinking? Had she meant to hurt him?
Weeks ago, she would have answered yes to that question. But she knew him now. She knew that he loved Denise, that he'd never meant to harm or disappoint his daughter. And Harry's plight had nothing whatsoever to do with Ian. Andrea felt compelled to tell him so.
Releasing his hand only long enough to slide her chair closer to him, she once again entwined her fingers with his. "Ian, Harry's problem is just that— Harry's." She rushed to clarify her statement as a frown creased Ian's forehead. "What I mean is, it's wonderful that you want to help your father. But until he wants our help, no one can do a blessed thing."
Ian's expression was closed. Andrea wished she knew what he was thinking.
Finally, he slipped his hand from her grasp.
"You're probably right," he said, rising. "But I should still go talk to him."
"Ian."
He stopped and looked down at her.
"I'm the one who upset him in the first place," she said. "He thinks I feel sorry for him. The best person to tell him I don't—" she pushed her chair back from the table "—is me." She lifted her gaze to Ian's. "Do you mind if I talk to him first?" she asked.
Ian silently nodded, and Andrea went into the house.
Following Denise's voice, she found the teenager standing in the hallway on the first floor, pleading with her grandfather through a closed door.
When Denise saw Andrea approaching, she met her halfway down the hall.
"I've never seen him so shook up," Denise said. "I can't get him to let me in."
"Well—" Andrea gave Denise's shoulder a gentle squeeze "—would you go outside with your dad and let me give it a try?"
"Sure," Denise said, nodding.
Andrea waited until Denise had turned the corner before she knocked on Harry's door.
"Harry, it's Andrea," she called. "I'd like to talk to you."
Pressing her ear against the door, all she heard was silence.
She knocked again. "I won't go away, Harry. And I'm just as stubborn as you are, so you might as well open up."
His mumbling could be heard as he turned the lock on the door and let it swing open.
"Can't a man have any privacy?" he grumbled, as he turned his wheelchair back around, gliding toward the center of the room.
His back was to her as she entered, and she took the time to let her eyes rove around the room.
Her breath caught at the sight of all the framed awards and ribbons that were hung on the walls. Two large wooden shelves were filled to overflowing with trophies, small silver and pewter plates and ceramic mugs, all
engraved with Harry's name.
When Harry faced her, he offered her the trophy that had been resting in his lap.
"I won this at the first Wilmington Challenge," he said. "It's the trophy I'm proudest of winning."
She cradled the trophy, a miniature runner bolted to a wooden base, the very one Denise had depicted in her painting. Andrea looked it up and down, her mind racing with what she should say, how she should apologize.
"Harry," she began, "I'm sorry about what happened out there."
Harry made an indignant "humph," his shoulders jerking upward. "I've gotten used to it."
A spark of anger leapt inside her. Harry was so cocksure of her motives.
"Used to what?" she challenged.
"The sympathy I see on people's faces. The pity in their words."
"Harry," Andrea said dryly, "you didn't ever see sympathy in my face or hear pity in my voice."
His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, but Andrea dared him to dispute with a lift of her eyebrows.
As her gaze dipped to Harry's lifeless legs and then lifted again to take in the frustration defined on his face, she wondered how deep-rooted his problem really was and why he hadn't sought help before.
Her quipping remark seemed to relax him, and she continued. "Look at all this," she said, sweeping out her arm in a grand gesture to indicate the room full of awards. "Who in his right mind could feel sympathy for a man who's had such a wonderful life up to this point?" She tucked the small trophy in both hands as though she were holding a precious relic.
"You asked me to help coach the track team," he accused.
"I did," she agreed with a nod. "Harry, you have more knowledge of the sport in your little finger than most people could learn in a lifetime."
He looked away, flushing almost sheepishly. "But I thought you were feeling sorry for a crippled old man."
"Harry," Andrea said, her tone somber as she eased herself down on the edge of the bed, "just because you're handicapped doesn't mean people are feeling sorry for you." She tilted her head. "Granted, some will. But I think the majority of people today have learned that a physical disability doesn't diminish a person's mental capabilities." Looking him square in the eyes, she asked, "Why haven't you ever talked about your feelings with anyone?"
He looked astounded, as though her question was a bolt from the blue. "But—" He shook his head. "Who?"
"How about Ian?" she suggested. "Your son loves you very much, you know."
"Ian works sixteen hour days most of the time." He frowned. "He's too busy building up his business to be burdened with my problems."
Andrea just looked at him. "How do you think Ian would feel about what you've just said?" she asked. "He cares about you, and you know he'd be upset to hear how you feel."
Harry averted his gaze.
"Even if you didn't want to talk to Ian, the phone book must list pages and pages of counselors trained to help."
"There's nothing wrong with me," he insisted. "Nothing that being a contributing member of society wouldn't cure." His chin lifted a fraction. "I need to feel useful."
"Useful?" Her incredulity burst forth like a sprinter out of the starting blocks. "From what I've heard, you've helped raise Ian's daughter for quite some time now. You've taken care of the brunt of his family concerns and his home while he's been making a name for himself. Wouldn't you call that being useful?"
Harry shrugged and nodded vaguely.
"Besides," she said wryly, "I'm giving you a chance to be useful with my request for your help."
Harry shook his head. "I'd like to, but I just couldn't do it."
"Sure, you could."
"I couldn't do it!" His lips thinned with determination.
"Why not?" Andrea knew she was pushing, but she needed to know.
"You saw what happened to that girl out there on the track yesterday, the hurdler who fell." Harry planted his fist on the arm of his chair. "What if I'd been coaching her? What could I have done?"
"You would have done exactly as I did," Andrea said, "dusted off her pride and sent her to finish the race."
Harry studied her face. "You make it sound so easy."
"And it would be," she stated emphatically.
He shook his head.
"Harry, you wouldn't ever be alone," she argued. "I'll be there, the kids will be there."
Again he shook his head, unmoved.
Now she knew from whom Ian inherited his bullheadedness. She thought a moment and decided to use another tack.
"Harry, you have Ian training to run for a half marathon. It's not something he would have ever attempted on his own. He's not doing it for himself, he's doing this for you. Because he loves you."
She looked at the old man, whose eyes were now downcast.
"And Denise. I'm sure she'd love to spend all her time painting, but she's training because it makes you happy. Because she, too, loves you very much."
Setting the trophy on the dresser by the door, Andrea took a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what she knew needed to be said.
"Your family is giving you a lot, Harry. Don't you think it's time you gave a little?"
He inhaled sharply at her question but stayed silent. His face was unreadable. Andrea couldn't tell if he was feeling hurt or angry. She hadn't meant to hurt him, she only wanted to make him think. Andrea hoped her little nudge would push him far enough to make a decision, a decision that might change the rest of his life.
His expression remained masked, and Andrea realized that she'd done all she could. The next step was up to him. She stood up and left him to weigh her words.
"Thanks for dinner, Ian. I had a great time."
As soon as Ian's car slowed to a stop at the curb in front of her house, Andrea opened the door and stepped out.
"Wait a second," Ian called, turning off the car's engine and getting out himself.
The spring air had turned chilly, and the sky was overcast. The moon glowed eerily through smoky clouds. Andrea crossed her arms and hugged herself as she waited for him.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said, grasping her arm and pulling her up the walkway.
"If it's about Harry, I told you, I apologized."
"It's not about Harry," he said.
"It's your schedule, isn't it?" She eyed him critically. "You're not going to complain that it's too hard again?"
"No, no." He waved his hand in the air. "It's not that, either."
She stopped on the front step. "Then what?"
"Let's get inside," he suggested. "You need a sweater."
Andrea turned the key in the lock and was greeted by Gunther's welcoming barks. She flipped on a couple of lights and picked up a sweatshirt that was lying on a chair in the living room.
Pushing her arms and head into the shirt, she asked, "So, what's up?"
"Well..." Ian sat on the couch and began rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other.
"This must be personal," she said, sitting in the chair opposite him. "Is it Denise?"
"No!"
"Well, what, then?"
"It's us," he blurted out. "I want you to have dinner with me."
Andrea's eyes narrowed. "Ian, I've told you—"
"I know what you've told me and I know your reasons. Just hear me out for a minute." He stood and paced the room.
Andrea was alert and wary as she watched him parade back and forth in front of her. She'd done everything in her power to avoid a personal relationship with Ian up to this point. She'd completely suppressed her physical reactions to him. She'd spelled out exactly how she felt about their becoming involved. Why, then, was he pursuing the matter?
He stopped directly in front of her and stared down at her a long moment.
"I know you've said that I'm not the kind of man you want to become involved with. And I have to agree that when I first met you, I had some problems with Denise." He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. "But I've taken steps to change that.
I'd hoped that you would see that."
"And I have," Andrea assured him softly, but she kept her tone unemotional.
"But it hasn't changed your mind about me?"
"Ian..." Her voice trailed off. Wanting to keep the promise she'd made to herself about becoming involved with Ian, she refused to admit to the desire she felt for him.
An intense silence stood between them.
"You do something to me, Andrea," was all he said.
Finally Andrea gave in to the nervous laughter that gathered in her throat, and she said, "That's a good line, Ian."
"Andrea." Anger flashed in his eyes and he dragged her to her feet.
His touch was like a jolt of electricity, a living current that paralyzed her.
"I don't believe you're as cool as you pretend to be." His eyes raked her features up and down with excruciating slowness. "I see your body's reaction to me and it's just as strong as mine is to you."
Andrea drew her gaze away from him, and mumbled, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a liar!"
She twisted out of his grasp and glared at him.
"Look, Ian. I never led you to believe that there would ever be any more to this than a straight business deal." She flung the words at him. "You knew from the first that I wanted something from you and you wanted something from me. Straight and simple."
Ian inhaled deeply and the anger seemed to drain from him as he expelled the breath. He rubbed his hand back and forth across his jaw, then let his hand drop to his side as he asked, "Could it be that what we wanted from each other has changed?" He gently placed his fingers against her lips. "Don't answer that now," he said. "Just think about it."
When he was gone, she lowered herself into the chair, rested her head against its cushion and stared off into space.
~*~
Andrea entered the school auditorium and took a seat in the last row, near the door. The room was filling with parents, students, teachers and administrators. This was the last home-school meeting of the year, and tonight's topic was the budget.
"Good evening, Miss O'Connor." Ian slid past her and sat down in the seat next to her.
Andrea couldn't suppress the smile that his formal greeting brought to her lips. It had been three days since he had tried to barricade her into an emotional corner. Their daily runs had gone on as usual, their stretching routine lasting longer each day as their conversations became more prolonged. But even though she had refused to comment on his asking her out, he continued to be excessively gallant and charming. She knew his winsome behavior was his way of getting close to her, of getting her to see he was harmless.
