by Donna Fasano
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 i
t 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.
But he wasn't harmless. Her reaction to him wasn't harmless. She instinctively knew that if she wanted to stay safe, she needed to steer clear of any personal involvement with Ian.
"I've never been to one of these meetings," Ian admitted. "What's going to be discussed?"
"Next year's budget, mostly," she said.
When Andrea saw Mr. Scott approach the microphone, she leaned toward Ian and whispered, "I'm hoping to get more—" Just then, the school's principal tapped on the mike and started his opening address.
"Good evening," he said. "I want to welcome you to Highland and thank you for coming tonight. I want to get right down to business and talk about the main reason that all of you are here—money." He gave a little chuckle. "I'm sure all of you are wondering how the school board has decided to spend your hard-earned dollars. I'd like for everyone to look at this handout." He stepped from behind the lectern and passed a stack of papers to the people in the front row. "So, if you'll please take one and pass the rest toward the back, we can get started."
Mr. Scott shuffled his notes on the lectern and cleared his throat. "As you can see, there have been a few changes in the proposed budget, the biggest of which is the monies that had been allocated to the physical education department will now be spent on computer software and re-landscaping of the school grounds."
Andrea couldn't hold in her astonished gasp.
"Miss O'Connor, would you please stand," Mr. Scott requested.
Heads turned in her direction, and Andrea slowly rose to her feet, forcing a pl
astic smile on her lips.
"I'd like to thank Miss O'Connor," Mr. Scott said, more to the crowd than to her, "and let all of you know how she's undertaken the task of volunteering her time in exchange for a donation that will enable the physical education department to purchase equipment that had previously been among our projected expenditures."
Andrea quickly sat down after enduring a sparse applause. Cold fury directed at Mr. Scott froze in the pit of her stomach as the same questions reverberated in her brain over and over. How could he take her money away? How? For bushes and flowers?
She was absolutely livid. She stared unseeingly at the paper that had been thrust at her by the man sitting in front of her. Not only was she angry, she felt betrayed.
Mr. Scott and the rest of the school board members knew that Ian's donation wasn't going to be enough to cover the cost of all the equipment that was needed. Her anger slowly evolved into a dark disappointment that clouded her mind.
But when she focused on the numbers that were printed on the report in her hand, her anger burned anew. She had to get out of that room before she did something rash, something that might get her into a lot of trouble.
Crumpling the paper in her fist, she snatched up her purse and sweater and left the auditorium.
She marched down the empty corridor, shoved open the heavy doors and went out into the night.
The chilly May air filled her lungs, and she walked out onto the side yard of the school, then farther onto the track. Tossing her soft angora sweater across her shoulders, she stared out at the track and wished she'd had appropriate running clothes and shoes so she could work off her frustration.
"Andrea!"
Startled, she turned to see Ian coming down the mound of grass toward her.
"You looked upset," he said, reaching out for her. "Like you might need someone to talk to."
The warmth of his hands on her shoulders penetrated the softness of her sweater and the silky material of her blouse, and she was instantly consumed by a sea of calm. She closed her eyes and let the feeling of solid security his presence generated wash over her.
When she raised her eyelids, she was astonished to see that his image was blurred by her tears and she quickly turned away, embarrassed. But he didn't relinquish his hold.
