by Alina Adams
A second later, however, Bex had just cause to reevaluate her assumption. Over Gina's (not Gina's?) shoulder, she spied another woman of approximately the same age, also wearing a robe and the grumpy appearance of someone rudely awakened from a sound sleep.
Bex wondered just what sort of situation she'd stumbled into here. Lucian Pryce and his all-singing, all-dancing, all-skating harem?
However, when the second woman turned briefly in profile to stumble through the swinging, ridged wooden door into what Bex glimpsed as the kitchen (complete with life-saving, percolating coffeemaker), the mystery of her identity became somewhat clearer. The jut of her nose and chin, combined with the near-translucent blue eyes and cascade of mink black hair pegged her as the daughter of Lucian Pryce and his first wife (not to mention first Olympic champion), Eleanor Quinn. Her sharp features and mirror eyes came from Daddy. The hair was all Eleanor.
The age, however, appeared closer to her stepmother's. Bex vaguely recalled that there was only a year's difference. Though she couldn't remember in which direction.
"Bex Levy!" Gina exclaimed, as if they were old friends rather than people who'd briefly glimpsed each other across foggy ice rinks in various parts of the world. "Come in, come in. Lucian will be right down. Can I get you something? We have coffee, but I can also make tea if you like. Plenty of hot water for both. Would you like a Danish?"
"Hi," Bex said cautiously.
As she was dragged through the living room into the kitchen, Bex caught a glimpse of various medals and silver-plated platters mounted on all four walls, as well as, above the fireplace, an enlarged copy of the cover LIFE magazine ran after Eleanor Quinn's death: "Farewell to America's Ice Princess." It showed Eleanor the year she won the Olympics, standing on the top step of the podium, waving to the crowd, gold medal around her neck, dressed in a pale pink skating dress, a matching ribbon shaped into a rose and woven through all that incredible hair piled on top of her head.
"So did you say coffee or tea?" Gina plopped Bex down on a chair at the edge of the table. "This is Lucian's little girl, Sabrina." She indicated her stepdaughter, who right then was cautiously blowing on a cup of steaming coffee prior to figuring, what the heck, and just downing half in a single gulp. Bex wondered if Gina thought that referring to the grown woman as "Lucian's little girl" might hide the lack of age difference between them.
"Hi." Bex went with the line that had obviously won her such instant acceptance back in the living room. Sabrina may have nodded in Bex's direction. Or she may have simply momentarily nodded off. Her body language didn't suggest that the shot of sizzling caffeine had done much good.
"Sabrina flew in especially for Lucian's tribute, didn't you, Sabrina? She lives in San Francisco. She's very successful. In the Internet and all that. That's what they do out in San Francisco mostly these days, the Internet. Sabrina is very busy. But she made the time to come and see her father honored, didn't you, Sabrina?"
This time, Lucian's daughter definitely nodded. But she didn't seem particularly enthused by either the gesture or what she was agreeing to. Meanwhile, Bex wondered how many cups of coffee Gina had already ingested.
"We, Lucian and I, that is — well, Sabrina, too, I'm sure — we're very excited that 24/7 decided to broadcast our show. It's such an honor. I'm sure you must have so many other important sporting events just clamoring for your attention."
"We like to cover all the bases," Bex said.
"It's going to be wonderful. So many of Lucian's champions are coming to perform. And Toni Wright. Do you know Toni Wright? She and Lucian were National Pairs champions together. You can imagine what a scandal it was forty-five years ago, an interracial Pairs team. The Ku Klux Klan actually protested them when they competed in Atlanta. They said it was a horrible example to set. And when Lucian and Toni went to the Olympics, some of the Southern television stations didn't show their performance. Just didn't show it. Don't know what they showed instead. And it must have looked so strange, not to show the Americans. Of course, that kind of thing is hardly a problem today. Why, no one blinks an eye at it today. It didn't even come up when we were planning the tribute show. Not that Lucian and Toni will be performing. But Toni is already here in Colorado. And other people are coming today and tomorrow. It's going to be a great show."
"Gina!" The voice from their doorway made both Gina and Bex jump.
Sabrina didn't even deign to turn her head.
Lucian Pryce took a single step into the kitchen. He was wearing a white waterproof warm-up suit, with "Colorado OTC' stitched in red over the right breast pocket and up the right pants leg. His turtleneck sweater under the warm-up jacket was red, with "Colorado OTC" stitched in white along the corner of the neckline. His gray hair was combed neatly to the side, and his face boasted the ruddy complexion that on any other man would have bespoken a drinking problem but, in Bex's experience, in this particular world, simply meant too much prolonged exposure to the cold.
He said, "Gina, calm down. You're giving the girl whiplash."
Bex wouldn't have put it quite so bluntly, but yeah, she kind of was.
"Let's go, Bex." Lucian turned without checking to see whether his command had been obeyed. "We can talk in the car."
They didn't talk in the car. Or, rather, Bex didn't. Lucian monologued the entire ten-minute drive over to the rink. He listed his Olympic champions for Bex. He listed his World champions for Bex. Then his World medallists. Then his National champions. Bex listened, dutifully impressed, but mostly by the fact that, when he got to the names Robby Sharpton and Rachel Rose, Lucian at least had the grace to look slightly sheepish. Courtesy of a piece Bex had produced on the pair the previous fall, she knew exactly what role Lucian Pryce had played in their eventual downfalls.
Which, of course, didn't mean he hadn't made champions of them.
Which, of course, was what really mattered.
Bex's camera crew — a cameraman and a soundman — were waiting for them in the parking lot. The rink wasn't open yet. Lucian unlocked the door, flicked on the lights, and told them to wait a second, he'd just go fetch his skates from the coaches' lounge and be right back. The plan was to get some footage of him stroking in circles, showing how, even at age sixty-five, he still had it.
While Lucian was putting on his skates, Bex slowly walked around the ice surface, pretending that she could tell which angle would make a better shot. Producing features for a primetime 24/7 special was the biggest career break she'd gotten since coming to the network, and she was determined to take full advantage of it. This was her career they were talking about. This was important. Especially since she was about to have no personal life to speak of.
Bex sternly told herself that this was no time to think about Craig. She was working. She walked around the ice surface again, looking extra thoughtful.
On her third go-round, the cameraman suggested maybe they should all get on the ice with Lucian, since the six-foot-high Plexiglas surrounding the rink (to keep stray pucks from knocking teeth out in the stands during hockey games) meant they couldn't shoot from the floor without getting a horrible glare, anyway.
Bex nodded to indicate not only that she thought it an excellent suggestion, but also that she had been just about to make the same one herself.
When Lucian exited from the coaches' lounge, he was wearing his black skates, the blades covered with dark purple plastic guards to keep them from getting dulled by the padded floor. He paused at the gated entrance to the ice to take off the guards and lay them neatly on the barrier.
Lucian pushed off, hesitating for a second and glancing briefly down at his feet before shaking off whatever it was that had bothered him and asking Bex, "So, what do you need me to do?"
She suggested he just stroke around for a bit and let them get some full body shots. Lucian acquiesced, leaning slightly towards the inside of the rink and taking off backwards. It didn't matter how long Bex covered skating, she was certain she would never get used to the fact that, in
order to go backwards, skaters had to put one foot in front of the other. It didn't make any kind of sense, though it sure was pretty to watch.
She had to admit that on the ice, Lucian moved like a much younger man. She wouldn't have thought a sixty-five-year-old with two artificial hips could appear to float above the surface, but Lucian was doing just that, his shoulders still and steady, his head slightly turned to look over his shoulder, despite the fact that he was the only person on the ice.
On his second lap, Lucian saw Toni walk in through the door. She paused at the main barrier, a few feet above the northernmost tip of the oval. Toni was wearing her traditional rink uniform of dark wool pants, a padded blue parka over a cashmere sweater, and a woolen hat pulled down over her ears. Lucian raised a hand to wave and Toni waved back. The smiles on both their faces seemed surprisingly genuine.
Not that Bex had any reason to think they shouldn't be. It was just that, at least at competition time, there wasn't an authentic grin to be found. And during practice — well, if you were smiling, you probably weren't sweating, and if you weren't sweating, why the heck were you there? Which meant that a true expression of pleasure while skating was a rare bird indeed.
Lucian yelled to Toni, "When did you get in?”
"Yesterday afternoon."
"You bring the Hunt boy?”
Toni nodded. Bex fought the urge to ask how the Hunt boy's father was.
"Good. Kid's got a lot of potential. We'll mine a lot of gold out of that boy, you mark my words."
"That's what we came for. The tribute was just a clever way to get the Hall of Fame to cover my plane fare," Toni said. But at that point, Lucian was at the southernmost end of the rink and had to struggle to hear her over the rhythmic swish of his blades on the ice.
He turned his head abruptly in her direction, asking, "What did you say, now?" when his feet suddenly slipped out from under him.
It all happened in less than a second. One moment, Lucian was upright, talking, and the next, his body was crashing to the ice. He didn't even have time to bend at the waist or throw out his hands to try to cushion the fall. First his left knee, then his hip, then his elbow, then the side of his head crashed into the ice, all in one equally fluid motion. He hit the ground and then slid until he hit the barrier. And then he didn't move at all.
Bex gasped. But it was all she did. Toni was the one who instantaneously ran down the embankment to the entrance, stepping out onto the ice in her street shoes and cautiously half running, half skidding her way over to Lucian. She knelt on her knees, touching her palm to the side of his head. It came away covered with blood.
"Call an ambulance," Toni ordered Bex over her shoulder.
Bex nodded mutely and proceeded to do her own half run/half skid, much more awkwardly than Toni had, towards the rink's office. On her way, she did manage to notice that the camera was still running. Ethically speaking, she knew she should tell the crew to shut down. Practically speaking, Bex knew that if she did, Gil would have her head.
She tugged on the office door. It wouldn't give.
"It's locked," Bex yelled to Toni.
“Try the coaches' lounge. There's a phone in there, too."
Luckily, Lucian had left it open after he'd changed. Bex was able to step right in and find, amidst the couches that had seen better days, the stacks of student bills to be sent out, and the piles of programs going back to Regional competitions from the 1970s, an old-school rotary phone. Obviously, this was not a room that saw a lot of redecorating with the changing seasons.
She reached 911 after two rings, only to realize she didn't know the rink's exact address. Fortunately, the dispatcher was familiar with the Olympic Training Center. Bex wondered how many calls for help they fielded a week.
"Ambulance is on its way," she assured Toni, rushing back towards the rink.
But, from the look on her face — not to mention those of the cameraman and sound guy — Bex quickly realized that 24/7 was now the proud owner of exclusive video footage documenting Lucian Pryce's death.
CHAPTER TWO: TONI
At the age of eight, Toni Wright stood alone at the entry gate to New York City's Wollman Outdoor Ice Rink in Central Park, waiting for her turn to pay the twenty-five cent admission and take a spin around the slick oval in her brand-new Christmas skates. She wore — at her mother's insistence — her waterproof rain pants. But Toni, frankly, had no intention of falling down. For the past year, she'd watched other boys and girls glide gracefully across the rink and she felt certain she would be able to do the same.
When it was her turn, Toni plunked down the required two dimes and a nickel, and was already pushing the door with her shoulder when the girl working the window leaned over across the cashier's sill and grabbed Toni by the arm. Toni turned her head slowly and gazed at the older teen with the same look Toni's mother unleashed on any salesgirl, waitress, or taxi driver unfortunate enough not to realize whom they were dealing with.
"Is there a problem, miss?" But unlike her mama, who had no patience for dealing with fools, Toni followed her Daddy's instructions to always be polite. Especially to the ignorant. He said it was their job to teach them, in particular, the right way to behave.
Either the girl wasn't accustomed to being addressed as "miss" or she didn't realize the query was directed at her. She yanked Toni backwards and announced, "No niggers allowed."
Toni sighed. So this was to be another case of her needing to educate somebody. Well, Daddy did say it was their burden to bear.
As politely as she could manage — her eight-year-old patience not being quite as sturdy as Daddy's — Toni explained, "This is a public facility. You are not allowed to make rules like that."
"It is a rule," the girl insisted.
"Please show me where it's written, then."
"It's a rule."
Toni yanked her arm free. It wasn't very ladylike, but she couldn't figure out any other way to do it The girl had hurt her, squeezing so tightly. But Toni would never let her see that.
She said, "I've given you my money, and now I am going skating."
Before the cashier could make another lunge at her elbow, Toni slipped through the door and walked over to the bench, sat down, and without looking at any of the faces now staring curiously in her direction, proceeded to take off her shoes and slip on her skates. She waited until she'd taken a few wobbly step on the ice and come crashing down on her bottom — Mama had been right about the waterproof pants, after all — before allowing a couple of tears to slip free from her eyes. She figured those people watching would think she'd just hurt herself.
That first day, Toni fell down fourteen times — she counted. But she came back the next day. There was a different girl at the window. Either she'd heard about Toni from the day before or she didn't subscribe to the same unwritten rule of exclusivity, because she let Toni in without a word of protest.
She just sniffed rather haughtily, but even Mama didn't consider those sorts of slights worth her while.
The second day, Toni fell only nine times. By the end of the week, she felt she'd gotten the hang of going forward. Now, she thought it was time to tackle the backward strokes that most of the older kids were doing, the ones that permitted them to fly like the wind. Toni tried it by herself for almost a month. She watched the others as closely as she could — hopefully without them noticing; if they did and glared at her, Toni scurried away as fast as she could, realizing that, in this instance, she was actually the one in the wrong — and attempted to replicate exactly what they were doing. But going backwards by crossing her foot in front proved much too confusing. She would master a step or two, then lose her rhythm and find her ankles tangled in a hopeless muddle. She said to Daddy over dinner that maybe it was time to get herself a coach. He set down his fork. He didn't say anything.
The Wright family lived along Striver's Row in Harlem, in a four-story row house built by no less than David H. King, the same contractor who'd built Madison Square Garden
and the base of the Statue of Liberty. They boarded one live-in girl to keep the house tidy on a daily basis and had another come in once a week to do what Mama called heavy work, beating the carpets, washing the windows, scrubbing each bathroom until it gleamed. When Mama and Daddy threw dinner parties, they'd even have another girl in to help with the cooking and the serving and the cleaning up.
Daddy said there was no shame in hiring people to help with what you couldn't do yourself. It was a blessing on them and on you.
Which was why Toni couldn't understand his hesitation about hiring her a coach for skating. Surely Daddy had seen how hard Toni was working. She wasn't being frivolous, like her friend from next door, who took up ballet dancing, then horseback riding, then oil painting, only to drop each within the course of a month. Toni was determined to stick with her chosen endeavor. She merely needed some help, that was all.
Daddy asked, "Any colored teachers at that rink there?"
"No, sir."
"Antonia..."
"Yes, sir?"
"I say this: You find yourself a coach willing to teach you, and I will pay her price. But you need to come to me with an agreement first. Does that sound fair?"
"Yes, sir," Toni said, still unsure why Daddy seemed to think this would be so difficult.
It proved rather difficult.
As he must have known, none of the teachers at Wollman was willing to take Toni on. They didn't give a reason. They simply said no. But then again, to actually give the reason out loud, well, as Mama liked to say, that would have been an insult to both their intelligences — if the latter had any, that is.
