TWICE VICTORIOUS (17 page)

"You brought work?" She wasn't sure whether to be insulted or just amused.

"Of course. I take my briefcase everywhere. There's no sense in wasting time.
Like this afternoon."

"Sheez, Adam. What do you do for fun? Design overshoes?"

"No, I'm no good at design...oh, that was a joke, huh?"

"Sure. A joke," she agreed, forcing herself to smile. If she were totally honest, she
would admit to her pique at his bringing work along on their weekend away. She wanted to
be at the center of his life for as long as she could, but only if he accepted how important
racing was to her. She didn't know what she would do if she couldn't make him
understand.

Although sunset was a long way off, the light seemed to dim. They puttered about
the tide pools for a while, then went back to the house. After that, it was time to go back to
Portland.

By the next weekend, Adam had decided he was imagining things. Stell had
invited him to a home-cooked dinner. He went, wondering if he was making a
mistake.

"I've missed you this week," she said, taking the bouquet of daisies he handed her
at the door.

"It's been crazy," he said, not admitting that every time he'd reached for the phone
to call her, he'd talked himself out of it. The only way he could cool their relationship was
to avoid her.

"I've had weeks like that. Would you like wine?"

"Yes, please." He looked around the living room. "Something's different."

"I moved the TV down to my exercise room. That way I can catch the news while
I'm on the wind trainer."

"On the-- You're riding?"

"Only a little. Carl said I could, as long as I didn't put any strain on my knee. For
ten minutes a day. Sit down. I'll get the wine."

Adam sat, his gaze following her down the hall. He was no sports medicine
specialist, but he'd bet anything she'd misunderstood. Just last week she'd said she'd be off
her bike another three to four weeks.

Little idiot!

Dinner was delicious. "You didn't lie when you said you could cook," he told her,
regretfully refusing another helping of peach pie.

"It's not something I'd want to do seven days a week, but when I have time--" She
shrugged. "It can be fun."

Adam, who ran a mean microwave, merely nodded. "What are you doing next
weekend?"

She thought a moment. "You know, I don't think I have anything scheduled.
There's a road race over near LaGrande, but I decided not to go. I really need to catch up
on the yard. It's looking pretty weedy."

"How about coming to a different kind of race with me?"

"What kind?"

"Automobile. Next week at PIR." He folded his napkin and started gathering up
the dessert plates and silverware.

Her expression told him what she thought of auto racing. She took the dirty dishes
into the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying the coffee carafe.

Adam slid his cup across. "Come on, Stell. I'll bet you've never been to one of
these."

"I went to a drag race once, when I was in high school."

"Believe me, a drag race is nothing like this. Will you?"

She smiled. "I'll think about it."

The next morning, Adam asked if she'd made up her mind about the auto
races.

"I've always thought car races would be really boring," she said. "Driving 'round
and 'round, never going anywhere, just to see which car can hold together the longest. It's
not a test of skill, Adam, it's a test of who can afford the best mechanics."

"Are you serious?"

She nodded, intent on the crossword puzzle from the Oregonian. They were
spending a lazy Sunday morning nibbling on coffee cake and fresh pineapple, satiated and
content after a long night of loving.

"That's like saying that a bicycle race isn't a test of skill, but of who's got the best
calf muscles."

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised and mouth open. "It's not the same thing at
all. A cyclist has to be thinking every minute. Why, even a second's inattention and...and,
well, you saw what happened to me." The light went out of her face with her words.
Absently she rubbed her thigh, where Adam knew she still suffered occasional knife-like
pains.

It seemed important that she understand that race drivers were every bit the
athletes that cyclists were. "I'll make a deal with you. If you still think competition driving
doesn't take the same level of skill as cycling after watching for three days, I'll go to the
next three bicycle events with you and not say a word about obsessions."

"Well, okay, but I'm going to be hard to convince."

"Just as long as you enjoy yourself, that's all I ask."

* * * *

KIWANDA OuterWear always took a pavilion for the American Le Mans Series
races at Portland International Raceway in August. Adam used it to entertain customers,
but first and foremost it was for his employees, a place where they could be out of the sun,
relaxed, watching the time trials and races on large-screen closed circuit TV.

The Grand Prix races weren't anything like Stell expected. For one thing, she
found herself as excited as she would have been at a cycle race. For another, she quickly
agreed with Adam that the level of skill required of the drivers was as great as that of any
world class athlete.

"I am impressed," she told Adam Saturday evening on their way to her house. "I
wouldn't trade places with those guys for anything. A bike's fast enough for me." She
shook her head. "Imagine going around some of those curves at a hundred miles an hour.
I've taken them at twenty-five or so and that was enough."

"Yes, but you did it under your own steam. Those engines put out hundreds of
horsepower." She saw Adam's wide grin out of the corner of her eye. Men just loved being
told they had been right all along. This time she didn't mind admitting it.

"I still prefer the kinds of sports that involve human strength and endurance," she
said, expecting an argument.

"You'll see human strength and endurance tomorrow," he promised her. "Two
hundred-odd laps around that track is not for wimps."

"It's not the same. Oh, sure they work hard, but it's not the kind of work that gets
them aerobic. Not like bicycling. Or running."

She stared out the window for several minutes, thinking about physical fitness and
its cost. At last she said, "I've really missed the high I get from cycling, or running, for that
matter." She'd only recently been able to walk aerobically again. Just a few more weeks!
She could hardly wait.

"So have I." His tone was pensive.

She turned to stare at him. "You run at the track, don't you?" She knew he
belonged to one of Portland's more prestigious athletic clubs and exercised religiously.
She'd met him there for dinner one night, when he'd been late getting away from the
office.

"It's not the same, and you know it."

No, it wasn't, but she'd rather run down the freeway than not be able to run at all.
"Maybe you don't run long enough." She usually had to be aerobic for twenty or thirty
minutes before she achieved the curious transcendental state that was commonly known as
'runner's high'.

Adam parked in front of her house, turned off the ignition and turned toward her.
"Stell, I don't want to talk about running or auto racing. I want to talk about your
cycling."

Instantly she was on her guard. "What about it?"

"Can we go inside?"

"That depends. Are you going to try to talk me out of training?"

"Not exactly." He reached across the console, took her chin between strong
fingers. Forcing her to look at him, he said, "I want to offer you some alternatives, that's
all."

She jerked her chin free and he didn't try to recapture it. "Okay." She waited,
armed folded across her chest.

"Can we go inside?" he repeated.

"Oh, all right." She'd hoped to have more time with Adam before the inevitable
battle over how she spent her time and energy, but it looked like he was going to force her
to fight it tonight. "I'll make some coffee."

Adam followed her in but stopped at the living room instead of going on to the
kitchen with her. While the coffee was perking she went into the bathroom and stared at
her reflection. When she was little she'd often found making faces in the mirror a sure cure
for incipient tears.

It worked, but the ache was still in her throat.

She set the tray on the coffee table. "Help yourself." Flopping into one of the wing
chairs, she waited.

"This is the last time I'm going to bring this up," Adam said. His brows were
pulled together in a scowl and his mouth was a narrow slash across his face. "But I've got
to try once more."

"I wish you wouldn't." She wanted to scream at him to be silent, to cover her ears
so she wouldn't hear his words.

"I have to, Stell. I care too much about you to let you ruin your life."

"Adam I..."

"Please, let me say it."

She nodded.

"I know you plan to start training soon," he said, "and I'm asking you one last time
to reconsider. I've watched you, and seen how much pain you still have. I don't know what
your doctor has said, but I can't believe he's going to allow you to start cycling again."

"You're wrong." She'd been going to tell him that Frank Pauvel had given her the
okay to ride her wind trainer for an hour every other day for two weeks, and to walk in
between. After two weeks he'd reevaluate her condition. She'd been going to, but now she
wouldn't. "Keep talking."

"What are you going to do if you win the Sawtooth Classic?"

"When."

"
If
you win the race, what then? Once you've proved you're the best in the
world, what comes next?" He was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clenched into
hard fists on his knees.

"Why do you care?" He wouldn't be there when she crossed the finish line
anyway.

"Because I care for you," he repeated, although his glare made that hard to believe.
"Stell, once it's all over, you won't have anything but a few days of glory, a pile of press
clippings for your scrapbook...."

"I don't keep a scrapbook."

"Whatever. And a fancy trophy that won't even bring much in a hock shop. I can't
believe that's enough for you." He waved her to silence when she would have objected.
"You need more tangible rewards. I know you do. You need to know that what you do
matters."

"Matters? How? Being the best woman cyclist in the world matters, Adam. To me
at least." It really did, although the cost was beginning to appear greater than she'd ever
imagined.

"Leaving something behind is what matters. A generation from now, your trophy
won't mean anything. If you put the same amount of energy, enthusiasm, and dedication
into your business, you'll have something to pass on to your children."

"Children? Aren't you looking awfully far ahead, Adam? I won't be ready to have
children for a long time yet." Even as she spoke, she became aware that having a child, an
event she'd always thought of as being in the distant future, was something that she could
contemplate sharing with Adam. He would make a wonderful father, a lot like hers. The
loneliness she usually kept at bay mounted until it threatened to overwhelm her. If only he
loved her as she loved him. But he cared about her, that was all.

"The point I'm trying to make is that you should be thinking of building something
with your life. You can't go on playing forever. Someday you've got to face up to reality
and do something worthwhile."

"So we're back to worthwhile! As in what, exactly? What do you do that's
worthwhile, Adam?"

"KIWANDA is worthwhile. Not only do we produce clothing that contributes to
the quality of life for thousands of people, we provide jobs, support the Special Olympics,
contribute to local..."

Suddenly she was furious. "Oh shut up! You're not wonderful, Adam. You're
nothing but a hypocrite, with all your 'quality of life' and contributions and everything."
She rose and started to pace, back and forth between the curtained windows and the
bookshelves opposite them. "Give me a break! You're in business strictly for profit, and
don't ever kid yourself."

"That's not true!" He was also on his feet, looming over her.

"Bull feathers! Look at your products. Sports clothing. It wasn't so bad when you
just made stuff for loggers and hunters, for people who needed heavy, utilitarian outerwear.
But," she made her tones as mocking as she could, "CycleWear, WalkingWear,
RunningWear. What's next, Adam? SpectatorWear?" She remembered his boast that he
could clothe the World Class Tiddler. "Or TiddlerWear?" She should have showed him the
door that day, instead of waiting until he wormed himself into her life so thoroughly that
he would leave a yawning void when he left.

"At least I'm honest about why I cycle," she said, feeling the tears hovering just
behind her eyes. "I ride for me, because I like to win. Because I like the thrill of
competition, the excitement of being on the edge."

For the rest of the weekend, they spoke of trivialities and avoided each other's
eyes. When he took her home Sunday, he said nothing about seeing her again.

Neither did she.

LANTERN ROUGE: a dubious honor
conferred on the last person to cross the finish line each day
of a stage race

God, but his life was all screwed up! If only he hadn't spoken his mind to Stell last
weekend. Ever since, she'd been cool, merely polite, instead of warm and loving. And now
he was off for a ten day business trip without their having resolved anything.

All he could hope was that the time apart would clear the air, would let them put
their differences into perspective.

At least business was good. The ActiveWear line was successful beyond any of
their wildest dreams. Juliana had finally called for help last week, persuading Adam to
help her with administrative details until she could find an office manager for the
ActiveWear branch as good as Mitch Kawakami was. So he'd lent her Mitch, and found
himself over his head with details he'd been successfully delegating for years.