TWICE VICTORIOUS (18 page)

Then Steve had called. Adam still wasn't sure what had prompted him to accept
his old friend's invitation. After seventeen years, could they share any common interests?
He doubted it.

So here he was, on his way to Denver, thence to a trade show in New York.
Forced into that trip by his mother and his sister, with Roger's active support.

"If you don't get out of here for a while, Adam, we may give way to the temptation
to murder you," Roger had told him last week when he was still vacillating.

That hadn't been the first clue his foul mood had been noticed, but it had brought
him up short. If his emotional state was such that his normally easy-going brother-in-law
was threatening mayhem, perhaps it was time for a rest.

Steve was waiting for him at the gate, still whip slender, still catlike in motion.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, like two strangers meeting for the first
time.

"Adam?"

"Steve? Oh God, Steve!" Suddenly aware of how he had missed this man who'd
been his best friend for half their lives, Adam drew Steve into a bear hug.

"God, buddy, you haven't changed a bit," Steve said, his voice breaking. All the
while he was pounding Adam's back. "Emotional as all hell." But he returned the hug and
then draped an arm over Adam's shoulder as they walked toward the exit. "Elise can hardly
wait to see you."

"Where is she?"

"At home, with the kids." Steve pulled Adam's suitcase off the conveyor. "Let's
go. Dinner's waiting."

Kids? Steve had children? Oh, God, where had the time gone? "Elise is still as
beautiful as ever, I'll bet." Adam remembered the little French girl who'd haunted her
father's Salle, her big eyes following Steve's every move. "But you don't look particularly
domesticated," he remarked, doing his best to conceal the envy he felt for the contentment
plain on Steve's face.

"Oh, but I am. I can take out the garbage, clean out the gutters, and mow the lawn
with the best of them." He pointed. "Here we are. The red van."

Steve's home was in an older, slightly shabby neighborhood. It was not a slum by
any means, but the houses in this block certainly had seen better days. They were
unloading the van when the front door swung open.

Still tiny, her hair an unruly mass of black curls, Elise looked little older than the
two preadolescent girls who were introduced as Marielle and Claudette. A red-headed,
freckle-faced imp of four or five was called Pierre, while a playpen held chubby baby
Suzanne, a lace ribbon encircling her almost hairless head.

The noisy conversation went on almost nonstop throughout the entire weekend,
making the walls of the slightly shabby rental house ring. Adam hardly got a word in
edgewise. If Steve wasn't bubbling over with his plans to make Denver the fencing center
of North America--and Adam believed he could do it if enthusiasm and willingness to
work could guarantee success--the children were telling him about their move from France,
their new school, their pets, their small successes and triumphs, or Elise was feeding
him.

Instead of being relieved that a difficult weekend was finally over, Sunday night
found Adam reluctant to depart for New York. Steve had never asked the embarrassing
questions Adam had dreaded.

"You're a lucky man."

Steve's grin gleamed in the light from street lamps and oncoming traffic. "Hey,
don't I know it! Sometimes I wonder why Elise puts up with me, but I'm just glad she
does."

"She does show an appalling lack of taste for an otherwise sensible woman,"
Adam agreed. Would Stell have been so solicitous of his comfort, so caring? So
loving?

"Yeah, well, she's been great. Never a word about how I could be making more
money doing something else. And when I got the chance to come here, she didn't complain
about leaving France again. Just started packing." Steve was silent while he maneuvered
the van through the maze of streets leading to short term parking.

"It must be nice to be successful," he said, once they were parked. "Not have to
worry whether the kids will need braces, or feel guilty because your wife makes over last
year's good dress instead of buying a new one." He sounded more wistful than bitter.

For a moment Adam stared out the windshield, not knowing what to say. Finally,
"Yeah, well, success has its price, too."

"Sure it does." Steve laughed, and Adam could detect nothing more than genuine
amusement in the sound. "Beautiful women falling all over themselves to be seen with
you, having to find room in the garage for the Rolls and the Porsche. I should be so
unlucky." He stopped the car but made no move to get out. "Believe me, buddy, fame was
great for the ego, but sometimes I'd take a little fortune to go along with the gold
medals."

"Are things really so tough?" Adam said, wondering if he could, gracefully, help
Steve out. It was a shame such a great athlete should have to struggle to provide for his
family.

"Tough? No. We're meeting the bills. The group that brought me over is paying
me enough to get by. They found the house and provided this van." Twisting in the driver's
seat, Steve faced Adam. "It's just that sometimes I wish fencers got all the glory that
Olympic gymnasts or skaters get. I wouldn't mind endorsing athletic shoes or
after-shave."

Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? Adam grinned, but said only,
"Ever thought about cutlery? That'd make a great ad."

"Yeah, wouldn't it?" Laughing, Steve reached into the back and lifted Adam's
carry-on case. "Ze gr-r-r-eat Stefano demonstrates proper use of Guillotine cutlery. Watch
as he reduces this carrot to julienne in microseconds." He pantomimed quick slicing. "I
should have thought of that. How much d'you suppose they'd pay me?"

"More than a dollar an hour," Adam said, already planning his campaign to get
Steve on board at KIWANDA. Steve's managerial ability was already proven. Hadn't he
kept the Salle in Paris going after old Jules' death? His old friend could sell the proverbial
iceboxes to Eskimos. They'd been looking for a new OuterWear sales manager ever since
Evelyn Carstairs had announced her pregnancy and intention of taking a few years off
while her child was small.

Surely Steve would welcome the chance to get into something more remunerative
than running a Salle.

"Let's not lose touch again, buddy", Steve told him a little while later as they said
goodbye at the gate. "Denver's a lot closer than Paris."

Now that he'd seen Steve again, he wondered why he had pulled out of their
friendship seventeen years ago. Because he'd feared Steve's contempt for the choice he'd
made? He just didn't know.

Damn it! His family had needed him.

* * * *

Stell floated out of Frank Pauvel's office about two feet off the ground. She could
ride! Starting today.

The drive home seemed endless. Usually she enjoyed the view of the cherry trees
along the West Bank esplanade as she swooped across the river and onto I-84. Today it
seemed as if every other car on the road was crawling. When she finally reached her exit,
she hit every red light between there and home.

Quickly she changed her clothes, pulling on an old pair of cycling shorts and last
year's team jersey. Both seemed tight.
I've spread. Not enough exercise.

Her bicycle was ready. She'd spent two hours last night cleaning it, oiling the
chain, checking the indexing on the shifters and the pressure in the tires. She'd even waxed
the frame, so that it shone bright red in the sunlight. Much as she wanted to use her
titanium bike, she'd decided to stick to the mountain bike she called her truck for a while. It
was heavier, but it was also more forgiving of riding errors. Now she quickly changed
pedals, since Frank had advised her to use toe clips for a while.

Frank had made her promise not to ride hills, so she loaded the bike into her van
and headed south. The Springwater Trail, an old railroad right-of-way, was about as level a
route as there was in Portland. She parked at the trailhead and unloaded her bike.

Once again she checked everything. Water. Identification. Pump. Tools. She spun
the front wheel. The odometer came to life, counting turns of the front wheel, measuring
distance traveled. She was ready to go.

Carefully lowering the bike, she swung her leg across. Once astride and the bike
upright, she tucked her left toe into the clip and pulled it upward, ready to push off.

Her stomach clenched. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, along her spine. Her
mouth went dry.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered, willing her body to relax. She forced the pedal
downward, lifted her other foot and set it in place. The front wheel wobbled. More sweat
trickled down her temples. She clutched the brakes and almost tipped over before she
could get her foot out of the toeclip.

Both feet on the ground, Stell breathed deeply, slowly. "What is the matter with
me?" She closed her eyes and sought the still center of self-confidence. Her father had
taught her to do that, taught her to believe that success came from a firm conviction that a
person could accomplish anything she wanted with all her heart.

All she found was uncertainty. That and the dread of seriously injuring herself
again.

"Stop it!" She said aloud. "I am
not
afraid. I'm just out of practice. Just a
little apprehensive, maybe, because I haven't ridden for a few weeks."
Make that
nearly four months
, a jeering mental voice reminded her.
You're soft and weak.
Out of condition and out of practice.

Giving herself no more time to think, Stell pushed off, concentrating on keeping
the bike upright, on steering in the direction she wanted to go, on pedaling smoothly.

The cold sweat returned to her brow and the butterflies to her stomach, but she
ignored them. She spun the pedals slowly, mentally counting cadence. No more than fifty
rpm, Frank had warned her, and work up to that.

Keeping her cadence down was no problem. Her legs felt like well-cooked
spaghetti after a quarter-mile. Her shoulders started to ache, and the back of her neck felt
tight. Once more she forced herself to relax, willing the tenseness out of her spine, her
forearms, her fingers. By the time she'd reached the bridge across Johnson Creek, she was
ready to turn back.

Feet on the ground, she picked the bicycle up and rotated it, turning on her heel as
she did so. For a moment she wondered if she was going to fall over, then the instant of
light-headedness passed. Cautiously she started back toward the trailhead, telling herself
over and over,
I can do it. I will do it. Even a five-year-old could ride that
distance.

Stell felt as if she'd ridden a hundred miles by the time she got to her van. Loading
the bike took just about everything she had left. For fifteen minutes she half-reclined in the
seat, monitoring her breathing, the tension in her body. Finally she pulled her seat back
upright and strapped her seat belt. Home was only about four miles away. Surely she could
drive that far.

She could, finding that she felt better with each mile. The debilitating exhaustion
she'd felt while loading the bike was gone, and so was the sick sensation in her belly. Her
legs had stopped shaking, stopped feeling as if the bones had dissolved into so much
Jell-O. By the time she pulled into her driveway, she felt almost human again. But she left the
bike in the van anyhow. No sense pushing her luck.

* * * *

Traffic on the freeway east of Portland was heavy. Stell kept quiet and let Adam
concentrate on his driving until they crossed the Sandy River.

"I saw Frank Pauvel while you were gone."

"Oh?"

"He says I can ride every day now, as long as I don't put too much strain on my
leg."

"That's good." But his voice lacked enthusiasm. She looked at his profile, seeing
for the first time since he picked her up the tension in his neck, the tight set of his
mouth.

One of her most recent fantasies included Adam's understanding of and support
for her determination to compete in the Sawtooth Classic. He would encourage her during
the long, difficult months of bringing her body back to its performance peak. He would be
waiting with open arms when she was first across the finish line. And after she'd proved
she was best in the world, they would build a life together. Their nights together would be
filled with love, their days with happiness...children...someday....

Idly she toyed with his fingers. Long and slim, they were knowing and gifted, able
to rouse her with a touch, talented at arousing and exploiting her most erotic inclinations.
Her mind wandered, mental images of possibilities drifting in and out of her
consciousness. He would be handsome all his life. His hair would go gradually silver,
exchanging one metallic sheen for another, while his body would remain lean and supple.
Although she still hadn't met his mother or sister, she had seen photographs. The shared
family characteristics would appear once again in his children, except some of them would
have her midnight dark hair, her changeable gray-green-blue eyes.

He was not relaxing. In fact, the farther they got from Portland, the more tense he
seemed to be. "Adam, what's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing." He turned his head, giving her a brief smile that probably was
meant to be reassuring, but wasn't. It was closer to a grimace.

"You're upset about something."

"Damn it, Stell, I am not upset!" His hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel
were white-knuckled and clenched.

Sure you're not
, she agreed, but bit her lip to keep from starting another
argument. Ever since his return from New York, he'd been cranky as a bear with a sore
paw. His flying trip to Taiwan hadn't helped, either, taking as it had most another week.
He'd only come home yesterday afternoon.

No wonder he seems tense. He's probably exhausted from jet-lag
.