TWICE VICTORIOUS Read online

  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, alth
ough 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.

  Chapter Ten

  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.

  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 b
uying 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."