Kimberly Menozzi, Author

 
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Thursday Thirteen: 13 Excerpts from 27 Stages 01/12/2011
4 Comments
 
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I've been trying to write as much as possible this week, so I didn't have much time to plan a Thursday Thirteen. On short notice, this is what I've come up with:

13 Excerpts from 27 Stages
(a Work-in-Progress)


_1) "Oh, no. I've left my mobile in the room." Charles patted his trouser pockets and stood next to our table, looking around as though he'd dropped something.

"Why not leave it? I mean, we're only going to be down here a short while. Surely you could just return any missed calls?"

He hesitated, his hands momentarily frozen over his pockets, his expression blank. I understood at once the source of his agitation. He was expecting a call.

Scratch that. He was expecting her call.

"Fine," I said, pretending not to notice his guilty composure. "Go on up. I'll take my time over the menu, then."

Another hesitation, and then he was walking away from our table with obvious restraint.

I sat quietly, unsure how to feel. Charles had never before been quite so transparent about her. Part of me was quite hurt by this, and yet part of me was relieved. Of course, now I had my own mental diversion, and while it wasn't exactly the same it did seem to ease the pain a bit.

There was scarcely more than a moment for me to consider this before a sizeable group of men passed through the dining room and headed toward the exit. Stunned, I sat and watched them file by, chatting amongst themselves while their names ticked off a mental list, one by one: Meijer, Browdowski, Mendoza, Mendoza…

How was it possible we'd stayed in the same hotel and I hadn't even known it?

So much for any "psychic connections," then. I had to smile at my silliness, and that was when Renard passed by the table, one hand raised in a subtle greeting. My smile stayed in place even as my heartbeat sped up and my own hands shook on my lap.

He didn't seem to notice – he only smiled and continued out to the lobby. He glanced back at me before stepping through the doorway, and I heard the rumbling of what I presumed to be the team bus outside the front doors of the hotel.

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_2) In retrospect, the benevolence of being granted a few free hours the night before now made sense. It had been our last chance at that kind of freedom.

"No way should that stage have taken us out like it did. You've all been letting things slide, acting on your own, not following orders." Jerzy turned his cold gaze to Rom, who ducked his head onto his chest. No understanding of English was necessary to know how he'd screwed up, and no doubt the message hit home. "This is what happens. As of today, you get one hour of free time after dinner. That's all."

Adrie's scowl behind Jerzy's back surely hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of the team, but no-one would rat him out. Any rider with a family, or at the very least a girlfriend, was bound to resent such a limit on the time we could spend with them privately.

With surprising calm, Adrie cleared his throat, and Jerzy slowly turned to face him. James tensed next to me, and Alvaro, seated next to Adrie, shifted his seat away to one side after a skyward glance.

"You have something to add, Major?"

"What about our families? An hour a day is hardly enough time to spend with my wife and my daughter, and we all know there will be days we don't see them at all, anyway."

Silence spooled out in the meeting room, and I wondered if anyone else had neglected to breathe, as I had. As quietly as I could, I drew a long breath, waiting to hear Jerzy's response.

"I'm being generous. I could make it one hour a week," he said, and turned again to face the rest of us. "You all need discipline; that's clear. You should be supporting the team leaders, and instead, you fell apart!"

I couldn't help bristling at the plural. Leaders? I screamed mentally. That's the whole fucking problem!

"As far as families go – I don't want to keep any of you away from them. If you want to be with your family, go." He gestured toward the door and Adrie dropped his gaze to the table. "If you stay, you need to remember this: I am your father, your brother, your best friend – even your mother! I am your family. This team is your family. You depend on them, and they depend on you."

The composure with which he spoke was chilling. This was not ranting Jerzy, not blustering or manic Jerzy.

This was Jerzy at his angriest, and I'd never been more aware of walking on a knife-edge than I was then. The rest of the team seemed to be, too. No one spoke, whispered or so much as coughed in the silence that followed.

"Get out to the bus. Now."

Jerzy stalked away, and we all stood, not a chair scraping across the tiled floor before we filed out as quietly as possible.


_3) "You can give him my apologies, if you like," he said, not looking at me.

I laughed and shook my head. "He'd never believe me if I tried to."

"What, that I apologized?"

"No, that I sat here with you as if we knew each other or something. He'd never believe it. I mean, I hardly believe it myself."

He smiled again and my heart lifted.

"We do know each other, don't we? You're Abigail. I'm Federico."

"Acquaintances at best," I said, drawing the words out and shaking my head. I didn't want to delude myself into believing anything too far-fetched, even if he was encouraging it.

"Yes, but…. It has to start somewhere, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

He licked his lips, took another drink and set his glass back on its coaster with exaggerated care.

"Friendship," he said with an air of finality, his gaze meeting and holding mine. "And don't you think these coincidences are enough to show maybe we could be friends?"

Or something else altogether, if your eyes are saying what I think they are.

I pushed the idea aside and tried to focus on the inherent sweetness of the statement he'd just made. Friendship was a lovely option, wasn't it?

"Well, going back to the hotel thing…" I began, unsure why I wanted to return to the topic.

"Hmm?"

"Where is the team staying tonight? That is to say, I doubt we're in the same place again, but it's probably a good idea to be sure."

He laughed quietly, nodding, and I understood he wanted to put me at ease. Something changed in that moment and he ceased to be "Renard" in my mind, becoming "Federico" instead.

That's one step closer to something, but what?

Friendship?


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_4) For a short while, Brunn and I rode shoulder to shoulder, chatting amiably. He asked whether I was still considering moving to Italy, and if so, where? I said I hadn't changed my mind, but was undecided about where exactly I wanted to go.

Behind me, Schlessinger barked a short, disapproving laugh. I glanced back at him and returned my focus to the ride, only to have him pull alongside. I paid no attention to him, but let him get ahead of me and take his turn at the head of the group.

Brunn looked back at me, shrugged, and when the time came he took over at the head of the group again.

"You never did answer my question, Ciccio," Schlessinger said, dropping behind me once more.

"Which question was that?" I asked, filling my voice with as much bored disinterest as I could.

"How's your girlfriend?"

A ripple of chuckles went through the group around me, but I pretended not to notice. Evidently, word had gotten around.

Now I understood who had sent the magazine to me at the hotel.

I took my time answering him, prolonging my silence by taking a long drink from my water bottle, then meticulously replacing it in its cage. It was my turn to lead again, and I did, noting Brunn's questioningly-raised eyebrow as I passed him.

I waited until my turn was over, and then Schlessinger's, before responding.

"She's fine. I wish her the best."

5) "I thought we were supposed to be on holiday. Or at least that you were treating it like that," I said, sitting opposite him. "You never said you'd be working the whole time."

Charles rubbed his eyes slowly, then lowered his hand to the tabletop. "Abby…"

I stiffened. What on earth was coming, now?

He took a deep breath and looked out the window again. "I might have to go home."

"Why?" I asked, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. Was he going to tell me about the other woman? Was he going to ask for a divorce? Should I be feeling almost eager to hear, one way or the other?

"Work, darling. Always for work."

There were no words. I sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before a question finally formed.

"When were you thinking of going?"

"I thought we'd leave from Torino."

"'We'?"

"Of course, 'we'. I couldn't possibly leave you here alone, following that bunch of miscreants –"

"I'm not going home. Not until the Tour is over."

"Abby, be reasonable-"

"I am. If you need to go home, then go home, but I'm not going with you. I'm following this through, all the way to Paris."

He sighed again, and I resisted the urge to stand and slap him. "Abby, Abby… Of all the things to see through, you pick this?"

For just a moment, I hated him. The moment passed, but it passed slowly.

6) My confidence grew with every step I took, and by the time I passed through the lobby, a sense of invincibility had begun to sink in. All these years, I'd convinced myself that Jerzy had some sort of sixth sense going for him. He'd caught so many of my teammates when they'd misbehaved, hadn't he? Why the devil wasn't he down here now, dragging me back upstairs and threatening to break my legs or something?

Because I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, I thought. Not even the desk clerks saw me go by on my way to the front doors.

I stepped out and watched the entrance of the restaurant across the street. I was suddenly sure that were I to simply start walking across the street – without so much as a glance in either direction – no harm would come to me.

Still, I checked. No point in pushing my luck and getting mown down by a bus.

Once I'd crossed I glanced back at my own hotel, fully expecting to see Jerzy at his window, scowling down at me. Or perhaps waiting at the front door with a hangman's noose in his hand. Or the bucket.

I shivered a little, unable to stop, and then went inside.

7) "I'm glad I found you, Abigail."

"Abby," I said, my lips forming my own name in spite of the fact I couldn't feel them, any more. "My friends call me Abby."

That smile again – innocent, not sly or seductive – and I couldn't pull my gaze away. I was distantly aware of the heat rising to my cheeks. And a few other places, as well.

My heart was pounding to the point I almost couldn't hear when he spoke again. The din of rushing blood in my ears and the rattling of suitcases as they were pulled through the lobby behind me had rendered me nearly deaf.

Then he rested his hand on my arm, just below the short sleeve of my t-shirt, and I snapped out of my daze.

"Abby," he said, my name sounding awkward as he used it for the first time. "Could I buy you a coffee, or something? I'd like to see more of your photos, if I may." His eyes flicked in the direction of my computer bag, and I followed a moment behind, uncomprehending.

"Oh," I said, half-laughing as I understood at last. "Of course you can. We could go in the restaurant here, or in the bar in the back. I think they might have some booths free."

"Perfect." He started across the foyer with me, one hand rising to touch the back of my arm, just above my elbow. It was an innocent, gentlemanly gesture, nothing more, but it sent a small shock through me.

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8) My heart was beating triple-time as I hurried across the street and into my hotel. I put my hand in my pocket and felt my keycard there, then took it out and grasped it tight in one hand. Scanning the lobby to reassure myself, I went straight to the stairwell and unlocked the door with my keycard, then took the stairs two at a time, bounding up as quietly as I could.

When I reached my floor, I paused, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths until I could hear the air-conditioning hum echoing around me. There was no other sound on the floor, as far as I could tell.

I opened the door carefully and poked my head out, harbouring a momentary, insane desire for a mirror to check around the corners with. No sign of Jerzy. He wasn't lurking behind the decorative ficus, nor was he standing by the door to my room. The corridor was completely empty.

Easing the stairwell door shut behind me, I took a few tentative steps toward my room, the keycard against my palm now slicked with sweat.

More silence. Only silence. The quiet padding of my trainers across the carpeted floor barely registered. A sudden, blatting fart – reminiscent of an angry duck's quack! – made me jump as I passed James and Phil's room.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard, to stop the laughter which threatened to erupt. I didn't know if I wanted to laugh because of the noise, or because the noise had actually startled me.

I had to be crazy. This was the biggest risk I'd ever taken – none of my races even compared to this. I knew as well as anyone that Jerzy's wrath wasn't something to be trifled with – contract or no contract, if he wanted you off the team, you were gone.

And here I'd acted against his very explicitly-expressed wishes. I'd broken one of his biggest rules by defying the team curfew.

9) Hollowness carved itself into my stomach at the thought. Could I really be so pragmatic? Could I really let him go so easily? Living alone was something I could handle, no doubt – I was already doing so, wasn't I? – but truly being alone?

I shivered at the thought as Charles replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone. The bed sank beneath his weight as he shifted and stood up, and I pulled the covers up over my shoulder. I listened to him padding to the window, heard the shick of the curtains opening and the soft patter of rain against the windowpane.

"Abby, you need to get up. We'll want to leave for Avignon as soon as possible this morning."

I ducked under the covers a bit more, sighing. He was right. The stage was starting there today, and it wasn't likely we'd arrive early enough to beat most of the crowds. Perhaps I'd have to shoot further along the route instead?

I shook my head. The logistics alone made it unlikely that Charles would agree to change any plans at this late hour.

With a groan, I extracted myself from the covers and shuffled across the room. My lack of sleep the night before was going to be problematical. Charles laughed softly behind me and I turned to face him.

"What?" I asked, allowing myself a smile at the sound of his gentle mirth.

"You're becoming an old fart like me, darling. The late nights aren't agreeing with you as much as they used to, eh?"

"I guess not." I nodded, stepping onto the cool, tiled floor of the bathroom. "Maybe I just need to get back into the habit?"

"Maybe."

He stood in the doorway while I took off my nightgown. I felt his gaze, steadily assessing, slide over me while I turned on the water in the tub and pulled the lever to send the water up to the showerhead. I stood straight and faced him, making no attempt to hide myself. Why should I? He'd seen everything a thousand times before, and had shown his appreciation just a few days ago, hadn't he?

And yet… The desire to cover myself up, a perverse demure impulse, flitted through me. The words were there, on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be spoken.

Who are you? Where did you come from? Why did you go?

And the worst, most painful question of all came as he turned away, half-smiling.

What did I do wrong?

10) I wondered briefly how Schlessinger thought he might fare on the descents this time. Would he manage his nerves better this time around? In the team meeting on the bus that morning, Jerzy had alluded to the descents as being of key importance. I was climbing well – stupendously well, in fact – and a touch of that sense of invincibility returned as I worked my way up the ascent.

I don't really believe in luck – good or bad – but I couldn't deny the feeling which had wrapped itself around me this morning. Aware I was smiling again, I wondered if I looked as oblivious and simpleminded as I feared I might.

The day came into sharp focus: the green of the mountains, the white peaks in the distance, the deep grey of the tarmac rolling slowly beneath our wheels all had a clarity which I would have sworn wasn't there moments before. The air itself was crisp and sharp, magnifying the approaching summit until it seemed as though we were there a thousand times over.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, her voice was whispering her name to me.

She was in Grenoble by now. She was waiting.

I had to reach her. Forget everything else.

And if I happened to snatch a little time and close the gap a bit? If I happened to get a bit closer to the Royal in the process? All the better.

11) There were still three weeks before the race was over, too. Could I really do it on my own? And if I did, what would I be coming home to? In a way, it was almost better not knowing. At least then I could imagine whatever I wanted, and deal with the reality later.

It was a foolish way to address the situation, but there it was. I'd made my choice by not saying anything. It was already too late. Whenever I told him (tomorrow? the day after? the day after that, when he left?), there was no way to know how he'd react.

We'd have to hash this out eventually, but I was reluctant to set it all in motion.

Or I could just go home with him and be done with it.

I shook my head. No, that would never do. I'd hate myself forever if I did. How many dreams did I have to let die to find the dream I wanted most? I'd given up the idea of children when his career made it clear I'd be raising them alone, and now it was nearly too late. I'd passed on owning a photo lab in our small town because he felt it was too risky and besides, "The chemist's got that covered, hasn't he?" Artistic photography? Too arty-farty and I'd need a proper patron in order to make it work. "And what would you photograph, anyway? Backsides and landscapes?"

I sighed, remembering. He'd methodically shot down each and every one of them with stunning accuracy. I still didn't understand why he'd gone along with the Tour project. Maybe because the magazine had liked my demo shots and put up some funding for this project? Or maybe because his job had all but pushed him to take a holiday in the first place?

Most likely he'd thought I'd get bored and abandon it, just like I'd done with other half-hearted projects in the past; furniture refinishing, an attempt at watercolour paintings of landscapes, volunteering at the local crafts club.

But this was different. This was my passion reborn, but he couldn't see it at all.

He couldn't see the changes in me, either. I reckon we'd grown too far apart for him to see me clearly any more.

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12) "I saw what happened with Solange. Her pictures are all over the 'net right now."

Was it possible I had no idea what she was talking about? Did she mean the AvantMode – if one pardoned the unfortunate choice of word – spread?

Abby blushed again, deeper this time.

"I saw the photos of her with that Conway person. They were on the entertainment news on TV, too."

"They were?" I asked, strangely incredulous.

Abby nodded, guiltily this time. "Yes. Some sort of art show or premiere or something? I hadn't heard anything about that until today. You're taking it rather well, though."

"Well, you know. I wish her the best. Really, I do. She'd never have been happy with me, anyway."

I don't know why I said it, but as soon as I had, I realized it was true. Solange had hated cycling – she hated most sports, except for figure skating and diving competitions – and she had admitted it from the start. That was, once her gig as a Tour d'Europa podium girl was over, of course. It wouldn't have done for the public to know that the smiling girl in the royal blue dress, giving kisses to each cyclist on the podium, thought that the sport itself was boring and the competitors were egotistical bastards (her words, not mine).

"How can you say that?" Abby's face held a sincere confusion which I found both puzzling and endearing. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm not being hard on myself," I said, and a small chuckle wormed its way out of me. "Honestly. It's very kind of you to defend me, though. Even if it is against myself."

"Well, you seem like a decent enough person to me. I mean, you're nice, you're accessible, you're attra-" She cut herself short, but not before I understood what she was about to say.

The ever-deepening flush in her cheeks only confirmed it.

"Maybe I'm not so nice, Abby."

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning the computer so she could see it without looking up at me.

"The fact I've hardly thought about her the last couple of days should mean something, shouldn't it?"

13) I was thankful Charles had gone up to the room to do some work, particularly glad he hadn't put up much fuss about the fact one of the teams was staying there. That they would be on the bottom floors and we would be at the top seemed to help, too.

The team came into the lobby while I was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the dining hall entrance, just passing the time before I went up to get changed for dinner. I put away my computer, resisting the urge to go up to Federico and…do what? Throw my arms around him and kiss him? Ask him to take me away?

I shook my head and laughed to myself. Ridiculous. I'm absolutely ridiculous.

But when I got up to leave, he turned around and spotted me as though he'd expected me to be there all along.

Stopping short, I stood there, his gaze holding mine across the lobby's parquet flooring and wooden furnishings. In spite of the chaos of a couple dozen people checking in at once, the lobby seemed silent and still. He broke eye contact with me to face the receptionist and take the keycard she'd slid across the desk to him, and then he turned and pushed through his teammates in order to come over and join me.

A swift rush of dizziness came over me and I realized I'd stopped breathing for a moment. I drew a long, deep breath before he stepped up to me, smiling his usual sweet, warm smile.




And there you have an additional thirteen excerpts from 27 Stages.












I hope you've enjoyed them.























I'm working hard to get the book finished and then, of course, out for all you fine readers to enjoy in its entirety.































In the meantime, I'll have to give the ladies a little something to tide them over.






















Just a little somethin'-somethin'.
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Oh, look! Bikes! :) Ciao for now!
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Thursday Thirteen: 13 Characters from 27 Stages 13/10/2011
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Well, now I'm getting back to serious work on my WiP, I thought I'd share some of the visual shorthand I've been using while creating it. So please, allow me to present to you:

Thirteen Characters from
27 Stages

1) Federico "Ciccio" Renard - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad).

Although he's half-French and half-Italian, the inspiration for Federico comes from both a Swiss rider and an Italian rider, who happen to be two of my favorites: Fabian Cancellara and Daniele Bennati.

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2) Abigail McGann-White - amateur photographer.

Abigail is another character with a split nationality.
Her father is American, her mother is British. Born in the US, she's lived in England with her mother since she was seventeen. Now forty years old, Abigail is dealing with a number of issues of identity and working to determine what she wants from her life. My visual inspiration for her is harder to pin down, but this stock image made a good starting point:
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3) Jerzy Jankowski - lead directeur sportif/team manager/Svengali for team Alta VeloCidad. This was another instance where I saw a photo by chance and thought: That's the look, right there. Of course, Polish actor Łukasz Simlat is much, much younger than Jerzy, but the photo below shows some of the intensity I picture every time I write about the team's boss.
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4) Charles White - Abigail's husband, a barrister in the UK. I'm sure quite a few readers, should they see this, will be rather displeased with me. LOL! But I thought Colin Firth was a perfect model to build Charles on - particularly since he has that "proper" air about him at times, but could also have a slightly "deviant" side, too, as Charles does.
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5) Heinrich Brunn - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Brunn, a German cyclist, was much harder to pin down. I had more of an "archetype" in mind when he started taking shape, but there was one cyclist in particular he seemed to resemble - at least, physically. No matter, this is fiction after all.
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6) Romuald "Robaczku" Brodowski - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). When I saw this photo of French actor Stanislas Merhar, I knew I'd found my Rom.
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7) Adrie "Major" Meijer - cyclist. Athough he's a different type of rider, and a different nationality, Italian Filippo Pozzato (to my everlasting chagrin) has similar physical attributes to Austrian super-domestique Adrie. Temperamentally, however, I don't think they could be farther apart. LOL!
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8) Jurgen Schlessinger - cyclist (Maxxout). This character is probably Federico's strongest competitor in the sport, and still he is someone I have a lot of sympathy for. In my mind, he's the also-ran always struggling in Federico's wake, a sort of Salieri to Federico's Mozart, if you will. (I'm seriously considering a short story from his POV, too.) He's played in my mind by Gerald Ciolek.
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9) Solange Melo - model, former "podium girl", Federico's fiancée. I don't know the name of the girl in the photo, here, but she's a podium girl for the Tour de France. Solange is a model just starting to make waves, but her ambition proves to be a bit too much for Federico's taste.
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10) Pascal Savreux - professional photographer, French, an acquaintance of Abigail's. From the start, I've had in mind a Vincent Cassel-type, just a little rounder and a little softer 'round the edges. The fact he's closer to Abigail's age makes him an appealing potential disruption to her plans.
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11) Alvaro and Teodoro Mendoza - twin brothers, Spanish, cyclists (AltaVeloCidad).
Almost in spite of myself, I wound up picturing the Haedo brothers (Sebastian and J.J.) when I wrote these characters, even though they aren't twins (thank goodness). There are loads of brother acts in cycling, though.
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12) Philip Mason - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Welshman Geraint Thomas is a good fit for Philip, a British rider with a bizarre sense of humor, which is shared with his roommate, James.
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13) James Bradford - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Alex Dowsett was another rider who came to mind when writing many of the scenes when the riders are off the road. There's just something about his facial expressions which came to mind during James' and Philip's cutting up at various points in the story.
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And there you have 13 Characters from 27 Stages - my current Work in Progress.























I think you might agree there's a little something for everyone in this story, eh?



























And if not, well, c'est la vie!
























At any rate, I hope to include something that'll please a few of my regulars.
















After all...






















I'm a giver!

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Mathis Streitwieser
Ciao for now!
16 Comments
 
13 Photos Currently Inspiring My WiP 03/02/2011
16 Comments
 
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ACK! <scramble, scramble>

Yep - I've been caught unprepared again this week. There's been a lot going on "behind the scenes" as it were, so I didn't have time to do a heavily-detailed Thursday Thirteen this week. I'm afraid I'll have to repeat a theme I've done before, but with new material. (Does that make sense?)

So here are

13 Photos Currently
Inspiring My WiP

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The Leopard Trek team at the Tour Down Under last January.
1) A morning briefing. This is a good example of the stuff most people don't think about when it comes to this sport. There is more to it than getting on the bike and going faster than everyone else (though that helps, of course). The tactics and strategy for stage races can be surprisingly detailed, and the riders meet to discuss the race before and after every stage.
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Heh. *ahem*
2) Prepping for the race. Numbers have to be pinned on to jerseys before the riders can get dressed for the race.

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Fabian Cancellara. I wuv him. (Look at that HAIR!!!)
3) More preparations - that helmet has to fit properly, after all - and as always: Safety First!
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Smmmmooooch!
4) A quick peck for your sweetie, and then...

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Um... What? Did someone say something to me?
5) Waiting to start the race. Seriously, for the material I'm working on, this is more than sufficient for inspiration. ;)

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Whoooosh!
6) They're off! Of course, this would likely be well into a stage. I love the movement in this pic.
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He's silly. Wuv.
7) Lunch time on-the-go! Things can get a bit silly, too, at this point during a race. Just about everyone takes it easy while they refuel. Or, at least, they should.

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A little to the left, please... Ah, that's the spot!
8) Actually, in a race everything has to be done on-the-go, whenever possible. Here my boy Fabian gets his shoe adjusted while discussing race matters with (presumably) his directeur sportif.
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Definitely not in the plan.
9) Occasionally, of course, things don't go quite according to plan...

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I mean, seriously. Look at that road. Now enjoy Fabian's legs.
10) This photo is providing much inspiration at the moment, as I'm working on a Stage featuring a crash modelled after a) what has been called the "Stockeau Massacre" in the 2010 Tour de France and b) the following day's ride over the cobblestone roads which normally feature in the Paris-Roubaix classic road race each year.
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Just so... Intense. Rawr.
11) Fabian again - this time in Time Trial mode. The picture isn't exactly clear because it's a screen capture. But it's an excellent screen capture, IMHO. It really conveys the intensity of the moment.

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I'm wandering toward my happy place. Excuse me.
12) The boys have to make themselves presentable before they go on the podium. They get wiped down and cleaned up (I can't help thinking of racehorses when I see video of this. Is that wrong?), are given a fresh jersey, and then go out to be photographed with the pretty girls in front of the fans.
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Jens Voigt, chatting while getting his post-race massage.
13) A very useful photo. Without shots like this, the little details would get past me: note the placement of the blanket, the towels, the slow-cooker on the table (presumably to heat the oil before it's applied). Excellent stuff.




And there you have them - 13 Photos Currently Inspiring My WiP.

















I know, I know...

















After all the boys on bikes, you want something else.





























And it's only fair.



























So here ya go:
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Will this do?
Ciao for now!
16 Comments
 
The Devil is in the Details (part one) 26/01/2011
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There are people who are surprised by how much attention I'm currently giving to details in my WiP, 27 Stages. I am teased on a regular basis about the research I'm doing (real and fanciful), because I clearly enjoy cycling so much.

Well, there are many reasons I'm putting so much time and effort into this project. Not only is cycling a passion of mine (at least, as a spectator), not only do I want to write the best possible story I can and not only do I want people to read this and really and truly feel like they are there...

I also don't want a review like this:

Zosia's Review of Amorous Liaisons.

It's not that I feel the review is in any way unfair - far from it, in fact. I think Zosia has legitimate gripes and complaints. Absolutely legitimate. While the author of Amorous Liaisons seems to have done some research, it would seem she didn't dig quite deep enough. Granted, I don't have an in-depth/expert knowledge of ballet, but even I know (courtesy of a brief but intense love of the art while I was in my teens) some of the things this author got wrong.

My point being - when it comes to research, I think it's vital to go the extra mile. Don't sell your audience short. Don't skim over details which are important to the plot. Don't assume they won't catch if you're bluffing.

Because they will.

Knowing that a good portion of my target audience will, at the very least, be familiar with le Tour de France, I know I have to maintain a certain level of realism and detail in 27 Stages. If I don't, they'll catch me out on the big things. The members of my audience who know more about cycling (perhaps are even riders themselves) will pick on the smaller details, the lesser-known things. I know it. I expect it.

And I hope I can write this book well enough to avoid it. At least somewhat.

The only way to do this is to write to the best of my ability, to find common ground for everyone and to do as much research as I possibly can. And, in the meantime, I need to create a story that'll suck everyone in so they don't care if/when I go a little wrong.

Cross your fingers for me. I could use the luck.

And now, I've got to go do some research.
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Raising the Stakes 03/01/2011
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I feel like I'm slowly getting back on track after a very unproductive holiday-filled six weeks. It's been difficult -- much harder than I'd have anticipated, actually.

However, I'm determined to get back into the proper headspace for 27 Stages, and I made a little headway last night, thanks in part to a documentary Alle and I watched about Italian cyclist Fausto Coppi. Yesterday was the fifty-first anniversary of Coppi's death from malaria at the age of forty-one, and since Coppi was one of Italy's greatest cyclists, it is not a day likely to pass without commemoration in this country.
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Memorial to Coppi at Pordoi Pass, Italy.
Just about every fan of cycling is aware of who Coppi is. The son of farmers in the Apennines in Northwest Italy, he rose to the heights of his chosen sport, fought in World War II, then returned to compete and achieve further acclaim as Italy worked to find its footing as a nation once again. Only his affair with a married woman -- while still married himself -- managed to tarnish his reputation in many eyes, and brought him into conflict with the laws of that time.

It's hard for me to imagine, now, that an extramarital affair could be punished by sending the participants to prison. It's hard to imagine how strongly he must have felt for "la dama in bianco" -- "the woman in white", as she was described in the press at the time -- that he would be willing to endure such public outcry (which included being spat on by spectators of the races he rode) and criticism (from no less than the Pope himself).

But he did.

He loved her and gave up his family and a good deal of his popular acclaim in order to be with her. Right or wrong, he followed his heart and did what he thought he had to in order to be with her. They dealt with the consequences, started their family (they had a son in spite of the fact they couldn't legally wed in Italy) and tried to go forward together. In the end, of course, it didn't work out the way they'd planned. Coppi died after contracting malaria during a safari trip in Burkina Faso. (The malady was misdiagnosed as influenza when it emerged after his return to Italy.)

In the last few weeks, I've seen this documentary and I've read William Fotheringham's biography of Coppi. Viewing what Coppi went through makes the prose on the page still more vivid.

After watching the documentary on television yesterday, Coppi has been on my mind even more: what he sacrificed and what he salvaged, who he loved and who he hurt, his own private losses throughout it all (his brother, Serse, who became a cyclist after Fausto did, died after crashing during the final sprint in the Giro del Piemonte in 1951).

And all of this gets turned over and over in my head, tiny elements sticking together and becoming a different whole.
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Coppi in a breakaway. There is a lithograph of this in my living room.
I'm thinking a lot about what I've written so far in 27 Stages. Yes, it's fiction, but it's clear to me that the stakes need to be raised, the risks need to be greater than what I've written up to now. I know, if only because the reality is so much greater than anything I could ever invent, I need to do my damnedest to do the stories justice.

Because their stories deserve no less.
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Thirteen Excerpts from my current WIP 25/02/2010
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This week, I thought I'd share a little of what I'm working on lately. These excerpts are all from the first draft of my current WIP, a novel called 27 Stages, which is set in the world of professional road cycling (if you're unfamiliar with the sport, think of the Tour de France).

I featured other excerpts last year on my Profoundly Shallow blog, and these pick up where those left off. I hope you like what you see, here.

And now, with no further ado, I present:

13 Excerpts from 27 Stages
(a work in progress)




1) (Federico)
Rom was working mightily to get me to the head of the pack, in the throes of the final kilometers on the broken-heart-shaped perimeter road around Reus. Attilio did the same for Brunn, growing more aggressive as the stretch of roadway straightened out in front of us and the peloton surged forward as a whole.

There was some confusion at the long oval roundabout, and a few riders in the back of the peloton went down. More mildly grisly footage for the fans of crashes, then. After the tight curves, the road rounded gently to the left, and we continued jostling for position, trying to reassure ourselves of maintaining our standings. It was unlikely that Schlessinger would try anything today – strategically speaking, the climb into Andorra was his best bet for a Royal finish – so it was all a matter of maintaining the status quo.

Rom, doggedly forging ahead of me to open a slot in the pack so we could advance, threw me a look somewhere between amusement and agony. Tomorrow he'd be happy – the mountain stage would be brutal for some of us, but he'd be on his preferred turf – though at the moment, he was suffering. He'd never coped well with the monotony of flat stages.

Brunn and I were riding at speed amongst the peloton, but the group containing the sprinters was well ahead of us, gunning for the finish at the end of this flat stage. From Valencia to Torreblanca, Alvaro had sparred with Teodoro, promising his own victory to even the score between himself and his brother. Teodoro had instead assured us all of his own imminent victory, going so far as to predict a one-second gap at the finish.

Braggadocio, all of it – but the good-natured teasing between the brothers was enough to entertain the rest of us for the length of the stage.


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2) (Federico)
A burst of shrieking and screaming across the team's radio frequency took me a moment to comprehend. Either Jerzy had just slipped over the edge into insanity, or somewhere closer to the line, one or more of my teammates had made a tactical mistake.

Brunn glanced at me, his expression inscrutable, save for a flicker of concern in his eyes before he turned back to the matter at hand.

Listening to the invective spewing over the airwaves, I had the feeling things weren't exactly going according to plan at the finish.

We pressed forward, the final roundabout looming ahead when Attilio gave a shout and bumped shoulders with another rider who was riding too close as the curve tightened.

Rom broke through the last few cyclists blocking us and I followed close on his wheel, the two of us making our way up to the head of the pack to lead the group through the roundabout and down the short final stretch.

We breezed our way down Avinguda di Sant Jordi, avoiding the concrete lip of the island separating the lanes of the road, but other riders weren't so lucky, judging from the shouts of the crowd and the skree of titanium on pavement, which followed the final turn.

Rom fell back behind me in short order and Brunn was soon at my shoulder, a slight grin on his face the only indication that he was pleased with how things had gone. As far as I could tell, there wasn't even a hint of curiosity regarding Jerzy's previous rant, not one iota of concern for Alvaro or Teodoro or for how they'd fared.

I supposed we'd find out soon enough.

In the meantime, for the riders who'd remained upright, it was a brisk finish. A few of the other riders picked themselves up and finished the stage with no problem. Only a handful of riders were unable to ride across the line, mostly from mechanical difficulties.

As for me, a strong sense of relief took hold once I was solidly across the finish line. The Royal was still mine, and I'd wear it into Andorra, regardless of whether I'd keep it once we got there.

As we made our way back to the team area to ready ourselves for the presentation ceremony, the source of Jerzy's dismay was made clear. Alvaro and Teodoro had gone very, very wrong and lost the sprint – which, by all estimations, had been theirs to take.

To my amazement, Jerzy hadn't quite exploded yet. We were, however, fifty miles outside Barcelona, and it looked like it was going to be a very, very long ride.
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3) (Abigail)
The end of the race was rather quiet, compared to how the other stages had gone. Only the sprint, with its disastrous turn of events for Alta VeloCidad, proved noteworthy. I was lucky enough to get photos of it all: from Putnam storming the line to Renard's quietly triumphant arrival a few seconds later, to the last, lingering arrivals after the crash in the final turn.

Wishful thinking had me almost convinced he'd seen me shortly after he'd crossed the line. I tried my best to shake the sensation – foolish as it was – and concentrated on snapping shots of the last of the peloton as they straggled across the finish line, the walking wounded, sometimes in a literal sense. I wondered at the sense of pride which could compel these athletes to soldier on this way, in some cases broken and bleeding, and not lightly injured.

Then I wondered if I was much different, since I'd been doing the same in my own way.

Charles had driven us to Barcelona, and I'd driven myself back to Reus alone. I planned to spend my drive back, and then my dinner that night, that way as well: alone.

I imagined he was in the hotel room, eating room service and talking with her on the phone, since I'd decided to leave him to it in the end. It was preferable to hearing the constant ringing of the phone, or to watching his guilty assessment of the same.

If I'd had a choice, I probably would have preferred to stay in the hotel room alone, as well.

As the situation stood, I didn't have a choice, and it probably didn't matter, either. If I let myself consider it realistically, the idea of completing the Tour alone was much too intimidating.

I lingered at the finish for a while after the end of the race, catching a few more random shots. The chaperones who ran from place to place, some of them escorting riders, some of them running errands; the fans, excitedly discussing the events of the race; the clean-up crews getting to work as soon as possible.

I belatedly made my way toward the podium and held my camera up over the crowd to capture a few more atmospheric shots before the presentations. I switched out the lens for a zoom and managed a few shots of the competitors receiving their jerseys amongst the cheering and clapping of the crowd.

A strange melancholy came over me as they stepped off the podium and shook hands with the town officials and other guests, before making their way toward the press line and their team buses beyond it. I was sure if I really tried I could get back there to ask some questions as well as take a few candid shots. When I thought of Renard's expression when he'd signed that autograph for me, I felt a slow melting inside.

Ridiculous. A schoolgirl's crush, and I was – what? – at least ten years older than he was. At least.

I made a mental note to look up his information online when I got back to the hotel. Or maybe I'd look it up on my netbook from the bar before I went up to the room. I didn't really feel like enduring any snide comments from Charles when I returned to Barcelona, tonight.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't be making them anymore, now that I'd called him on his "phone mate" and everything. Never mind. I'd play it by ear and see how things went.

Drifting back to my car, I paused as a shiver ran along my spine in a light, tingling caress. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I turned toward the Village, where the remainder of the crowd milled around just outside the team areas.

There was no-one there, but I would have sworn I'd felt his gaze on me, if just for a moment. I clucked my tongue dismissively. I was getting potty in my old age, I reckoned, and resumed my walk to the car.

When the feeling came again, I took out my camera, aimed it over my shoulder, and clicked the shutter. I'd examine the shot when I got to Barcelona.
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4) (Federico)
The climb had been so gradual as to be nearly imperceptible. The chatter amongst the riders, which had begun with the false start and continued through the first breakaway, had quieted and then finally stopped altogether as the route trended slowly upward.

Now the mountains which had lined the horizon for the length of the day were all I saw, surrounding me and seeming to close in while I dragged myself toward the summit of the penultimate climb. The ascent grew steeper and steeper still, clawing the breath from my lungs in hot, ragged pulls through the heat-shimmer off the tarmac in the midsummer afternoon.

There was no breeze. The crowds of obscenely exuberant spectators lining the roadway blocked it from the riders. My sweat was cooled by the currents created by my forward motion, or it slowly evaporated through the layers of spandex I wore. It pooled in the small of my back and under the radio receiver taped to my ear, loosening the adhesive to a sticky drag along my lobe. With every movement I made, I could feel the radio itself, tucked beneath the shoulder strap of my bib shorts, sliding back and forth over the sheen of perspiration on my side. Unzipping my jersey did little to alleviate the heat, and it hung limp over me, seeming to absorb my sweat, adding to the weight I was hauling up the mountain.

A faint, metallic scent hovered in the air over the peloton, a humid, elemental odor of exertion and willpower. I could smell it emanating from myself, my teammates and the others. I could taste it in the dryness of my mouth between swallows from my water bottle. It ground out of me with every crank of the pedals as I maintained my place in the group, ascending the Pyrenean slopes.

After hours in the saddle, with exhaustion rearing its head, the end was finally approaching. I was sliding ever backward, into the heart of the peloton. Rom was giving it all he had, but I couldn't keep up.

Someone called out my name, and when the group I rode in had thinned out to a long, straggling line, I felt a spectator's hand on my back, pushing me forward in a gesture of assistance. I wanted to swat them away – couldn't they see they were more a hindrance than a help? – but I resisted.

Though only just.

Attilio and Brunn were ahead, maintaining their pace in a generous bid to keep me in the running, but I knew there was no real hope. Not today.

Schlessinger and his domestique, a scrawny little powerhouse named Lorenzo Motta, were just behind us. I knew they wouldn't be there for long; if my rival were going to make a grab for the Royal, it would be today. This was his clearest chance and he'd be a fool not to take it.

Even as the thought occurred to me, Motta and Schlessinger seemed to float past, their ascent on the steep grade seeming as smooth as if they were gliding downhill, instead. I watched, stunned as Schlessinger glared back at me over his shoulder and then broke into a wide grin.




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5) (Federico)
"How's the girlfriend, Ciccio?" he called back before the crowd swallowed him up, their shouts and cheers drowning out anything else he'd had to say.

I suppose my puzzlement was plain on my face, and my reaction was not the one he'd sought. His scowl returned and he put his back to me, continuing to power his way uphill. Brunn followed him slowly, Attilio carrying him along, and both of them spared me brief, sympathetic glances as they went.

What the hell is going on here?

I pushed myself harder, striving for the summit only just visible over the churning crowds. Brunn was already lost to my sightline, and Rom doggedly led me through the chaos as we climbed endlessly toward the top. Brunn would catch Schlessinger, I was sure of it. On the final ascent, they'd race to the top for the mountain finish, and Brunn would keep him at bay.

He had to, or the Royal would be out of Alta VeloCidad's hands. Neither of us wanted that, even if I didn't want Brunn to have it.

I caught a glimpse of Schlessinger just before he disappeared over the summit. Several agonizing moments later, Brunn left Attilio behind and did the same. The image of Brunn's purple-and-silver team colors in the sunlight, then winking out of existence, was burned into my brain.

When at last I crested the top, I saw Brunn giving chase below. Schlessinger was working damned hard to lose him on the descent, but it was clear he still lacked the confidence to use the steep downward slope to his advantage. I thought of nature programs which showed lions or panthers as they ran down their prey – galloping easily along before they reach out toward the hind leg of some swift gazelle and trip it up, knocking it to the ground.

Brunn and Schlessinger worked something like that: two tawny, golden beasts of speed, hurtling downhill until one – Brunn – swatted casually with one great paw, and just like that, it was over.

Not literally, of course, but once Brunn had passed Schlessinger and the final ascent had begun, the end of the stage was clear. And I was nowhere close to the scene as it played out.

All the same, I rode as hard and fast as I possibly could, to no avail. It made no difference how swiftly I descended, leaving Rom and the others behind. The next climb took me out in spite of my best efforts.

I'd lost the Royal.

To Brunn.
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6) (Abigail)
The first riders ascended the final climb, reaching the slight plateau and straightaway with some difficulty. My heart sank. The Royal wasn't amongst the brilliant colors flaring against the dark of the tarmac, which meant that Renard had lost the top spot.

I swallowed down my disappointment and snapped my shots of Heinrich Brunn crossing the line, a desperately disillusioned Jürgen Schlessinger in frame just over his shoulder. Both of them wore fixed grimaces of effort, but the expression in Schlessinger's eyes was something on the edge of sheer defeat.

For a moment, my heart went out to him in a sincere wave of sympathy. From what we'd watched on the giant screens along the finish, it had been a mighty struggle for him. Brunn had clearly had the win from the final lengths on the ascent, making the whole thing look positively effortless. That surely added insult to injury for the younger German rider.

Four more riders swept past, and still Renard hadn't shown. I turned to the screen and saw the shot being filmed by the helicopter hovering just a short distance away: Renard was nearly to the plateau, but it was a fight he seemed to be riding to a draw. His domestique, Romuald Brodowski, was working hard to pull Renard up to the finish, that much was clear.

When they came into view, I quickly switched out my lens for a zoom and focused on them as the road leveled out beneath them. Was it my imagination, or was Brodowski looking particularly frustrated? From his previous performances in the mountains, I knew he was an excellent climber, and this chore had to be draining all the enjoyment of the stage from him. Still, he did his job admirably, and managed to get them both across the line in time for Renard to stay in top five classification.

I captured them crossing the line, and then slowly riding to their handlers. Renard's shoulders were slumped in exhaustion, and this time there was neither a giddy, delirious grin or expression of victory to buoy the fatigue. I kept taking photos of the arrivals, but I couldn't resist aiming the camera to catch Renard as he slid to the ground with his back against the barriers, unable to face the people around him.

More riders arrived and I caught them as they passed, my mind continually drifting to Renard, forcing me to turn and watch him through the lens, snagging a few photos in the process. Finally the group of sprinters arrived en masse, just barely within the maximum time allowed, but when I turned back Renard wasn't there. He'd been spirited away, presumably to the team bus and his post-stage cool down.

A distinct disappointment filled my stomach, and I packed up most of my gear before heading toward the podium for the presentations. I made my way through the crowd, noting that some of the faces were becoming almost familiar to me. Some were photographers – amateurs, like me – others were just devoted fans, I guessed, following the Tour as it snaked its way across the Continent. We exchanged nods or tilts of the head whenever we caught one another's eye, silently acknowledging the slight sense of recognition growing amongst us.

The heat was incredible, made even closer and more uncomfortable by the press of bodies beneath the late-afternoon sun. At last I reached the galley where I could set up on the edge of the photographers' pit, and I saw the Frenchman I'd met a few days ago. He smiled and shrugged vaguely behind him, seeming to indicate I should set up there, so I did.

I dutifully snapped away as Brunn and Schlessinger arrived, followed by the Basque rider, Estebe Legarreta who looked delighted to be the third place finisher. All the while, my thoughts were drifting to Renard and how he'd looked when he'd crossed the line. It wasn't just losing the Royal – the margin wasn't so great he couldn't reclaim it after the mountain stages were finished, anyway. No, something else was at work beneath the façade he presented to the public.

I shook my head, feeling ridiculous. What the hell was wrong with me? Did I really think I was so attuned to him? Based on what? A one-minute meeting and a lovemaking fantasy was all we had between us, and I had to admit it was a rather one-sided deal.

But my instincts had been correct in Reus, hadn't they? When I'd checked my photos last night, I'd found him in the crowd at the team buses in the final photo I'd snapped over my shoulder before going home. Not that this meant he'd been watching me or anything, but surely my awareness of him meant –

No. It didn't. It was a stupid fantasy and nothing more, but at least it made time spent at the hotel bearable.

Charles' silent resentment was hard to take, but his absence at the last stage finishes had been a relief. I hated to admit it, but there it was: I was more relaxed without him around. Without his grousing, his pronounced disinterest – and yes, his constant phone calls from "work" – it was so much easier to focus on what I was doing. There was no need to worry about him being happy, particularly since I knew nothing I did, shy of sending him to the nearest pub, would please him.

I had the uncanny feeling that tonight would be like last night, and I would spend the better part of it alone again. I had already decided on which bar I would pass the time in, was already considering what I might have for dinner while I perused my photos from today on my netbook. Charles had told me before I left this afternoon, not long after lunch, and after he'd had two calls already, that he was going to have to take care of some work and thus wouldn't be able to have dinner with me.

"Since these bloody Spaniards can't eat at a proper time," he'd complained, "I suppose I'll just have to have room service instead of waiting until eleven bloody p.m."

"This is Andorra," I'd said in response, putting my bag on my shoulder. "We're not in Spain anymore."

"Well, then. Maybe there's hope for a meal at a proper time." His gaze met mine evenly, and I waited for him to continue. "But I'll still be working tonight, Abby."

"Okay." With that, I'd picked up my other bag and gone out the door to get some photos of the city.

And now I was sitting the bar I'd planned on all day, alternating my drinks between mineral water and white wine, examining my photos while I waited for a response to the email I'd sent my prospective publisher.

All in all, it was not how I'd imagined following the Tour would go for me.
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7) (Federico)
The fact a silence briefly fell as soon as I entered the team's section of the hotel restaurant was the first sign that something was up. It only lasted a moment or two – too short to be anything of consequence, really – but I knew I hadn't imagined it when Rom didn't meet my eyes and Attilio shifted uncomfortably in his seat, doubtless feeling some species of guilt for having got Brunn so far ahead of me.

As for the new number-one race leader, Brunn went back to talking privately with Jerzy, giving scarcely a nod in my direction. I resisted a scowl and went to the last available seat at the table along the wall, where the bulk of my teammates and the rest of the crew sat.

With everyone politely averting his gaze from me, was it any wonder I thought I must have reeked with the stench of failure?

When I reached my chair, however, I found an envelope waiting for me. I picked up the manila package and examined it, confused. There was no return address, no postmark – no stamp or postage at all, for that matter – just my name written in clear block letters across the front.

"What's this?" I asked, holding the envelope up for my nearest seatmates to see. I got a silent, shrugging chorus in response, the currents of conversation all around me never ceasing.

I shook my head and bent back the metal tabs of the seal to open the envelope. I slid out the contents onto my plate: an issue of Avant-Mode, a French women's fashion magazine.

Ah, it's from Soledad. She must be in this one.

I disregarded the lack of postage or return address in an instant, and picked up the magazine to fan through the pages, distractedly seeking her picture.

"Soledad?" Rom asked from across the table, and now it was my turn to shrug. I hadn't seen her anywhere when I'd flipped through, and now I paged through more carefully, one by one.

I stopped dead when I found her.

I'd never seen Soledad like that before, at least, never in a photograph. She stood with her legs spread wide, her bathing suit bottom little more than a sheer strip of fabric, which barely covered her (now evidently shaved) pussy, her hands behind her back holding what looked like some sort of riding crop. Her bare breasts were thrust toward the viewer, her hair wild around her face, her red, glistening mouth open and expectant.

I stared, stunned, unable to do anything else. I'd seen that expression on her face before, but none of my teammates ever had. Not until now.

This was why she was in Australia? What the fuck is this advertising, anyway?

It wasn't until I heard the appreciative whistles and applause from the others that I realized I was holding the magazine out and away from me like a loathsome, living thing. And most of the team had gotten a good, long look at my fiancée in all her dubious glory.

"That's your Soledad?" Goosh asked in something like amazement.

My first instinct was to deny it. This was not the woman I'd flirted with on the podium a couple of years ago, whose kisses had lingered just enough to be outside the professional limits, whom I'd asked to marry me after nearly a year of dating.

This wasn't the woman I'd made love to just a few weeks ago, before she'd gone to Australia for a project to pad her portfolio, with lots of presentations and art modeling, she'd said. Maybe some television work, too.

This wasn't the woman for whose call I was waiting so eagerly. She wasn't this brazen, this coarse – she wasn't this vulgar.

And yes, it was her. I knew because I knew the face she was making in this photo. I knew every curve of her body, digitally altered or no, and I saw in the photo shades of her passion that she'd shared with me. In strictest confidence, I'd thought at the time. Now I wasn't so sure.

James grabbed the magazine away from me, examining it more closely for himself, and the rude comments soon followed.

"I wouldn't mind keeping her company for an hour or so – do you reckon she looks lonely?"

"D'you mind if I take her up to my room, Ciccio? You know, just for a little while."

"I knew she was pretty, but I had no idea she was this hot, mate. Cor…"

"I've never met someone before who's had a piece of ass like that. What's she like, then? Y'know, what's she like?"

"Oi, and what does she like? I need to fuel my imagination for tonight…" Phil added with a laugh, making a rude gesture.

I kept my mouth shut, refusing to rise to the bait, but they continued, growing more and more vulgar as the night went on. It wasn't until Phil made a show of stuffing the magazine under his shirt and sneaking toward the door of the restaurant with one hand on his crotch that I finally spoke up.

"For fuck's sake, all of you – she's my fiancée! How about a little respect?" I snatched the magazine away from Phil and stormed out, making my way to my room. My ears and face burned red-hot, not cooling for a long while even after I'd flopped down on my bed and examined the magazine again.

There were more photos on the next pages. How I'd missed them – how my teammates had missed them – was beyond me. Nonetheless, I counted my blessings that they hadn't spotted the more provocative and quasi-grotesque poses after all.

I smoothed out the offending pages and stared hard at them, hating that I must have sounded like a foolish old prig downstairs. Still, what did they expect? She was my fiancée, and that they'd talk about her like that… Then again, to them – most of them, anyway, since Brunn, Rom and Adrie hadn't taken part – this wasn't anyone who actually existed. Soledad was someone they'd only met briefly, from time to time, and here she was just an image on the pages of this magazine.

Frankly, she was starting to feel just as remote to me.


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8) (Abigail)
I didn't want to see Charles yet, so I delayed going back to the hotel room. Instead, just as I had the night before, I wandered down to the hotel bar and restaurant and settled into a corner booth. It was early so the restaurant was still quite empty. I set up my computer without worrying about taking up a table all by myself.

I planned on leaving once the crowds started coming in. By that time, Charles would surely be done with his "work" and I could go to bed right away. At least, I hoped so.

I transferred photos from my camera to the computer hard drive, and then to the portable external hard drive for additional backup. I couldn't be too careful, if this were a safeguard for my project.

When the file transfers were finished, I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and studied the photos of the day. The heaviness in my chest persisted as I examined the photos of Brunn on the podium with Schlessinger and Legarreta.

There was no sense denying to myself that I had a definite favorite in this Tour, and this time he hadn't made it to the podium. Still, it was possible – if not particularly probable – that Renard could regain his position at the top. And the fact that his teammate had the Royal now was a significant victory.

I clicked through the slideshow on my screen until I found my first photo of Renard from that afternoon. It was – even if I did say so myself – a remarkable shot: he was striving for the finish, his face a mask of pain and determination, the muscles of his legs and arms standing out in incredible relief beneath his skin. The background was the indistinct jumble of the crowd with their signs and flags and replica jerseys – the multicolored rainbow making Renard in his Royal jersey atop the blue bike stand out even more.

My eyes were drawn to the expression on his face again and again. Such agony, such anguish was written there that my heart twisted in empathy. It was a photograph of someone losing their hard-fought dream in spite of giving all they had to hold on to it.

I was starting to understand exactly how he felt.


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9) (Abigail)
"You've been drinking...?" Charles replaced the cell phone on the bedside table, and I put my bags on the loveseat by the window.

"Not much. Just a little wine with dinner. You know, as you do." I shrugged and went through my bag, digging out my nightgown and slippers.

"Are you upset about something?"

The disingenuousness of the question was almost insulting.

"Charles, how do you play at ignorance so well?"

"Come on, Abby." He stood and came over to my side of the bed to stare down at me while I changed clothes.

"You can't honestly be this oblivious." I looked up and met his eyes, daring him to pretend further.

He didn't.

Instead, he sank down to sit beside me and sighed. "This is why I thought we should consider…"

"I know what you've suggested. I've already told you why I don't want that." I got under the coverlet, and Charles kept his back to me while he did the same.

"I'd just feel better, Abby, if I thought you had someone with you when I'm away."

Bullshit.

"No, you'd feel better if I said you could have someone with you when you're away. That's what this is all about."

"No, it isn't."

"For all I know, you already have."

"Abby…"

I turned onto my side and resisted the urge to sigh.

"I didn't want you to feel this way about it," he said.

"How else would I feel? You're talking about having an affair." I turned to face him and found him staring at the carpet, shaking his head. "And me, giving you the okay."

"No, I'm not."

My throat tightened and I smoothed down my nightgown as I got out of the bed and stood up. I held up one hand and started counting off: "You put down the phone when I come in the room, you stay late at work even if you don't have to, and you get more phone calls than you need from work…"

"That's not proof of anything, Abby. Circumstantial at best."

"Give me time..." I folded my clothes and piled them into the laundry bag. "I'm sure I'll dig up ample evidence soon enough."


Picture
10) (Federico)
After the ride, my teammates' teasing resumed in full force. I endured as best I could until we'd arrived at the hotel once more. Attilio wasn't as aggressive as before; as one of my oldest friends on the team, he knew when I was reaching my limits. James and Phil, not so much. Their good-natured banter was starting to press every button with stunning precision, and I'd nearly had enough.

"Say, Ciccio?"

"Yeah?" My response came out somewhere between a grunt and a sigh as we stepped off the bus and crossed under the canopy in front of the hotel. James didn't seem to notice.

"I was just wondering if I could borrow your magazine sometime. Those of us presently unattached tend to get a little lonely, eh? D'you reckon she'd be amenable to a little – ahem – company?"

"All right; that's it!" I turned on James, heat rushing to my face with my shout. "Just fucking drop it! Give it a fucking rest and show the woman some respect already!"

Startled, James took a couple of paces back, his hands raised defensively. "Whoa, mate, steady on… I was just playing around."

"She's not just some piece of ass, you know."

"I know, I know –"

Phil cut in between us, a goofy smile on his face. "Ciccio, mate – calm down, yeah?"

"I will not! Not until you all lay off of Sunny!"

I became aware of Adrie behind me, his usual calm presence raising my hackles even before he spoke.

"You're overreacting, Chicco."

"Am I?" I spun around to face him. "She's my fiancée, isn't she?"

"It's just a photo – no big deal."

My stomach did a long, slow roll over itself as I considered this. Easy enough for him to say, wasn't it?

"You know, I suppose you're right." I shook my head and turned to go, then faced him again. "By the way…"

"Yes?"

"D'you have any pictures of your wife?"

His eyes widened, then narrowed, his jaw setting in a stern line. "Excuse me?"

"Aw, come on, Adrie. It's no big deal, right? Like James said, we get a little lonely, from time to time. Some of us like a little variety, too –"

His hand shot out so fast I hardly saw it coming, his grasp on my jersey threatening to rip the fabric alongside the zipper. I tried to pull away but his hold was too strong.

"Don't alienate everyone, Ciccio," he said, taking obvious care to use my team nickname and not my personal one. "Not unless you don't really want to get within shouting distance of the Royal again. We can all see to that."

Before I could respond, Jerzy's hand landed on Adrie's and parted us with a rough shake. Epithets streamed out of our team manager until he found a common language for both Adrie and myself and focused on it.

It took all my willpower to keep from trying to slap his hand away from me, or to shout the worst, most blasphemous phrases I could think of in return for his abuse. The childish fit of temper faded soon enough, just as Jerzy turned loose of me and spun me away from my teammate, propelling me out of the lobby and toward the stairwell.

“Your rooms, idiots!” he shouted, and I saw the rest of the team flinch, then hesitate before they dispersed. Jerzy had only been addressing Adrie and me, anyway. I took the stairs two at a time, slammed through the door of my room at the end of the hall and went straight into the bathroom to shower.

My anger puzzled me. Why was I running so hot today?

When I reached for the shampoo, I found my hands clenched in fists, my muscles trembling. The unfairness of the situation screamed from every cell in my body. I had to rectify this – and soon – or else I'd burn out before the Tour was half over.

I considered how it would feel to punch the tile wall of the shower stall, imagining how the ceramic would fracture under the bones of my hand, even as my bones did the same.

Then I thought of being unable to ride, for that same ridiculous reason, and how humiliating it would be to miss out because I'd had an injury unrelated to racing. My own stupid temper would be all I had to blame.

In spite of the heat of the water, an icy calm descended over me.

I had to focus.

I had to plan.

I had to win.

That was all I had to do.


Picture
11) (Federico)
I tried not to show I was still upset when I stepped out onto the patio. The murmur of conversation crested and fell as I walked over to take my seat, and I felt the eyes of my teammates follow me every step of the way.

I picked at a salad, my interest in the meal waning with each passing moment. There was too much effort involved in trying to wrap my head around the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Why hadn't Soledad told me there would be that sort of photo shoot? Why hasn't she answered or returned my calls? How did I manage to lose the Royal so soon?

Okay, so some questions had simpler answers than others.

All the same, I had never felt so low.

Adrie settled into a chair nearby, giving me a brief, annoyed glance before turning his attention to his tablemates and his glass of wine.

Rom sat down, a beer in each hand before he slid one over to me. He looked at me quizzically until I picked up the glass and took a grateful sip.

A short while later one of the staff came out with an armful of letters and packages and began handing them out. As he approached my table, he sorted out a smallish box and put it down in front of me. “All the way from Sydney,” he said with a grin before moving on to the next group.

No sooner had I picked it up than Phil and James had seated themselves at my table, Attilio and Goosh close behind.

“What the fuck, guys?” I protested, not yet opening the package.

“Can't we see?”

I sighed, begrudgingly and perversely pleased by their attention, but still dreading any repeats of the night before. “It's personal,” I said, splitting the tape and pulling it back.

“Oh, come on...” Phil wheedled, and James rose from his seat to stand next to me.

"I've got my fingers crossed for something special,” Attilio joked, and James made a show of crossing his fingers, too.

“Pretty panties, pretty panties, pretty panties...” James chanted, his crossed fingers raised up to either side of his face.

I shook my head, resigned myself to their company and continued opening the package. Once I'd opened the flaps of the box, I froze. Crumpled paper on either end of the interior of the box had kept the contents from shifting.

A few pages from a magazine were folded around a smaller box. I took the paper out and unfolded them to find photos of Soledad once again. This time, however, she was dressed in a floor-length evening gown as she clutched the arm of a man I'd never seen before. He certainly wasn't me, anyway.

On the next page was Soledad with the same man, her arms wrapped around his neck while she kissed him passionately in front of a crowd at some sort of premiere. At the bottom of the page I found his name alongside hers: Daniel Conway, fashion photographer.

I reached into the box again, my hands numb, feeling as though I'd been doused with icy water from head to toe. I no longer heard James chanting, no longer felt the jovial curiosity of my teammates clustered closely around me.

My fingers closed around the only other object in the box, the soft velvet sliding slightly underneath my fingertips. I was shaking, praying all the while the guys couldn't see it.

I put the cardboard box back on the table, clutching the velvet box in my other hand.

“Oh, fuck...” Attilio's sentiment was exhaled on a slow, stunned breath. My heart was beating too hard, my mouth had gone too dry. My hands were scarcely under my own control.

I lifted the box up and pulled it close to my chest, slowly prying the halves apart for a glimpse of what was inside.

Not that I didn't know.

A faint sparkle as the diamond caught the light, and I snapped it shut once more.
Picture


12) (Federico)
After turning a corner I stopped short, having seen a familiar but wholly unexpected face, illuminated by the light of a tiny laptop computer. I stepped back behind a tall potted plant, the broad leaves providing the perfect cover for me to study her, to be sure I wasn't mistaken. Seated as she was in a booth in the corner, a single glass of wine on the table next to her computer, she was obviously alone. And it was definitely her.

Abigail. The woman I'd signed the autograph for after the fourth stage, in Lorca.

All the drama with Soledad had pushed Abigail out of my mind for a while, but this glimpse of her was enough to bring everything back: I felt a rush of anticipation with a hint of anxiety trailing behind, just as I had the first time I'd seen her.

My hand was shaking where it rested on the wall. Making a fist, I willed myself to remain steady. A fleeting, desperate image of going to her and giving her the deepest, most passionate kiss I'd ever given faded swiftly from my brain before my shaking ceased.

I'm losing my mind. I'm too stressed. It's crazy to be thinking like this, so soon after what just happened…

And yet…

I was stunned to find myself standing next to her table, my hands in my pockets in an attempt to look calm and casual. Surely she'd see I was anything but.

"Abigail?" I queried, as though I weren't positive it was her. As though I hadn't memorized her face the first time I'd seen it, or sought a glimpse of her in the crowds before and after the start of the last two stages.

As though she hadn't lingered in the back of my mind nearly every moment since I'd signed that scrap of paper for her.

My mind went completely blank when she raised her eyes to mine, even though she needed a moment to focus them again. The lack of comprehension written there gave my heart a small, sympathetic turn and brought a smile to my face. Behind her dark-framed eyeglasses, her gaze darted to my right and my left, flicked back to her computer screen and then returned to scrutinize me warily.

"You really shouldn't look at a screen like that without better lighting around you," I said, amazing myself. "It's bad for your eyes," I almost sounded like I was thinking clearly.

"Yeah, I know," she said, her voice soft in deference to the relative quiet of the pub, and then she tapped her eyeglasses. "I guess that's why I need these." Two heartbeats later, she added, "You remember me."

That it was a statement and not a question made me feel weak for some reason.

"Of course I remember you." I wondered if she understood the depths of honesty in my words.

She continued looking up at me, her lips parted slightly in a slack expression of surprise. At last she sat up straight and looked around, the darkness around the booth seeming to throw her.

"So, um…" She gestured offhandedly to the seat across from her before she removed her glasses and tucked them away in her handbag. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Ah, yes, thanks." I sat down, hoping no to look too eager. Once more, however, I went hopelessly blank. I couldn't think of anything to say to her.

Before it was too noticeable, a server came over to her – our – table and waited patiently for me to order something.

"Una cervesa, per favor," I said and he disappeared into the darkness from which he'd emerged, presumably to retrieve my drink.

"You speak Spanish?" she asked.

"That was Catalan," I said, and instantly felt like a heel for correcting her. "I hope it was, anyway. My Spanish accent is bad enough I hope it isn't bleeding over…" I trailed off, eternally grateful for the dim lighting to hide my flush of embarrassment.

"So, you speak Catalan?"

"Just enough to order drinks. And to get myself into trouble."

"Wow… I've been speaking miserable high-school Spanish the whole time I've been here." She shook her head and I found the movement almost hypnotic.

The waiter returned and I mumbled appreciative thanks as he placed my glass on a coaster and turned away.

"That's fine, then. I'm sure most people do that, actually. I wouldn't worry about it." I advised her as sincerely and helpfully as I could. Her shy smile made my heart jump and then plunge into my stomach.

Was I crazy? Sitting here with her when anyone could see us, and then word might get back to –

Oh, right. Soledad. Why was I worrying about her? For that matter, why didn't I still feel that dagger twisting my innards?

Abigail reached to close the computer and I leaned forward, my hand resting over hers before I had a chance to stop it. What the hell was I doing?

Her eyes widened in mild surprise and I hesitated, withdrawing my hand a moment later. "What are you working on?" I asked, indicating the laptop with my retreating hand and then folding my numb fingers around my glass.

Suddenly it seemed as if she were the one blushing, her eyes evading mine by returning to the glow of the screen. "Oh, I was just… Nothing."

"Nothing?" A smile crept onto my face and settled in. "Are you sure? That's a lot of equipment for doing nothing."

This time she definitely blushed. Part of me was delighted to see it.

"Well, okay. It's not 'nothing,' exactly. It's my work. Sort of."

I nodded as if I understood, though nothing could have been further from the truth. Then again, I was having difficulty focusing on anything at the moment. Her accent intrigued me, a curious blend of British and what I presumed to be an American twang of some sort, unfamiliar as it was. She could have told me the sky was made of orange juice and I would have nodded along, just to keep her talking.

"I mean," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the table and avoiding mine, "I was reviewing some of my photos."

"Photos?" I echoed, not yet putting the word together with the "work" she'd already mentioned.

She nodded and shrugged. "I take pictures."

"You're a photographer?" I cringed inwardly. When did I develop a gift for stating the obvious?

She nodded again, with what appeared to be greater confidence. "Yes, I am. I'm shooting the stages of the Tour. The starts and, uh, the finishes, mostly."

The way she'd stumbled over "finishes" gave me a fleeting pain. My last finish hadn't been my best, after all.

"Could I perhaps see what you were working on?" I'd had no idea I was going to say it until the words were out there, lingering between us over the table. Besides, did I really want to see visual proof of me losing the Royal?

It was too late now, regardless.

"Um… If you really want to, I guess."

Again without thinking, I slid out of the booth and went over to her side, even as she half-turned the tiny computer toward me. A moment of awkward hesitation followed: should I sit back in the booth I'd just vacated, or sit next to her even though she hadn't exactly invited me?

Beh. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the Brits say.

I slid in beside her when she made room for me and turned the computer back toward us. Blessedly, my ego was momentarily spared: the image on the screen was not of me but of Schlessinger and Brunn's finish. It was a fantastic shot, the sort of thing one might manage once in a lifetime – but when she stroked the key to advance to the next picture, I realized it wasn't a fluke. The second picture was of the peloton arriving, a crisp, brilliant capture of the colors and expressions of every team member in the forefront. Everything else was blurred, giving the illusion of movement on the page.

I watched the screen while she continued clicking through the pictures, one by one. Finally she reached one and clicked swiftly past it, deliberately I thought, before the image had time to register in my mind.

"Wait, wait… Go back? I didn't see that one." I glanced over at her, my eyes adjusting from the bright glow of the screen to the ambient light it created, and found her finger trembling where it hovered over the keypad.

She pressed the key and I turned back to the screen to find a photo of myself after the initial time trial, lying on the ground, surrounded by the team staff and doctor. It was quite close up – enough to make me strangely self-conscious.

"The time trial," she said, and I turned to face her again. "It's one of my favorites."

"Why is that?" I asked, looking at the photo again.

She shrugged, her arm brushing mine as she did so. I realized she was leaning in to look at the photo, too, and I shifted my shoulder so we were almost facing each other, our necks craned to study the screen.

"You just look… I don't know… so vulnerable. I wanted to help you, some –" Falling silent, she turned away from me and I felt an indescribable pull in my chest, next to my heart.

An embarrassed smile formed on my lips and I made a point of keeping my gaze on the screen.

"Thanks," I said quietly, when I knew she'd turned back toward me. I cleared my throat and clicked through a few more photos on my own while she folded her hands in her lap. "I suppose this explains why I couldn't find you – you were behind a camera all the time."

No sooner had I realized what I'd said than my cell phone rang in my pocket. For a single, foolish moment, I hoped it was Soledad.

It wasn't.


Picture
13) (Abigail)
...I sank back down into my pillows and pulled the blanket up over my shoulder, thinking to the night before, in the pub.

With Renard.

I still couldn't believe he'd come in there, or that he'd remembered me from Lorca, and had come over to speak with me. It was unreal to think he'd sat with me and admired my photos, or that we'd chatted as amiably as though we'd known each other for a while already.

But the proof was right there in my handbag, on my little hobby camera. How I'd found the nerve to ask for a photo of him, I'd never know. But I had.

After he'd left the pub, I'd sat there for an age looking at the picture. I put it in a separate file on the computer and looked at it on the screen in a haze of disbelief.

He was just as I'd thought he'd be: handsome and charming, very relaxed and comfortable with himself. Even now I silently prayed that he hadn't noticed how nervous I'd been when he approached me, or when he sat next to me in the booth.

I covered my face with my hands, unable to keep myself from recalling the soft, spicy scent of his cologne, or the warmth of him when we'd sat so close together. My stomach did a little flip way down low, and my throat tightened.

Reaching out for Charles' pillow, I pulled it close and inhaled his scent off it, drawing his smell deep into my lungs. Still I fancied Renard's cologne clung to the back of my throat, and I squinted my eyes shut against the sudden burn behind them.

I didn't want this. I really didn't.

No matter how I tried, I couldn't shake any of it away.

How stupid I was! Nearly forty years old and I was crushing on some good-looking guy like a teenager! No wonder Charles' "boyfriend" taunts irritated me so much – they felt too true.

"I never had a boyfriend like that, though," I said quietly to the empty room, and laughed a little. That felt good; laughing made me feel a little less like maybe I might be losing my mind in some mid-life hormonal surge.

That innocent encounter the night before had been enough to keep me from reaching a deep sleep for most of the night. When I had slept, I'd dreamed of him – nothing out of bounds, just reliving the conversation we'd had, again and again.

I heard footsteps out in the corridor and released Charles' pillow, then rolled back onto my side. I tried to push the memories away: of my dream, of the pub, of whatever it was we'd talked about…

Regardless, Renard's response to what I'd said about the photo after the time trial continued to echo in the back of my mind. The softness of his voice in that moment, the simplicity of what he'd said; was it crazy for me to put so much weight on a single "Thanks"?

Why did it mean so much to me, anyway?

Charles' key in the lock seemed to shake loose another memory, and I shivered pleasantly in spite of myself, clutching the covers closer as I remembered what Renard had said next:

"I suppose this explains why I couldn't find you."


Picture
Well, that's it for this week's Thursday Thirteen.




















And now, the *real* reason you come to my blog entries.










I'm not silly enough to think you come for the story excerpts, after all. ;-)
























So, let's get to him, shall we?



Picture
I don't know his name, I admit. If you do, drop me a line. Please? :)




Ciao for now! :)
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    Kimberly Menozzi

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