Ciao a tutti! Hi, everybody! Sorry about the hiccup posting last week - by which I mean, no TT last Thursday - but I had a good reason (don't I always?). I've been working hard to get things done, writing-wise, and while I'm still lagging behind, I made some time this week to share another sampling of my biggest WiP ever.

So, with your kind indulgence, I'd like to share

Abby:

Around me the spectators waved flags and signs and cheered – not only for their favorites, but for every rider coming in. All at once, there were excited shouts and piercing whistles all around. Everyone turned to watch the giant screens on the sides of the road. Renard, the rider Charles thought looked so angry, had cleared the second checkpoint in record time. He was presently burning up the road on the descents out of the park, occasionally leaving the less-daring motorcycle cameramen behind. They weren't willing to take the curves at the same rate of speed.

Clearing a bend in the road to fly down to the straightaway beyond, Renard shot past a rider who'd left the start house a full two minutes ahead of him. The next switchbacks in the road made the crowd gasp, and my heart pounded so hard I could scarcely breathe. Finally he swept past yet another rider and out onto somewhat more open road.

The crowd tensed, watching along the road for him. On the screen another dramatic scene played out. Renard had just surpassed the time of his teammate and fan favourite, Heinrich Brunn – quite easily, by the look of it – and was now making his way toward the finish. The seconds which separated them began to expand: Brunn's time was five seconds longer, ten, twenty. The standings on the screen shifted accordingly. Renard rose higher and higher, from fourth to third to second and then to a clear first-place finish.

My camera all but forgotten, I leaned over the barrier and watched eagerly for his arrival. I needn't have worried about missing him – the roar of the crowd swept along with him as he closed in on the finish line. The sound grew louder and louder still, every possible noisemaker being improvised and then employed. Cheers and shouts which bordered on screams, megaphones used to amplify shouts of joy, inflatable "thundersticks" thwapped together to produce manic, percussive sounds. People clapped their hands and banged on the barriers, jumping up and down.

And then, there he was. I gathered my senses and snapped photos of him approaching the line, one arm raised over his head in a show of jubilation, complete and utter joy on his face.

Federico:

Back at the hotel, I had two thorough goings-over at the same time. The team masseur worked his magic on my legs – cooling the fire smouldering just beneath my skin – while Jerzy tore into me with a restraint I'd never seen before.

"Grandstanding," he growled, pacing the length of the room. "Shameless grandstanding, Ciccio. I don't approve of such things. It could have cost you time."

"But it didn't," I said, looking up at him from the massage table.

He whirled around and narrowed one eye at me, his signal that I should shut up if I intended to keep all my most precious body parts. The masseur kept his head down and continued working as though the threat weren't hanging in the air amongst us.

"It could have, is what I said. Save the shows for when you join the circus."

The blood drained from my face as shame filled it. He was right. Sure, I'd managed a phenomenal lead – fifty-five seconds ahead of Brunn, forty seconds ahead of Schlessinger and Maxxout, who would be marking my ass as a personal vendetta for sure – but starting tomorrow, the stages would be longer and harder, and I wouldn't be on my own.

"Work with the team, Ciccio, not against them."

I nodded, chastened. Jerzy remained at the foot of the table, behind the masseur, and glared at me before storming off. The masseur glanced up at me with a sympathetic look and I closed my eyes, exhausted.

Abby:

...we stood at the barriers along the road, along with other spectators waiting for the stage to begin.

The riders wouldn't race within the city limits. They'd ride slowly together behind a car full of Tour officials until they reached a more open part of the road. Everything would get off to a proper start then, likely with a group breaking away from the pack to try and gain time, while the rest sat back and waited for their chances closer to the finish.

As for us, once the riders had gone past, we'd check out of the hotel, then drive our rental car to Castro Verde, where the stage ended. I'd take pictures of the finish, and in the morning I'd photograph the opening of the next stage.

This was the plan for the next few weeks, too.

A ripple of applause made its way toward us, reaching a peak when the peloton passed. I smiled as Renard went by, clad in the royal-blue jersey which marked him as the Tour's current leader. I framed him carefully and took several successive shots while he raised his hand and waved at the crowd on my side of the road. An obviously disgruntled Jürgen Schlessinger of Team Maxxout rode alongside him.

A flare of excitement flashed through me and I continued taking photos of the rest of the pack as it streamed by, southward bound.

The whole event didn't last long. Even with all the behind-the-scenes 'mood' shots I'd captured, Charles and I had only been out for a couple of hours.

"Finally," he said with a sigh. "Now let's get our bags before someone steals them, and find some lunch before the restaurants close for some bloody siesta or something."

"There's plenty of time." I checked my watch for good measure. "It's barely twelve-thirty."

He shrugged and turned in the direction of the hotel. "Let's go to that pub again. It's English-owned and they had a nice fry-up listed on the menu. Could be worth trying."

Turning my head so he couldn't see me roll my eyes, I packed up my things. "If you say so, hon."

"I do." He took me by the crook of my elbow and led me through the crowd. "I suppose this whole travel thing isn't so bad, once you find decent places to eat."

"There are lots of great restaurants in Lisbon, Charles. You just have to be willing to try something different."

"And risk Montezuma's revenge? No thanks."

"That's what you call it in Mexico, I think," I offered in mild protest. A shake of his head dismissed me.

"It's all the same, darling. I don't doubt that some of this lot would do it on purpose."

"I think that's pretty unlikely. I mean, they'd lose business if that were the case."

"Not with the bloody Euro in the marketplace. Now they can do as they please without fear of losing their livelihood."

"You're talking like a businessman again. Couldn't we just play happy tourists and have fun?"

He held the door of the pub open and I stepped reluctantly inside.

"Maybe later," he said. "Right now, I want my fry-up, all right?"

"All right. But I'm having the cozido this time."

"Suit yourself – and best of luck to you."

Federico:

While I warmed up with my teammates on the stationary trainers alongside the team bus, I puzzled over the lack of communication from Solange. Still no calls in response to mine. No messages, either. An unpleasant voice in the back of my mind insisted something was going on: she'd never gone so long without contacting me before.

When I noticed Rom watching me with open curiosity, I returned my focus to what I was doing. I couldn't afford distraction.

I thought about the route ahead for that afternoon. I closed my eyes and visualized the profile: a few gently undulating hills but mostly flat, with one climb once we were well out of Lisbon. The whole course would run about two-hundred kilometres. Remembering the day before, my mood lightened.

I could do this. I knew it.

Supporters watched while we warmed up, taking photos, calling out good wishes to us. I turned up the volume on my mp3 player and let the percussive techno beat drive me on. I looked up only when my trainer nudged me and motioned for me to adjust my position on the bike.

Shit. Focus, Renard.

I let the music play and narrowed my world to the rhythm of my feet on the pedals and to keeping myself steady on the bike. I concentrated until I didn't hear the music anymore, just the thrumming of energy passing through me to power the bike. My legs pistoned smoothly and the hum of my rear wheel reassured me of my steady pace. The longer I went, the better I felt and the clearer my head became.

Abby:

"Come on, Abby," Charles said from where he lay under the covers, "let's go to sleep."

I looked at my watch; it was only seven p.m.

"I'm hungry." I stood and got my handbag. "I'm going out for a bite. Do you want me to bring anything up for you?"

Charles groaned in reply and rolled over.

"Fair enough. I'll be back soon."

Key in hand, I eased the door shut and went down to the hotel restaurant. I'd forgotten that the Spanish tend to dine late, with dinner beginning around nine at night. Most of the restaurants, including the one in the hotel, weren't even open yet. I certainly didn't want pub fare so I headed along the street in search of something light.

In the main plaza people mingled and chatted around the fountain and in the cafés and pubs. Fathers played with their children or sat with their wives (or girlfriends) sharing coffee or sweets at the outside café tables.

I felt decidedly out of place, flying solo as I was.

I bought an iced lemonade and sat on a bench in the plaza, wishing I had my camera. What wonderful shots I was missing!

The last of the summer evening light gave the plaza a nostalgic feel. The sepia-toned light cast soft shadows with an almost liquid texture in the fading heat of the day.

Finishing my drink, I decided to go and get my camera. Maybe I could still get some good photos after all. I hurried up to our room and slipped inside quietly, hoping Charles was asleep and would stay that way.

No such luck.

"You're back," he said sleepily.

I stopped, putting my camera bag back on the table. "I thought I might get some photos. It's a beautiful evening."

"No, no… Why don't you come to bed? You can get your little snaps in the morning."

I wanted to protest but I was in no mood to argue. Instead, I went to the window and pulled the curtains closed on the plaza.

My 'little snaps' would just have to wait.

Federico:

With each crank of the pedals, liquid fire ran through my legs. My skin burned in the late afternoon heat radiating from the tarmac. A grimace carved itself into my face, a death's-head grin for exquisite suffering under the summer sun.

Up ahead, a motorcycle swayed to and fro, going slowly up the steep incline so the camera operator on board could keep filming. In its wake the crowd on either side of the road spilled toward us, swallowing us up in a constantly shifting, screaming mass of humanity – all of whom were too close for comfort.

All the usual chaos of a mountain stage on the Tour d'Europa.

The peloton had broken apart prior to the climb, with the leaders and the better climbers forging well ahead of the pack. The blur of colour and noise on either side of my head was lost to my tunnel vision and the sounds inside it.

"You're doing fine, Ciccio." The voice in my earpiece was Michael, our directeur sportif's-second-in command. "Once this climb is done it's straight down to the bottom for the stretch to Granada."

That we were doing well wasn't news to me. That it wasn't Jerzy's voice in my ear, however, was. Brunn had caught up with me after we'd cleared the previous, rather dodgy, descent, where I'd thought he was well behind me. Now he was recovering on my rear wheel and Rom and Attila were doggedly leading us up the hardest climb of today's stage.

I still had no intention of letting Brunn ride my slipstream all the way into Granada. His job – at least for now – was to help protect me and keep the Royal in my possession as long as possible.

Right now the greater threat was Schlessinger, coming up slowly alongside me. Maxxout's blue-green team colours stood out even in the confusion of the crowd surrounding us. I refused to look his way, knowing his smug expression awaited me.

There was a basso profundo shout from somewhere in the crowd as Schlessinger made a subtle gesture in my direction – something between a wave and an obscenity, I thought – and then he crept upward,  first aligning himself with his support and then slyly sidling next to Rom.

I ducked to avoid a carelessly-handled German flag, and heard yet another guttural shout, this time cheering Brunn on. There was no point in responding, no sense in coming any further out of my trance. Some of these people cheered for all of us, which gave the riders the will to dig deeper and make the climb. Others were oblivious to the mayhem they caused while they mugged for the television cameras, and frankly, for the most part, so were we.

Abby:

We only just made it into Granada before the end of the race. I changed quickly into my walking shorts and left Charles unpacking at the hotel before hurrying to the finish line, camera in hand, still hoping to salvage something of the day. The crowd was raucous and I knew something huge was happening. Fuming over my continued lack of credentials, I pushed through the crowd, trying to get close to the road.

Thanks to a generous group of Germans, I managed to squeeze up to the barriers where I could hold my camera out and snag some shots. I managed just a few as the breakaway group crossed the line, fighting for the stage win in a bunch sprint.

The chanting began soon after the sprint ended. It started out at a moderate tempo, accentuated by handclaps: "Brunn! Brunn! Brunn! Brunn!"

I looked up at the screens showing an overhead shot of the final stretch into Granada. Five cyclists – two of them in Alta VeloCidad's violet and grey colours, one in Maxxout's blue-green, one in the red and blue of Ligne Infinie and Renard in the distinct Royal jersey – had broken away from the peloton and were bearing down on the finish with all their might.

One in particular was swiftly pulling ahead.

At this, the chanting grew louder, and one of the Germans next to me began to pound out a steadily intensifying rhythm on the barrier ahead of us. With every thunderous whap of his hand on the plastic banner taped over the railing, my heart sank lower into my stomach.

"BRUNN! BRUNN! BRUNN! BRUNN!"

I looked up at the times on the screen above the road. Brunn had broken away from Renard and Schlessinger. As I watched the broadcast, the other rider in Alta VeloCidad's colours dropped back, head hung low, slowing while he drifted to the side of the course to wait for the peloton to pick him up. Renard's domestique was exhausted, unable to help him any more.

In spite of the late afternoon heat, my arms were covered in gooseflesh.

No…Please, no.

I didn't know why I wanted so much for Renard to win, but I did. I wanted it with all my heart.

As one, the crowd turned their attention away from the screen to watch Brunn's actual arrival. His name was no longer being chanted, the crowd was screaming it, the noise riotous and manic until my heart raced so hard I could barely keep my camera in hand. I managed to lean out across the barrier to capture his arrival. I squeezed the release and the shutter obligingly snapped shot after shot in quick succession as Brunn lifted his hands from the handlebars of the bike and waved to the tumultuous crowd, long before he crossed the line.

Abby:

The sky grew dark, the clouds gathering for a late-afternoon shower. Photographers instinctively covered their precious cameras and other equipment as thunder rumbled and rain began to fall. I couldn't speak for the others, but I was slightly relieved. In the muggy mid-afternoon heat, the rain brought some relief after standing out on the tarmac for so long. The rainfall was short, but intense, over almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving shallow puddles to reflect the reemerging sunlight.

As the helicopters hovered overhead, harbouring the arrival of the riders, more photographers assembled until the lines of our designated box seemed completely arbitrary. A final few arrived at a dead run, one of them vaulting the barrier to take a place directly in front of me.

"Hey!" I jostled him out of my way, gesturing angrily toward the road and the line at my feet. He shook his head and made as though to take the spot again, before another man reached out for his arm and tugged him roughly to one side. I glanced over to find my supporter was the French photographer who had sneaked me inside the barriers a couple of days ago. He smiled warmly and gave me a wink and I couldn't help smiling in return.

The crowd noise ratcheted up a notch – or ten – and all of the photographers took their positions. Some lay on the ground sniper-style while others, like me, knelt precariously in a line, aiming our cameras down the final stretch. The rest stood waiting, ready to jump or shift as necessary to capture their shots.

A rising roar of excitement rolled toward us, chasing the bunch sprint as it thundered our way. The battle for the stage win was fierce, and even though I'd photographed a few finishes already, this was the first time I'd seen one from this point of view: through my lens, it seemed that they were barrelling straight toward me with no sign of slowing. Several riders skidded through the water still on the road, losing control of their bikes before they could slow down.

One moment I was taking photos of riders crossing the finish line, the next I was backing up and stumbling over the feet of one photographer and being knocked to the ground by the elbow of another.

I landed hard, breath wooshing out of my lungs even as I held my camera aloft in an attempt to protect it. I was aware of equipment scattered around me – lenses, battery packs, memory cards – some of it mine, some of it theirs. Then the base of a crowd-control barrier was at my back, the sharp metal edge of one foot biting into me.

Winded, I lay on the pavement, my eyes closed, one hand clutching my side as though I could press the pain so deep I wouldn't feel it any more. I was dizzy; taking quick, short breaths had pushed me to the point of hyperventilation.

A moment later the sun broke through the cloud, warming my face before shadow settled over me.

Federico:

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 with 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.

A burst of shrieking and screaming across the team's radio frequency was difficult 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 de 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.

We'd find out soon enough.

Abby:

I did my best to remain professional as Renard stepped out to receive his Royal for the stage. A strange melancholy came over me as he stepped off the podium and shook hands with the town officials and other guests, before making his way backstage.

I thought of his expression when he'd checked on me after the crash and 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 birthdate 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.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't be making them anymore, now that I'd called him on his "phone mate" and everything.

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 split second. I clucked my tongue dismissively. I'm getting dotty 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.

Federico:

James sat on the edge of the big bench, his head hung low, only chancing a glance at Jerzy as he moved away. He caught my eye and his expression was one of purest misery. He'd fucked up and he knew it.

And so did Jerzy.

"It was stupid! Careless! What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Jer-" Alvaro didn't get the chance to finish.

"Where was your focus? On your stupid jokes with your brother? When you race you aren't brothers, do you understand? You are teammates. You are riders, nothing more!"

A torrent of rather colourful Spanish followed, and Teodoro, seated next to James, winced.

Adrie was reflected in the back window of the bus even though he stood just out of my sight. When Jerzy turned on James, Adrie's arms were folded across his chest in the posture of someone about to be sick.

"Sloppy! I should send Goosh out there tomorrow in your place, if I only could. He'd do a better job, if that's the best you can do. You had it! You fucking had it, and then you let the American get it? The American? It's his first fucking Tour and your third, and you still let him by? You fucking Brits are useless!"

I couldn't bear to watch any more but I couldn't avoid hearing it.

"Did you see how he was riding?" Adrie shouted back, and the murmur of conversation in the main cabin of the bus silenced. "It was too dangerous to hold the line, Jerzy. If James hadn't let him go, he'd have taken the whole lot of us out! The pack was too goddamn tight!"

"I watched the video, Adrie. I watched it. Where the fuck was your defence?"

"I shouldered as hard as I could, and he came back with more," Adrie answered calmly. "That little fucker is crazy. The finish was suicidal in that last turn – you saw how many got taken out by the kerb – and, frankly, I thought I'd like to end the stage without a busted collarbone or a broken neck."

Another silence, this time including the group at the back of the bus. Only Brunn had ever been so bold with Jerzy in the past, and he got a special pass by being his best friend.

Abby:

"You've been drinking...?" Charles put his cell phone on the bedside table and gave me a quizzical look.

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

"Are you upset about something?"

The disingenuousness of the question was 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 returned to his side of the bed. After a moment's silence, he sank down onto the bed and sighed. "This is why I thought we should consider…"

"I've already told you why I don't want that." I got under the coverlet, and Charles kept his back to me.

"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, too.

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

"How else would I feel? You're talking about taking a lover." 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 got out of bed. I stood up straight and smoothed down my nightgown, trying to keep my hand from shaking. I held up the other 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 gathered my clothes and piled them into the laundry bag. "I'm sure I'll dig up ample evidence soon enough."

Charles said nothing, just exhaled softly behind me. I got back into bed and pulled the blanket up to my shoulder after putting my back to him. Silence stretched out between us until he switched off the light and lay down.

Federico:

The pub was practically empty and I wasn't really surprised. The team made up the majority of the patronage of the hotel, and most of them were either with their families or attending the festivities in the city centre.

The server led us to a circular booth in one corner. I liked the enforced privacy of the set-up right away. Between the high edges of the booth seat, the plentiful greenery scattered around the top and the low lighting in the pub, there was little chance of someone spotting us.

Abby ordered a white wine and the server looked expectantly at me.

"Una birra, per favore," I said, figuring today I'd earned at least a beer.

We sat in silence, which gave me a chance to consider a few things. First, there was the fact I'd repeatedly run into Abigail in the pubs. The second thing was that I always found her alone, in spite of her claim she was married. I'd yet to see this phantom husband, though she said he'd somehow played a part in her photographing the Tour.

Any mention of her husband saddened her – that much was clear. When we discussed the stage, or I told her about events on the road, her mood improved. Every time she laughed – or even just smiled – I felt myself getting drawn in deeper than ever.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

My heart clenched tight with understanding: married woman or no, I wanted her. Never mind the Solange debacle. Never mind her mythical Charles, wherever he was. I wanted Abigail White, and I couldn't have her.

"Federico? What are you thinking?"

I had to laugh. Why do women always ask that? If men were ever honest enough to answer with the truth, women would never come near us again.

"What's so funny?" she asked. "Tell me."

"You really don't want to know."

"Sure I do."

Her wide eyes searched mine, and I had no choice but to be honest. Maybe it would be best if she did go away.

"For a while I was thinking about the next stage," I said. "Then I thought about how I keep finding you alone in these places. Then I wondered where your husband really is. And then…?" I shrugged, hoping to make light of my next thought. "I started thinking how much I want to kiss you."

I looked down at my drink, not wanting to see her disappointment. I'd had enough of that in the past week to last me a lifetime.

Well, there you have them: 13 Snippets from 27 Stages - due out this summer (or sooner, if I can manage it)!





I sure hope you've enjoyed them.














And in addition to all the lovely photos accompanying these excerpts, I'll share one more pretty photo.

















Of course, it's of my favorite cyclist, who provided much of the inspiration for the story.





















And you know what?
















I reckon many of you will understand why that is.

Ciao for now!

Hello, everyone! I've been away for a long while, it's true, and haven't posted much until the last couple of weeks. Well, I'm back, and hope to get "back in the saddle" again now I'm in Italy once more.

I thought I'd take advantage of this week's Thursday Thirteen post to share what I've been up to lately, so if you'll permit me, here are

1) Recovering from Jetlag. After four months in the US (from April to the end of August), it's hard to get back into my normal schedule in Italy. I'm still not quite completely adjusted (if my plans allowed it, I could easily stay up until four a.m. with no problem), but I can get up in the a.m. without wanting to hurt myself or somebody else, so I'm doing as well as can be expected.

When I'm awake, I have, of course, been reading. It feels great to get some reading in, as I've been too distracted and busy all summer to just settle in with a good book. Here are the last three books I've read - all since I've been home.

2) Will You Love Me Tomorrow - Danny Gillan

Some aspiring musicians wait a lifetime for that elusive record deal. Bryan Rivers waited a lifetime plus three days. As if dealing with the suicide of her clinically depressed husband wasn't difficult enough, to Claire Rivers' amazement one of the biggest record companies in the country suddenly wants to offer him a contract. When his status is viewed as only a minor inconvenience, she begins to wonder if someone, somewhere, is playing a very distasteful joke on her. Will You Love Me Tomorrow is a comedy about death, depression, grief, loss, friendship, family, haircuts and the music business.

3) Conversations with S. Teri O'Type -
Christopher Allen

Curt Child is a man who just can't seem to get gay, so he's enlisted the help of his oldest--and gayest--friend S. Teri O'Type to drag him a few inches down The Road to Greater Gayness.

(Some of you might remember this title from last week's Thursday Thirteen where I interviewed the author - I'm currently reading the book and am laughing with every page.)

4) The Diary of a Single Parent Abroad - Jill Pennington

When Jill and her family moved to Italy she expected life to change but she had no idea how massive that change would be. Shortly after the move, she discovered her husband had been having an affair and had no intentions of staying in Italy.

Despite being in a foreign country with no income, limited language skills, a house that needed rebuilding and three young children to care for, she never once considered returning to the UK. With strength and determination she accepted any challenge, dismantling a derelict house to ground level, digging out a three metre deep well with her hands to get free water and overcoming her fear of the chainsaw to cut the winter wood. When there was very little money for food she made risotto with nettles collected from the roadside. She overcame many problems, learned new skills and discovered that money is not important, the only things in life that matter are health, happiness and her children.

Jill's story is delivered with an ever present hint of humour because, as she says, 'Without laughter life wouldn't be funny'.

5) I built a bookshelf - at least, that's what I'm calling it. Yes, it's from IKEA. Yes, the kitty seems to approve.

6) In addition to the bookshelf, I've also built two IKEA chairs for the kitchen. Unfortunately, they're a tad wobbly. (Uh-oh.) I'll see if I can sort that out, shortly.

7) I've watched several episodes of Big Bang Theory - including a few I didn't see while in the US!

8) Since the hubby had the chance to stay home and use up some vacation time the first week we were back from the US, we got some serious housework done. As suspected, I needed some good, strong muscle to get it all taken care of. There's more to do (Autumn cleaning?), but the place is looking better all the time!

9) As mentioned above, there was a spur-of-the-moment trip to IKEA.
I maintained control, much to my own astonishment, and walked out having purchased ONLY WHAT I'D GONE IN FOR!!!!! I should have written that day down in my diary...

10) I did another voiceover job. As before, it was fun to do, and Paolo, who does the recording on a professional-grade video camera (no, I'm not filmed, we just tape the audio), is a really sweet guy. Luckily, my hubby was home this time to keep tabs on the kitty and make sure she didn't get into mischief which would have ruined the recording.

11) I renewed my Italian I.D. card. Belatedly.
Very belatedly.
As in, one year late.
Oops.
Upon my return home, I found this snail on my sidewalk.
Et tu, Snail?

12) I started sketching out ideas for my next project(s). Included among them are The Off Season (a sequel to 27 Stages) and an untitled novel (a sequel to Ask Me if I'm Happy)

13) Due to my efforts over the summer on my mother's exercise bike, my hubby and I decided to purchase a bike for me when we got home. We selected this one.
Unfortunately we've had some mechanical issues with it, so were trying to get those sorted out. Once we have, I'm hoping to get back to my twenty- and thirty-mile rides again.

Wish me luck!

And there you have them: Thirteen Things Which Have Been Keeping Me Busy!

I'm willing to bet we have some of these in common, right?

Because I know just about every one of you is a busy, busy bee.









And I know the reason most of you normally stop by here.











It's been a long summer, but I haven't forgotten. No way!










And as summer fades into autumn...












How about a little musical interlude?

Yeah, it's good to be back.

Ciao for now!

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

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




Ciao for now! :)