In His Good Hands. Joan Kilby

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      “No,” she said. “But he walks his dog, Smedley.”

      “You and Steve can get fit together. You’ve got six weeks before the Fun Run—”

      “No, no, no,” Renita protested. “I told you, I’m not entering the run.”

      Undeterred, Brett pushed on. “Your dad would be more likely to work out if he had a partner to encourage him, wouldn’t he?”

      “Brett—” She broke off.

      In the silence that followed he could feel her frustration. He thought he understood her reluctance. “Having a personal trainer, you won’t have to keep up with all the gym bunnies in a class,” he said. “You work at your own pace, with a program tailored to your needs.”

      “Pushing a little hard, aren’t you, Dad?” Tegan murmured from the passenger seat.

      Brett motioned to his daughter to be quiet. There was another long pause. Had he pushed too hard? Embarrassed Renita? He didn’t want to do that.

      “It would be good for Dad,” she conceded finally. “I’ll think about it.”

      Satisfied, Brett put down his phone and moved through the green light. “She said she’d think about it,” he said to Tegan. But she was really saying yes.

      “I’M MISSING THE cricket match on TV,” Steve grumbled as Renita dragged him through the doors of the fitness center.

      “This won’t take long.” She hoped not, at least. Gyms were alien territory, bristling with strange machines and hard bodies. And spandex. Oh, God, she could just imagine what she would look like with every blubbery bulge outlined by spandex.

      But she had to admit Brett was right—her father needed a concrete goal in his quest to improve his health. “If the place looks good you can become a member and sign up for the Fun Run.”

      Steve balked on the black mat just inside the foyer, blinking at the bright lights and loud music. “I’m no runner.”

      “You don’t want another hospital episode.”

      “I don’t want a stroke, either.” His slacks sagged at the back and his shirt buttons strained over his barrel-shaped belly. Behind his steel-framed glasses, his brown eyes revealed his reluctance.

      “That’s why you’re going to get fit before the event,” Renita coaxed. “When I was a kid, who told me I could do anything I set my mind to? Now I’m telling you you can do it. I know you can.”

      “There’s no one here,” Steve said, glancing at the reception desk, with its scuffed lime-green paint. “Let’s go.”

      “Shh, listen.” Renita could hear Brett talking on the phone in an office behind the desk. “Let’s wait a minute.”

      The faint odors of perspiration and rubber floor mats conjured up the discomfort and small humiliations of high school gym class. Chafing thighs, sweaty clothes, being picked last for every team…

      Renita moved farther into the building, taking in the gym’s poor state of repair. Paint was chipped on the corners of the pillars, the linoleum flooring was worn, and Out of Order signs hung from several of the exercise machines. Brett would have his work cut out for him, turning the facility into the fitness center of his dreams.

      “This is a dive,” Steve muttered, echoing her thoughts. “Why’d you bring me here?”

      “Because my bank is lending money to the new owner.” Knowing her dad kept a keen eye out for a bargain, she added cannily, “Plus there’s a sale on memberships.”

      “I get enough exercise walking Smedley.” Steve removed his glasses and polished them on the hem of his shirt, drawing Renita’s attention to his round stomach.

      “You’ve been walking for weeks now and haven’t lost an inch off that gut of yours,” Renita said. “That trip to the hospital was a wake-up call. You need to change your habits.”

      In the multipurpose exercise room to their left a female fitness instructor was barking out encouragement to a perspiring middle-aged man doing sumo squats. “See, Dad, that could be you.”

      “In that case, let me outta here. If we leave now I can still catch the last of the cricket.” He spun and headed for the exit, surprisingly nimble despite his bulk.

      Renita grabbed his arm. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

      “Can I help you?” Brett, wearing a navy polo shirt sporting the gym’s logo, emerged from the office. “Hey, Renita. G’day, Mr. Thatcher. Steve, isn’t it? Nice to see you again.”

      “Brett O’Connor?” Steve turned to Renita with a frown. “You didn’t tell me this was Brett’s gym.”

      “Didn’t I?” She deliberately hadn’t mentioned Brett by name, worried that it would deter Steve, even though he was a rabid footy fan and a supporter of Brett’s old team, the Collingwood Magpies.

      “Welcome to the gym.” Brett extended a hand to Steve, nodding to Renita. “I’m pleased you’re taking me up on the two-for-one gym membership.”

      “Dad’s interested, not me.” She stepped back and nudged her father forward.

      He threw her a startled glance. “But you said—”

      “I said I might.” Okay, so she’d fibbed a little to get him to come. It was for his own good. While she was happy to persuade her dad to sign up, it didn’t mean she was going to join. Sure, she needed to lose weight, but she had no desire to sweat and puff, especially around Brett.

      “I’m not joining unless you do,” he protested.

      “Do you follow football, Steve?” Brett said casually, leaning against the counter.

      “Of course.” Almost grudgingly, he asked, “How do you like Collingwood’s chances for the cup this year?”

      Brett rattled off a bunch of football statistics and tossed around names, drawing Steve deeper into conversation. Renita’s dad bought it hook, line and sinker, even reciting Brett’s own stats to him. As if the conceited ass didn’t recall every goal he’d kicked. If her father still harbored a grudge for the sporting hero, he wasn’t showing it.

      “Which was your high point?” Steve asked. “The year your team won the Grand Final or when you were awarded the Brownlow Medal?”

      “I ought to say the Grand Final, but if I’m honest, it was winning the Brownlow.”

      “I don’t blame you. Top honor,” Steve said gruffly. “How’s that knee of yours?”

      “I had surgery on it last year. It’s fine unless I work it too hard.” Brett took a clipboard from the counter and passed it to him, along with a pen. “If you’d like to write down your name and contact details we can send you more information. No obligation, of course. What type of membership would suit you best—yearly, monthly or a ten-visit pass?”

      Steve СКАЧАТЬ