Page 15 of That Birthday in Barbados
But then it would be hard not to notice her.
The travel clothes from yesterday are gone, and in their place, blackshorts, fitted and high cut. The tank top is a light blue, cut low above a black sports bra. She looks uncertain, as if she suspects she’s out of her element. Something in that strikes in me a desire to put her at ease, and so I walk over, welcome her with a smile.
“Glad you decided to come. You could’ve slept in, first day of vacation and all.”
She’s surprised to find me standing right in front of her, her smile wavering as she glances around the room at the other people chatting and adjusting their seat height. “Ah, thanks. I hope I haven’t forgotten how to do this. It’s been a while.”
“It’ll come right back,” I say. “We have two bikes left. One up front and one on the back row.”
“Back row, please,” she says.
“I can still see you,” I tease. “Don’t be thinking I won’t notice you slacking off.”
She laughs, surprising me as much as herself, I think. “I’m a bit out of shape. And wondering if I should be in here at all.”
“Absolutely,” I say, waving a hand at the full class. “When you’re done, you can go enjoy that English buffet with a clear conscience.”
She smiles at me, her gaze direct now, as if she’s trying to decide just how much credibility to give me. It hits me that Icare what she thinks. “So,” I say. “Let’s get your seat adjusted to the right height. Towels in the corner, and bottled water in the fridge. Help yourself.”
We head for the bike in the back corner. “Stand next to the seat,” I say. “You want your hip to line up with the top.”
She does as I ask, and I bring the seat up two levels. “Long legs,” I say.
She glances up at me, then drops her gaze, and I swear there’s color in her cheeks. Am I flirting with her? She’s wondering. Am I? I don’t know. Maybe. I like that I’ve made her blush.
“I think I’ll grab a water,” she says and heads for the refrigerator.
I walk up front and ask if anyone else needs help with their bike.
“I do, Anders.”
I follow the voice to the second row where Gracie Mathers is looking at me with a big smile on her face. She’s a resident of one of the resort properties and a regular in my class. At seventy-three, she likes to play the helpless card, indulging in a little harmless flirting which I can’t deny is flattering. She stands next to her bike, and I make the necessary adjustments.
In a voice meant to carry, she says, “You could be an advertisement for your own line of workout clothing, Anders, dear. What man wouldn’t want muscles like yours? And what woman-”
“There you go, Gracie,” I interrupt her, laughing. “You’re all set. And we better get started, or you’re going to miss that buffet.”
The entire class is laughing now. I tap the iPad screen next to my bike and turn up the music. I climb on, clip in to the pedals and clap my hands once. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Anders Walker, reformed New Yorker transplant, living one day at a time here in paradise. Approximately 5300 miles from the North Pole, 7100 miles from the South Pole and a scant 900 miles from the Equator. Are you ready to bring it this morning?”
Cheers follow the question. I crank the musiclouder, glance at the back to see Catherine Camilleri already pumping to the beat. Competitive. I would have guessed as much.
“All right, people. You’ve got a couple of numbers on your screen that matter in our efforts here. The first is resistance. Ideally, you’ll be in the range of the number I’m asking you for. Cadence is how fast you’re pedaling. I’ll be giving you a number to hit, but remember to listen to your own body. Everybody good with that?”
Another roar of approval goes up, and I top it with, “Let’s leave some sweat on the floor, people!”
For the next forty-five minutes, I prod, cajole and sweet-talk up the effort level in the room. My goal is the same as always, get the class to give as much as they’ve got so that when they’re done, they feel like they got what they came for and can’t wait to do it again.
By the time we reach the cool-down, there’s not a single person who isn’t sweating proof I’ve accomplished my goal. The music slows, and I guide them through a series of stretches, finally climbing off the bikes and finishing out with toe touches.
As the last song winds down, everyone clapsand I thank them for coming. A few people wipe off their bikes and head out the door, while others linger and chat.
Catherine Camilleri is gathering up her things to leave, but somehow, I’m not ready to let her go yet. I walk over and say in a low voice, “You’re lucky I didn’t out you.”
Her face is flushed from the effort, sweat beading on the skin above the neckline of her shirt. She raises a brow. “How’s that?”
“If I’d let everyone know youown a fitness clothing company, you would have owed them a little more effort.”
Owned,” she corrects. “And are you saying I didn’t make enough effort?”
