“You’re doing good. I think these exercises and the one balancing on the large ball are especially difficult. You’re forced to use a lot of muscles, whereas in the weight room, you isolate one muscle, like your quads, and you work it to exhaustion. These exercises strengthen your entire body, especially your core, and they create better balance. Mind you, down the road, once the effects of the treatments are vanishing, if you want to add bulk, I’m glad to help. The biggest mistake women make is not developing their upper body. From the waist down leg power.” She paused. “Men, women, doesn’t matter. It’s the upper body where most women are afraid to look muscular. Obviously, that was never my problem.”
“I never thought about it.”
“You’re fit and strong. Farmwork is its own kind of workout. But look in magazines, the photos of models. No muscle tone. No muscle. Why don’t they paint a big red V on their head for victim?”
“Never thought about that, either.”
“Think about it this way. You’re a drug addict desperate for a fix. No money. You’ve blown everything you have, lost jobs, you get the picture. You need to steal. Grabbing a purse and running is safer than robbing a grocery store. Two women are walking down the street, and you know these streets, so you know you can get away. One woman is well dressed, wearing a bit of heel, very pretty and slender. The other woman isn’t bad-looking, but you can see she has some muscles in her arms. Who are you going to push and grab their purse?”
“The weak one.”
“I rest my case. All right, hit the bike.”
Harry, having caught her breath while listening to Noddy, walked into the narrow room with the bikes and stationary walkers. A large TV, tilted down, was tuned to CNN.
Harry was not much for TV unless it was The Weather Channel. She put on her earphones, tucked the player into her shorts’ waistband, and listened to Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel on tape.
She never listened to music or books when she was outside working. The conversation of all living things fascinated her far more than the work of humans. But once out of the fields and forest, she liked to learn. Fair had had a CD player installed in the old Ford F-150, since it was built before that technology existed. She could ride around and listen to a book. She tried to read before bedtime but usually fell asleep, the book on her chest. Fair would come in, gently lift up the book, and tell her to go to bed. If she was in bed, he’d take the book, put it on the nightstand, and cut the reading light. While he wasn’t a night owl, he could still last longer than she could. When twilight faded into night, Harry started to fade with it.
But here, at 6:30 A.M., her workout finished except for the part with the stationary bike, she was wide awake.
Twenty minutes later, finished, she clicked off the portable player, dismounted, snatched her towel off the seat. She couldn’t ride that bike, or any bike, without a towel. The seats were so uncomfortable. How men did it, she couldn’t imagine.
Just as she dismounted, so did the man next to her. He was in his mid-thirties and was unfamiliar to her. She didn’t know as many city people as she did country people. His body was a work of art and discipline.
He, however, knew of her. He’d asked around, because he found her very attractive. As she was married, he didn’t pursue her, but he kept his eye on her if she was around.
“Good workout?” he asked.
“Was. What about you?”
“Good. I’m Dawson English.”
She held out her hand. “Harry Haristeen. Well, actually, my name is Mary Minor Haristeen, but everyone has called me Harry since I was little because my clothes were always covered in cat and dog hair. I hope you don’t have allergies.”
“No, ma’am.” He shook her hand.
He smiled, releasing her hand, much as he enjoyed holding it. “You’re in good shape.”
“Well, thank you. You, too. You must have a lot of motivation to create a body like that.”
“I sit a lot on the job. I get to walk the floor a little, but I was putting on weight. Hated it, so five years ago I made up my mind to really work for the best body I could have.”
“Staring at a computer?”
“No. I work at Flow Automotive. Sales. I like it. Well, when you have a good product, the cars sell themselves.” He grinned. “Don’t suppose you need a VW or a Porsche? Now, you would look spectacular in a Nine-eleven C-four.”
“Zero to fifty in four-point-four seconds, and the Turbo is even faster.” Harry looked up at him. “But you know, the new Cadillac CTS-V hits zero to sixty in, I think, three-point-nine seconds, which is hard to believe for a sports car, much less a big car.”
Surprised, he leaned forward. “You like cars?”
“I love cars. I love tractors. I love anything with a motor in it. I even like riding mowers.”
He laughed. “That’s great.”
“I’m sure you know that Don and Robin King are sponsors of a polo team, Team Flow, and they are the backbone of the Pink Ribbon Polo Classic, along with King Family Vineyards. They raise money for a good cause, and everyone has a great time. It’s the social event of the summer, and it’s not expensive to get in.”
“I do know of it and had planned on attending. I’ll look for you this year.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m not the only female gearhead in Albemarle County. BoomBoom Craycroft is as big a nut as I am, but with a bigger budget.”
“One of my co-workers took out another lady for a test drive. She was a doctor, ummm—Anna, Anna something.”
“Annalise Veronese. Was she going to buy a Porsche?” Harry felt a twinge of envy.
“No, she drove a Jetta. The gas mileage on the diesel interested her, and I think she liked the fit and finish of the car. She’s called him back, but so far no sale.”
“Gotta be tough, sales.”
“I like it, though.”
“Dawson, I have horses, and I can spot one that’s been on steroids from one who hasn’t in the racing world. I think I can spot it with people, too. Bodybuilders and athletes who use them get big, of course, and stronger, no doubt. I notice the muscle has a kind of smooth quality.” She lightly touched his forearm. “You’ve done it the hard way.”
“You don’t miss much.”
“I don’t know about that.”
The two of them walked together toward their separate locker rooms.
Stopping in front of the women’s locker room, Harry, with an impish grin, asked, “Are you married?”
Really, she shouldn’t have been so direct. Her mother and grandmother were turning in their graves. But often Harry could get away with things others could not, thanks to that impish quality.
“No. I know you are. Noddy told me. Wish you weren’t.” He grinned back.
“How flattering.” She meant it. “I have some wonderful girlfriends. Most are married, but some aren’t. And friends have friends. If you’re going to be at the polo match out in Greenwood on Father’s Day, I’ll introduce you. Since it’s a big event, it will be natural, know what I mean?”
“Thanks. I look forward to it.”
On the drive home, Harry, buoyed by the attention, whistled to herself. She’d never dream of stepping out on Fair, but oh, how sweet when a handsome man pays attention to you.
• • •
Days later, the polo game proved close and exciting. The field was only seven miles from Harry’s farm in Crozet. It was set in a vineyard. People loved the views, the acre upon acre of vines, the clean, non-fussy design of the farm buildings. She introduced Dawson to BoomBoom and Alicia, who introduced him to their girlfriends. She thought about the people buying tickets to the Pink Ribbon Polo Classic. Steroids weren’t much help to riders in this game.
Watching from her director’s chair, Harry heard the voice of Diana Farrell, the announcer, saying, “One out of eight women in America will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime.”