Fallen Idols by J. F. Freedman Page A

between Christmas and New Year's, four months after his mother's death. Her accidental murder had been a brutal blow to everyone, but Clancy and Callie had decided, after much soul-searching, to go on with their wedding, which they had already planned. Life can be shorter than you think it's going to be, that was the harsh lesson they had learned.
    The most compelling reason they'd thought about postponing their wedding was Walt. He hadn't handled Jocelyn's death well at all; this was the first time in their lives that his sons had known him to not be in control. But when the question had been broached to him—very delicately—he had insisted that the wedding go forward as planned. Life is for the living, he'd told Clancy and Callie. Jocelyn would want you to push ahead, full speed.
    So they tied their knot. It was a sweet wedding. Not too big, their families and close friends, fifty guests in all. After the minister performed the ceremony, which included a special prayer for Jocelyn's memory, so that her spirit was included in the ceremony, the full wedding party caravanned in limousines to Clancy's bar (which he had closed for the day), whereupon one and all pigged out on the massive buffet, danced to a rocking local blues band, and drank.
    The next day, after sobering up, everyone scattered. Walt drove himself back to Madison, Tom and Will went to their respective homes in Ann Arbor and Minneapolis, Callie's parents flew back to South Dakota. Clancy and Callie honeymooned in Paris and Florence for two weeks. Then they came home and settled back into their everyday lives.
    Callie Jorgensen was Nordic-blond, blue-eyed, a shade over six feet, a few years out of college when she and Clancy met. She had been a volleyball player, an All-American at UCLA, then two years on the pro circuit.
    It had been a great life—how many twenty-four-year-olds are making six figures a year to hang out on beautiful beaches in California, Florida, and Hawaii, wear great-looking two-piece swimsuits, slug a volleyball over a net, and smile at the camera for the Gatorade and Nike commercials? Not to mention hanging out with Derek Jeter, I Pete Sampras, and Vince Carter. The answer is, damned few.
    When she blew out the anterior cruciate ligament in her right knee it was like the end of the world. Women's volleyball wasn't that big a sport that she could survive the operations and recovery time she'd need to get back in her peak and be a force again, not only as a player, which was questionable, given the severity of her injury, but more important, as a commercial entity. If you can't jump, you can't play. If you can't play, you have no market value.
    Callie Jorgensen was twenty-four years old and she had already been through, and completed, an entire career. She was miserable, dejected, and lost.
    And then along came Clancy Gaines.
    Clancy was Callie's physical therapist. He was completing his master's degree in physical therapy and anatomy at the University of South Dakota, and was working at a local rehab clinic to make money and get practical, hands-on training. He had never worked with a professional athlete before. Having that opportunity was exciting to him—you don't normally find a professional athlete rehabilitating a serious injury in Vermillion, South Dakota. Callie was there because her parents lived nearby, in Sioux Falls, and she had gone home to lick her wounds and have a stable support system, far from the glitz of the world she'd been living in.
    Callie was the hardest-working client Clancy had ever worked on. Regardless of when he'd show up for their morning appointment, six o'clock or whatever ungodly hour they'd scheduled, she would be there, waiting impatiently. He would put her through her routine, really punish her, and she would finish it and want to do more. No matter how bone-tired she was, no matter how much her leg hurt, she wanted to keep pushing. She wanted to get better faster, and she wanted her leg to be as