Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (19 page)

Siga, siga, man,
he told himself, using the Greek phrase for ‘slowly, slowly’ he’d picked up in Santorini the summer he was twenty-four when he’d hopped around Europe and ended up on one of the world’s most beautiful islands. Being a man on a Greek island in the summer season was about as lucky as a man could get.

That had been the summer he’d moved from the serving class to the ruling one. It had had nothing to do with money but rather with what he’d picked up on from Greek males.

Every single one of them appeared to be a member of the ruling class. Young, old, rich, poor—it didn’t matter. Every Greek man acted as if he were a minor god, if not a major one. He’d studied them closely when he wasn’t studying the Northern European girls all over the islands ready for fun in the sun as well as under the moonlight. The Greek girls had been largely hidden from view, most likely by their mothers or menfolk. Jude had been young as well as lucky. What he’d gained from one summer in Greece had stayed with him a lifetime. He’d had a hell of a good time, too.

Now, he was ten years older and ready to feel lucky again. He put his hand on the small of Farrah’s back as he propelled her to the entrance of the restaurant. His observation of Greek men had informed him it didn’t pay to be too gentle with women. It paid to be assertive and sometimes paternal, but never a pushover. Casper Milquetoast would have been stoned to death, then tossed over a cliff within days of arriving on any Greek island. The Greek males Jude had observed exhibited a protective, paternal sort of masculinity that charmed and comforted women and made something deep inside him want to cheer. He’d seen it in knee-high Greek boys with their mothers and sisters. Boy toddlers didn’t toddle in Greece. They swaggered, then maintained their swagger forever after. Some sort of basic male state of being existed in Greece that had been civilized out of Western Europe and the United States.

He’d kept his newfound knowledge to himself, aware of how politically incorrect it was. But the lesson had gotten under his skin and stayed there. Opening the door for Farrah to walk through, he stroked the small of her back with his thumb. He thought he felt her shiver. He took his hand away, hoping she’d miss it. More later. For now, less would be more.

I
T WAS FUN
to get out of the city. Some said Riverdale was really more an extension of Westchester County, but technically it was in the Bronx, one of New York City’s five boroughs. Farrah adjusted her blouse, thinking of Jude’s hand on her back that had so firmly guided her through the parking lot into the restaurant. She could swear she’d felt a slight caress just before he’d taken it away. Now, sitting across from him, she studied his face.

It was strongly sculpted. Whatever artist who’d been on duty the day he’d been created had been sure of himself. There was no ambiguity about his looks, the way there was with Will, with his mutable, connoisseur’s expressions. From every angle—the lines of Jude’s jaw, his cheek, then his brow were well-defined and consistent. His hair was medium-brown, thick, and wavy, his hairline youthful, with no hint of receding. Jude’s eyes were not so much midnight tonight as a deep, bright blue. Clear and focused, his gaze returned again and again to the leaf design on her blouse. She was glad she’d chosen it.

She remembered how fascinated she’d been with Will’s changing looks. His right profile had exuded strength, manliness. His left had hinted ‘sensitive artist,’ a man in need of a woman’s guidance. She had thought it was a sign of his complexity until she’d come up with another term for it—weak indecisiveness and inability to appreciate what he’d fought ferociously to possess, namely, her. If she gave him the chance, would anything change in the next round?

“What shall we drink?” Jude asked.

“What’s good here?”

“Margaritas. Also they’ve got a secret recipe sangria that’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Sangria sounds perfect.” She liked margaritas too, but tequila played tricks on her. It wouldn’t do to have psychedelic hallucinations on a night like this one. She knew neither the man across from her well nor the direction the evening would take. Better to stay clearheaded and nimble. Nothing with which a glass or two of sangria would interfere.

“White or red?” he asked.

“Red.”

“Good.” He turned in his seat, looking for a waiter. As he moved, the fabric of his shirt strained against the muscles of his upper arms under the soft-looking brown and maroon plaid shirt he wore. It looked as if it might be brushed cotton. Squelching an impulse to reach out and touch it, instead she combed her fingers through the shock of hair that fell over her right shoulder.
Don’t fiddle with your hair at the dinner table,
her mother’s voice intoned.

“Need a fork?” Strangely, Jude leaned toward her, handing her one he’d picked off the table.

“No. Why?” she asked, puzzled.

“You looked like Ariel for a minute. I thought you might want a fork to comb your hair with.”

She broke up with laughter at the earnest expression on Jude’s face as he waved the fork in front of her.

“How do you know about Ariel?” she finally choked out. His humor was a breath of fresh air after a heat wave, breaking the hothouse atmosphere between them.

“She’s my sister’s favorite mermaid. Her eight-year-old, my niece, is named Ariel.”

“So you’ve seen
The Little Mermaid?”

“At least twenty-five times.”

She giggled. His words made her heart feel light.

“Do you see your niece often?”

“As often as I can. They’re on Long Island, so I get out there a few times a year.”

“Any family nearby?”

“No.” Jude’s face darkened, his eyebrows almost connected. Then the waiter arrived, cutting short whatever else he might have been about to say.

Farrah looked around the restaurant while Jude gave the waiter their drink order. Nautical motifs vied with Mexican ones as wall decor. A donkey piñata hung from the ceiling in the adjoining room in front of a collection of brightly colored buoys on the wall.

“Are we near the water?” she asked.

“About five minutes from the Mianus River.”

“Oh. I thought Greenwich was on the ocean.”

“It is. The Mianus empties into Long Island Sound,” he explained.

“Can you access it publicly?”

“Sure. The local marinas don’t mind people walking around. Want to go down and take a look after dinner?”

She shivered, nestling into her banquette seat, feeling exactly the way she had back in her junior year of high school when a blond-haired boy she’d liked had asked if she wanted to take a walk down by the river. “I love the ocean,” was all she’d said back, her heart pounding.

“It’s different from the Hudson River, for sure.”

“The Hudson is beautiful, but you can’t really get near it in my neighborhood.”

“I thought we did well last time we tried,” Jude answered, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth.

“That’s about as close as you can get,” she replied, trying not to blush. “There’s nowhere you can sit on the banks or get near the water.”

“Funny. Why’s that?”

His eyebrows lifted expressively with the question. She wondered if sometimes one went up without the other.

“Most of the riverfront is privately owned and what isn’t is owned by the railroad. They don’t allow access,” she explained.

“Seems odd to live next to a river and not be able to get near it.”

“I know. There’s some sort of Riverfront Alliance that lobbies the railroad to get them to create some public park space, but it’s not a popular idea in Riverdale.”

“Why’s that?”

“Too many residents who don’t want people from other neighborhoods coming into theirs. It’s a pretty private sort of place.”

“Homey too, right? Last time we got together you told me Riverdale was a nice neighborhood that people think back to fondly when they move away.”

She was impressed. He’d remembered their conversation almost word for word. “It is homey. Not fancy, but definitely homey.”

“I liked it.”

Inside, she glowed. He liked the place she’d chosen to make her home. Will would disdain Riverdale. He was all about fancy, not homey. She didn’t look forward to seeing his reaction to the neighborhood she’d moved to from the Upper West Side.

The waiter arrived, interrupting them. Jude chose a steak burrito special that sounded tantalizing, but Farrah decided on shrimp enchiladas. She loved seafood but rarely cooked it at home. It had a way of smelling up her galley kitchen, plus what was the point of preparing something special for just one person?

The waiter took their menus, and Jude picked up his drink. He took a long slug, then set it down and looked at Farrah, his eyes narrowed.

“So how was your week? he asked, one eyebrow going up.

“It was—hectic,” she said, scrounging for an adjective to substitute for
confusing.
“I have a chance to win—to win—”
to win back my ex, but I’m not sure I want to.

A movement caught the corner of her eye. A woman in a broad-brimmed hat was approaching, a wide smile on her face.

“Jude,” she sang out. “Good to see you.” The woman’s china-doll blue eyes swept over Farrah too, her smile only slightly diminishing in intensity. She reminded Farrah of Christie Brinkley but with a longer nose.

“Anne. How are you?” Jude asked. He looked just a tiny bit nervous. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with an ex reappearing on the scene.

“I’m fine. Any luck with my contacts?” she asked Jude, the silk of her navy and white-striped sheath dress rustling as she turned.

“Yes. Every one of them as a matter of fact.” Jude was now smiling, but he hadn’t stood. Farrah wondered if he wanted her to go away.

“How’d it go with Jordan last night?”

Jude’s face flushed ever so slightly. “Great. The Garden Club was super.”

No one ever said “super” in the Bronx. It was one of those words from
The Preppie Handbook.
So he’d been at a social event with a woman the evening before.

“She told me she introduced you to boatloads of people. Did you sign them all up?”

Boatloads of people? Another term never uttered in the Bronx. Farrah imagined Will’s almost-wife to be something like the woman standing before them. The wide, bold stripes of her dress formed a perfect advertisement for her poise and confidence.

“I’m working on it.” Jude said, his eyes turning to Farrah.

The woman’s eyes followed his.

“So I see,” she said brightly. “Are you sponsoring Jude’s race for lymphoma?” she asked Farrah.

“I—uh—”

“Farrah, this is Anne Alexander, Chairman of the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Fairfield County. Anne, this is Farrah Foley.”

“How do you do?” Anne nodded without extending a hand.

“Hello.” Farrah smiled back, then looked at Jude. “What race is this?”

“It’s Leatherman’s Loop. The one you’re doing with me, right?”

“Oh that’s super,” Anne interjected before Farrah could reply. “So you’ve signed on with Jude’s team?” Her smile as charming as her eyes businesslike, Farrah guessed her to be a crack fundraiser.

“There’s no teams in this event, but we’ll be in the race together,” he told her.

“Wonderful. Then you can sponsor Jude,” Anne trilled, turning to the entrance. In the dim light Farrah made out a prosperous-looking older man in a dark green polo shirt waiting by the door. “Got to go. Good luck to both of you.”

Jude’s eyebrows went up. “Thanks?” It came out more like a question.

“With the race, I mean,” Anne giggled, then turned, her dress swishing importantly as she walked away.

Farrah looked at him. “You’re raising money for lymphoma?”

“I am.”

“I’ll sponsor you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested.

“I want to.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“I know. My mother died of lymphoma.”

“God.” Jude’s hand moved toward hers on the table. Before it reached her, it stopped. “I’m sorry. Was it—how long ago was it?”

“Eight years.”

“Too young,” he said.

“Yes.” She sensed he wanted to touch her, but she drew back.

“You miss her still?”

Farrah sat back in her chair, trying to put together words to describe what it was that she felt.

“It’s like she lives inside me now. She went from being on the outside to the inside. But I miss seeing her, hearing her voice.” She bent her head, closing her eyes. If she tried really hard, she could conjure up that dear, familiar face looking at her with love and approval. But it wasn’t the same.

“What do you do when you need her?” Jude asked quietly.

“I’m doing it.”

“I know how you feel,” he said.

“How could you?” she lashed out. She hadn’t meant the words to come out so sharply, but no one knew how she felt. She was the only girl in her family, and no one had the slightest idea how she felt not to have her mother around. At least once a day she wished she could call her, ask her for advice, exchange laughs or hugs. Her father and brothers hadn’t an inkling how much she missed her mother, although she knew they missed her, too. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Thanks for saying that, but you can’t possibly know.” She stared at the fork Jude had handed her, then picked it up and waved it back and forth, as if to say no.

“You’re right. I didn’t mean to say that. I just know how it is to lose a mother.”

“You do?”

He nodded, his eyes opaque and veiled. They looked almost black.

“Did you lose yours?” she asked.

“She died of a brain tumor when I was four.” He looked down.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. You do know.” The fork stopped in mid-air.

“Yes.” His left elbow on the table, he reached for the tines of the fork she held and closed his fingers over them. She watched what he was doing, then lifted her eyes to his. There she met recognition, acceptance. For once she didn’t feel the urge to look away quickly, hiding her disadvantage or impossible-to-explain loss. Wonderingly, she held his gaze, surprised at how comfortable she felt. She wasn’t used to feeling comfortable with a man. Will had always seemed to be holding some impossibly high benchmark just above her head that he would ratchet up the second she reached for it.