Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (26 page)

“I know, I know.” No way would he get in the way of her run. He zealously guarded his own weekly running schedule. If he didn’t, his weekly mileage base got thrown off, as well as the rest of his life. He’d let nothing get in the way of the lady and her workout, not even himself.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll get my jacket.”

“I’ll be here.” His heart pounded a hundred miles a minute. This was his chance. He prayed he wouldn’t blow it.

The minute she went upstairs, he ran back to his car and popped the trunk. He always left a spare set of running clothes in there, including running shoes. Quickly, he wrestled off his rugby shirt and put on his running one. Then, he moved to the side of the building behind a trash dumpster and took off his jeans, replacing them with running shorts. Back at the car, he put on his sneakers as the two doormen shot occasional glances through the glass entryway. He gave a thumbs up to the one who’d helped him out.

The man cracked a faint smile back. It was a good sign.

“W
HERE TO, FAIR
maid?”

“Do you say that to all your girlfriends?’

“If I had one, I’d say it only to her.” She hadn’t commented on his change of clothing. Maybe she hadn’t noticed.

“What do you want to see around here?’

“The Hudson. Fall foliage. More beauty,” he said, trying to keep his eyes on hers and not sweep over the rest of her landscape. Her thighs ended in the most shapely of pointed knee caps. They were the total opposite of his big, squared-off ones. Everything about her was utterly unlike himself, except her love of running.

“Take a left out the driveway.” Her voice was flat, noncommittal. He would take whatever she offered, as long as she remained there next to him.

The road she lived on was narrow, snaking along the Hudson, north-south. Soon the turns became sharp, and his car began to climb steeply. Within a minute, they’d left behind the high-rise apartment buildings of southern Riverdale and begun to pass stately homes half hidden by mature trees and tall shrubs.

“Wow, this doesn’t look much like most people’s idea of the Bronx,” he remarked.

Farrah laughed. “Most people don’t even know this part of the Bronx exists. So who’s your friend who calls you Big Guy?”

“You get points for directness.” It was his turn to laugh. But what could he say? He needed to stick with the truth. Otherwise, he’d dig himself into even more trouble.

Farrah remained silent, staring ahead.

He took a deep breath. “That wasn’t a friend, and I can’t control what other people call me.”

“So who is she then?”

“She’s someone I interviewed for my book.”

“Is
it your book?”

Ouch. She’d just stuck her finger in his sore spot and twisted. It wasn’t his book, it was Dan Perlstein’s—a fact that increasingly irked him. “Not exactly. I’m ghostwriting it for the financial guy I told you about.”

“I remember. What’s it called again?”

“Uh—well, it doesn’t really have a name yet,” he fibbed. “But the working title is “Stories of Successful People.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?” Jude asked, startled.

“It’s called
How to Marry Money,
and you’re a liar,” she exploded.

“Hey—go lightly.” Impressed by the way she’d just rocketed from glacial coolness to red hot anger, he wished he could see a similar temperature change under different circumstances. “Who told you that?”

“A little bird. Does it matter? Just pull over. I’m taking my run now.”

“I’ll join you.” He steered the car to the curb just before the road took a sharp turn to the right. They were practically in the woods, except for the large houses, half-hidden by foliage.

“You’re not invited.” She opened her door and hopped out even before he could put the car into park. Without warming up, she broke into a brisk run.

“I’m coming anyway. And don’t start off like that, you’ve got to warm up.” He sprang out of the car, clumsily stuffing his keys into the zippered pocket on the back of his running shorts. It was a design meant to be worn by men with partners. He wasn’t coordinated enough to zip it up behind his back. By the time he’d got the keys all the way in and zipped up the pocket, Farrah had disappeared around the corner. He took off after her.

Turning the corner, he couldn’t believe his eyes. A long, steep hill loomed ahead, with Farrah just at the start of it. To his left ran a black, spiked fence, staking off a dense forest of mature trees. The wrought-iron fence was elegant, out of place, except that it wasn’t. What was, was Jude’s perception of what the Bronx was supposed to look like. He steeled himself for more surprises ahead.

“Hey, slow down. You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t warm up.”

“Drop dead,” Farrah’s muffled voice called back.

So the girl had a temper. He tried to catch her but it was all he could do to lumber up the hill in a slow jog rather than give up and walk.

After a few minutes, his breathing grew labored and hoarse. The hill was no joke. The only thing good about it was the beauty of its setting. A riot of burnt oranges, reds and yellows waved at him on either side. The deeply rutted street added to the rusticity of the setting, sending him back to another era. The house he was now passing on his right was nothing less than spectacular, set back from the road, exuding early twentieth century grandeur.

“Who lives here?” he gasped out, between breaths. Might as well change the subject, since the one they’d been on hadn’t been going well.

“I don’t know about now, but Toscanini did.”

“Tosca—who?”

“Toscanini, the Italian conductor.”

“No kidding,” was all he could answer. At least she was talking to him. Too bad he couldn’t respond for lack of breath. He glanced ahead to where she now approached the top of the hill where the road curved left. Beads of sweat were beginning to drip down his face.

Farrah disappeared from view as she followed the road to the left. He prayed it would flatten out after the curve. Even with a proper warm up, the steepness of the hill would have challenged him. He couldn’t imagine cars getting up the road in the wintertime. It would be a miracle if he himself made it to the top.

In another minute he was there. Head down, he made the turn, preparing to relax. Then he looked up to find Farrah.

Unbelievable.

Ahead of him, another long hill loomed. Farrah had slowed down, the distance between them narrowed to perhaps twenty-five yards.

“You run this course regularly?” he rasped out, hoping she’d turn to answer, which would slow her pace.

“Once a week,” she huffed back, not turning.

“Wow,” was all he could say. Conversation was out of the question. Instead he focused on the back of her legs, toned and slimly muscled. It was the only hopeful focal point in sight. He willed himself not to look ahead to the top of the hill. There was no point in thinking about it. One foot in front of the other, just keep it going, he told himself, using the kind of thinking runners did to get themselves through long races.

Finally, he reached the top. There Farrah stood, bent over with hands on thighs, gasping for breath.

He joined her, speechless. Running was a great sport for men and women to engage in together. It left a man so breathless there was no chance to insert foot in mouth. Even better, it limited a woman’s opportunities to talk too much and wander into the land of over-analysis. He silently thanked the running gods for giving them a moment together of total surrender to physical exertion. They were so tired, even fighting was beyond them.

“How do you do this once a week?”

“How do you get women you interview to call you Big Guy?”

Farrah had put back on her boxing gloves. Apparently he was the only one too tired to fight.

“Listen, I can’t stop someone from calling me anything.” He steamed, thinking of Missy’s audacity. “Matter of fact, she never called me that before she spoke to you. I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“I do. So what did you do to put her in that frame of mind?”

“Nothing. I mean it. She’s one of those types of people who thinks she owns everyone around her. You know what I mean?”

Farrah’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”

Something about the way she hid her eyes told him she did.

Jude put his hands on his thighs and bent over, trying to control his breathing. “I mean, she treats people like toys.”

“Like you?”

“Maybe.” It was his turn to hedge.

“Why’d you let her do that?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, her voice had risen. She cared. Inside, he did a jig.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“What do you mean?” it was her turn not to understand.

“I mean, it wasn’t me she was manipulating. It was you,” he said.

Farrah looked confused for a moment, then thoughtful.

“Okay, I see your point. But how do you know she wasn’t manipulating you too?”

“She probably was.”
And still is.
“But the interview’s done, and I don’t have to deal with her anymore.”
If she doesn’t show her husband the surveillance tape of me letting her out of my car.

“If that’s the kind of woman you hang out with, you’re not my type.”

“Farrah, that’s not the type of woman I hang out with. I can’t stand that type.”

“I doubt it. You had them hanging off your arms up on stage after Leatherman’s Loop.” Her voice held the tiniest trace of an Irish accent.

“You saw that? I thought you went home sick.”

“I did, after I saw all those society women fawning all over you. I was sick to my stomach. But you looked like you were loving it.”

“They sponsored me for the race. Remember the woman at the Mexican restaurant? They were all her girlfriends or people she knew who donated for lymphoma. Plus, she knew some of them would be good interview candidates for the book.”

“I’m not interested in competing with that type of woman,” Farrah said brusquely.

The hurt in her eyes told him feelings of inferiority hid behind her brash, Bronx-girl pride. He liked both.

“No one’s asking you to compete with them. I can’t stand that type of woman. I told you that already,” he argued.

She began to walk back down the hill. “Then, why do you spend time with them?”

“Because I live in Greenwich. That’s how they grow them there.”

“Why do you hang around with the type of people you don’t like?”

Why do I?
Sputtering, he tried to come up with a good answer. That’s—that’s a good question. I guess I only started asking myself that recently.”

Farrah stared at him, not quite so fiercely as a minute before. Then, she pulled ahead, murmuring something back.

“What did you say?” He began to jog to catch up with her.

“I said that’s okay.”

“It is?”

“I mean, it isn’t, but I know how it is.”

“You do?” She was so perfect, there was no way she could.

“I’ve been there myself.”

“You have? Recently?”

“Let’s just say I can’t blame you for something I’ve done myself.”

“So you forgive me?”

Farrah sighed. “Whatever that means.”

“It means we’re going back down this hill together.”

“Does it now?” Her Irish inflection was unmistakable. He liked every feisty syllable of it.

“And then we’re going for a beer,” he ordered.

“Are we now?

“Yup.” He needed to focus on the rutted road ahead. In some ways it was more difficult running down the hill than up it.

“Why should I believe anything you’ve just told me?’ she demanded. Reasonably, he thought.

“Don’t then. Let’s just go celebrate getting up and down this hill together.”

She laughed then tossed her hair. The way it floated out behind her, releasing a fragrance no one who had run so hard had any right to possess, made all five of his senses jump, possibly six.

Together they made their way down the hill, slowly and safely while Jude silently thanked his mother for helping him navigate through the fearsome minefield of an angry female. She’d had a drop of Irish blood in her and had had a bit of a temper from what his father had told him. Maybe that was why he liked seeing Farrah’s temper flare at moments. Whatever it was, he felt a thousand times more lighthearted following her back down the hill than he had on the way up.

S
HE COULDN’T HELP
it, he was getting under her skin. He’d said her neighborhood was lovely, and it was. At least he had eyes to see. Riverdale lacked glamour, but hidden charms lay around every corner. Will had made no comment whatsoever the two times he’d visited. That had been code for “I can’t think of anything nice to say so I won’t say anything at all.” He had drawing room manners to match his tastes. But were they hers?

Will was one of those Manhattan-or-bust types of New Yorkers. The ones who don’t give the outer boroughs or anyone in them a chance. But Farrah no longer was. She was a Riverdalian now and proud of it. The last thing she needed was a guy from Greenwich looking down his nose at her town. But the second the thought entered her head, her conscience smacked her. She was being unfair.

As she lifted her beer mug, she glanced over at him. Instantly he turned his head to meet her eyes. His were smiling, warm. Not a trace of holding himself in reserve. No Will-like “I’ll let you admire me for a second longer than I’ll admire you.” From what she’d seen of Jude, he didn’t play those kinds of games. He was down-to-earth. So why then did he surround himself with high-in-the-sky Greenwich socialites? And why was he writing a book on marrying money? Something didn’t add up.

She quaffed her beer, enjoying the tickle of the ice, cold liquid running down her throat.

How well do you add up?
a voice ran through her head. Looking into Jude’s dark blue eyes, she thought about her own confusion over who she was, what she wanted. Now that she was in sales, she realized she wanted to be back in teaching. Now that Will had come back into her life, she wasn’t 100 percent sure she wanted him back. She’d always aspired to things and people she’d perceived as superior to herself. But since she’d moved to Riverdale, she’d begun to find her own comfort level. It wasn’t as high as Will’s was, but it fit. It felt good to be moving closer to a life that fit. But she wasn’t there yet.