Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (4 page)

After three rings, her answering machine clicked on.

“You’ve reached 718-325-3225. Leave a message with your name and number at the tone, and someone will get back to you soon.”

“
Someone
will get back to me soon?” Jude’s low-pitched voice came through the answering machine speaker. “Do you think the woman soaking her feet in lavender oil and Epsom salts could get back to me now? I have an important question about a rubber ducky.”

His voice on the phone sounded even lower than it did in person. Her solar plexus contracted as she lunged for the phone.

“Hello?” Farrah spoke breathlessly into the receiver.

“Hi. Farrah?”

“Yes. It’s me. Is this—?”

“Jude.”

“Oh, hi. I wasn’t expecting your call.”

“You sure? You just e-mailed me your numbers, so I thought I’d try them.”

“I didn’t mean to do that.” She felt her face flush. “They’re at the bottom of all my e-mails as part of my automatic signature.”

“Oh. I feel really special now.”

“I didn’t mean that—I’m glad you called. I just wasn’t expecting you to. Right away, that is.”

“I thought women had a thing about giving out their numbers and then not hearing from a guy.”

“Well—to be honest, they do.”

“So how am I doing?”

You’re doing just fine.

“Tell me. How
are
you doing?” It was time to wrestle back the advantage in this conversation. He was cheeky and apparently interested. But she wasn’t going to let him know how she felt about him just because he’d asked. That was way too simple. What did he think she was? A man?

“I was fine until you told me you give out your number to every guy you e-mail.”

“I don’t e-mail loads of guys!”

“You sure?”

“What was the question about the rubber ducky?” She would fight his verbal absurdity with her own. She’d learned that trick while growing up with brothers.

“Well, I thought I’d call and ask if you wanted my duck size.”

“Your what?”

“You know. My duck size. I’m a large.”

“My tube is one-size-fits-all.”

“There you go, making me feel special again.”

“You have a way of making yourself feel special all on your own.”

“Says who?”

“Says you,” she told him.

“I do?” he asked.

“You do.”

“You do, too,” he told her.

“Says who?”

“Says you,” he countered.

“I do?”

“You do.”

“You do, too,” she told him.

“You already said that,” he challenged.

“Did not.” She was sure she hadn’t said exactly that. Had she?

“Did.”

“Not.” Right or wrong, she’d stand her ground.

“Did so.”

“Now, it’s
you
who already said that.”

“No I didn’t, but I can see why you might think I did,” he said, conciliatorily

“That’s what I was thinking, too.”

“I know. That’s why you said it,” he replied.

“Do you have a sister by any chance?” she asked.

“How’d you know?”

“This conversation feels familiar.” She’d been down this road more than a few times in back seat conversations with her siblings. It used to drive her parents crazy.

“So you’ve got a brother.”

“Brothers.”

“Older or younger ones?”

“Obnoxious ones. I mean—when we were kids.” She smiled, thinking of Sean and Mark, her two rascal brothers who had helped her hone competitive skills in endless childhood athletic challenges and tussles. “Both older,” she added.

“I had one of those, too. Except it was my sister. No brothers,” he said

“You sure you weren’t the obnoxious one?” she teased.

“No, it took time for me to grow into that role. How about you?”

“No. I was perfect,” she ad-libbed.

“Not anymore?”

“Not since I grew up.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said, companionably.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Then, we agree.”

“We do.”

“I’m glad, ’cause I couldn’t have taken much more of this conversation,” she said, relieved. She loved both her brothers, but the last thing she needed was another man like either of them in her life.

“You want to get off?” Jude asked.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Just re-route,” she suggested.

“Is that like a re-boot?”

“It’s like a quick re-boot.”

“We’re agreeing again.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I guess you’re getting ready for your work week,” he said.

“How’d you know?” she sighed. She’d been enjoying herself until he’d brought up work.

“You don’t really like your job.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No.” Her sigh was even deeper this time.

“Then, I won’t ask about it.”

“Thanks.”

“What about dinner?”

“Dinner?” What had he said?

“Dinner sometime?”

“With you?”

“Yes. That would be the idea.”

“I—I—can I let you know sometime soon?” She panicked, a butterfly pinned to a board.

“Is that girl talk for ‘no’? You can just say ‘no,’ you know. It’s not a problem. I’ve got a big, strong chin. Go ahead—I can take it.”

“No, I—that’s not what I meant.” His chin was handsome, too.

“You meant that you need some time to think about it?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“Like I said—I have a sister.”

“She’s coached you well.”

“She told me a man who waits to call a woman more than twenty-four hours after she’s given him her number is a man with an already angry female on his hands.”

“Your sister sounds sharp.” Farrah had to smile.

“She’s a ball breaker.”

“I like her already.” With a brother like Jude, she would have to be.

“She’s taught me a few things.”

“Actually, she was right about the calling thing,” Farrah approved.

“Then, I’m in your good graces?”

Instead of answering, she laughed. He had backed off gracefully, giving her room to breathe.

“Talk to you soon.”

“Talk to you soon,” she repeated. But he’d already hung up.

Springing up from her desk chair, Farrah danced around the living room. Then, she ran into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. In the mirror over the sink, her cheeks looked flushed and rosy; this time with excitement, not embarrassment. The conversation with Jude had made her forget all about falling flat on her face in front of him earlier that day.

He’d asked her out for dinner. What was wrong with her? Dinner would be perfect. She hoped he would ask again. Next time, she’d be prepared with the right answer: Yes.

J
UDE GOT OFF
the phone, flummoxed. He thought it had been going well. He’d done the right thing by calling as soon as she gave him her number. She’d sounded engaged and interested as they’d verbally danced around each other. But when he’d asked her out, she’d backed off. How did a man ask a woman out on a date these days, anyway? Had he done it wrong?

Shaking his head, he went into the kitchen to investigate his cold beer supply. Gloriously, two Pilsners awaited him in the sleeve of the refrigerator. Popping one open, he went out onto the front porch of the pool house he rented.

The Japanese maple tree was still green, with clusters of reddish pods amongst its lush leaves. Falling into the Adirondack rocker, he rocked back and rested his feet against the bottom rung of the porch railing.

It was no easy job trying to make time with a woman these days. This one had intrigued him. But what had he expected, asking out a woman who required 2 percent fat, organic milk in her coffee? If that was the only kind of milk she drank, then what would be the only kind of man she’d date? From stories his sister had told him about the female psyche, he knew there were a good number of women out there who dated exactly the opposite kind of men than the ones that were right for them.

He wasn’t going to jump through hoops to try to make a simple connection with a member of the opposite sex. He’d made all the right moves. She hadn’t taken the bait. End of story. Maybe she’d show at Leatherman’s Loop. If she did, he could take another read on her then.

Trying to feel good about his mental resolve to move on, he took a deep swig of ice cold beer. It was foamy, tart, and satisfying, exactly what he needed. But Farrah’s face, with its perfectly pointed chin and slanted amber eyes framed by long, dark hair, hovered in his mind. For a girl with an Irish surname, he’d bet some other sort of blood ran through her veins. Farrah wasn’t exactly a Celtic given name. Maybe her mother had watched reruns of
Charlie’s Angels
when she’d been pregnant. Whatever her background, she was a great combination of genes. Too bad that she was skittish as well as an organic food wacko.

Why did so many single women put themselves into narrow niches where only gay men would share their common interests? He’d heard the term metrosexual, but he wasn’t convinced that there was any such category. There were heterosexual guys, and there were gay guys. Metrosexuals were probably just straight guys who’d figured out that women only share common interests with gay guys but still want to have sex.

Farrah. He flashed back to the Farrah Fawcett poster his older male cousin had had on his bedroom wall when they’d been kids. As he ambled back to the kitchen to retrieve a second cold one, he passed his answering machine, the flash of the red LED light caught his eye. Did someone call while he was outside?

He hit
play.

“Jude, it’s Ginny Slade. I’m organizing a table for the LLS Benefit on September 28, and we’ve got a few places left. Would you like to join us? It’s at Indian Harbor Yacht Club. My number is 769-5120. Let me know soon, because it’s filling up.”

He scribbled down the number on the back of an unopened invitation. He got several every week. It was unbelievable how many benefits, galas, and charity events he was invited to. Sometimes, he wondered if it was a ploy on the part of particular female committee members to pique his interest. Of course, it was. Why else was it that women ran 90 percent of the philanthropic events that occurred in Fairfield County? They used philanthropic activities, with their tax write offs, so that they and their single girlfriends could lure single males to these events.

Should he call Ginny back? It might make up for getting the door slammed in his face by Pocahontas. Ginny was one of those horsey, blonde athletic types that dotted Connecticut’s Gold Coast. She had long legs, a glowing tan, and an open, pleasant face with big, white teeth. The latter exuded good health, either hers or the state of her dentist’s retirement savings.

Letting out a long sigh, he dialed her number.

“Hello?” A crisp voice answered after three rings.

“Ginny?”

“Yes?”

“Jude Farnesworth. I got your call.”

“Jude. How nice to hear back from you. How are you?” Her voice exuded Larchmont Lockjaw, the speaking style made famous by William F. Buckley, Jr.

Jude flashed back to Oyster Bay High School, when he’d asked the self-assured preppie princess who sat next to him in chemistry class to the spring fling. He’d liked the way his stock rose in the eyes of his friends when he’d walked into the dance with her, but the actual experience had left him empty. Talking to her had been like trying to scale a castle wall with no windows. She’d been so self-contained, there was nowhere to gain a foothold.

“Great. I’d offer my services as an extra body to fill your table but I—”

“Super. Did you receive the invitation yet in the mail?” Ginny cut him off.

“Umm. I don’t know. Who was it from?” He looked at his kitchen table, piled high with unopened bills, statements, invitations, special offers, and credit card pre-approvals. Opening junk mail wasn’t his favorite end-of-the-workday activity.

“It would be from the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Fairfield County.”

“Any other clues? And what’s involved?” An invitation to join a table at a benefit was code for “You’re invited to write out a big fat check to support a good cause.” Jude hoped Ginny would catch his code language for “How much is it going to cost me?” All wording involving money on the Gold Coast was coded. It was like speaking in dialect—rich people’s dialect.

“The envelope has a really cute fall foliage design on the back. I picked it out myself.” He noticed that she avoided his coded question.

“Great. I’ll check and send it in.” Inwardly groaning over his unfortunate use of the word
check,
he swept the smallest pile of junk mail into the wicker wastebasket next to the table.

“Look for it now. Otherwise, you might forget.” How had she known he had no intention of looking for it? Was she wise to the way the male brain worked? He sifted through the remaining envelopes on the table, turning them over until he found one with a fancy design on the back.

“Okay, I found it.”

“Super. Open it up, and you’ll find the R.S.V.P. card with an envelope. There should be a stamp on it already.”

“Yup.” There was also an obscenely high amount listed as a charitable donation next to the box for a single person over age thirty-five to attend. He sucked in his breath.

“Are you okay on the donation amount?” she asked, presciently.

“Actually, I—uh.” “Why was it that women always found a way to sniff out what income bracket a guy was in?

“I don’t know which age group applies to you. But just check off the lower age group box and send in that amount. I’m on the committee, so I’ll make sure it passes.”

“Thanks, Ginny. Obviously someone doing the planning equates advanced age with enhanced wealth.” Jude was in the higher age group, but not even in the ballpark of the higher income expectations of whoever the planning committee was. Probably Ginny Slade and a bunch of single girlfriends, trying to sniff out suitable husband material.

“It’s more like we equate a not-very-advanced age with not-a-lot-of-disposable income,” she coyly replied.

You can say that again.
He stared forlornly at the envelope from the student loan company that had fallen on the floor.

“You’ve got a tux, right?” she asked, sounding less assured than a moment before. Had his significant pause at her income question thrown her off? He hoped so.