Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (15 page)

“Sleep with her.” Tom pulled out ahead.

“That proves nothing,” Jude told him a moment later as he caught up with him.

“Yeah, but you’ll have a good time.” Tom kept his eyes on the track.

“You wiped out everything you just said.”

“There’s nothing wrong with seeing how the comfort factor holds up in the sack,” Tom said, sounding oddly like a schoolteacher.

“Thanks for nothing.”

“Anytime, buddy. After you’ve slept with her, you’ll know what I’m talking about. The comfort factor is huge.” Tom surged ahead once more.

Jude followed, struggling to catch him. Finally, he pulled up alongside. The effort felt good. Maybe comfort wasn’t everything. “So who wants to be comfortable during sex, anyways?” he asked.

“Not during. It’s
after
when all the trouble starts.” Tom gave him a level look. “That is, if the comfort factor isn’t there.”

“And if it is?”

“Then everything’s a piece of cake, and you’ve gotten yourself a piece, too.”

“You talk like a douchebag.”

“I can’t talk like this at home, so I need to let it out somewhere. Thanks for being the kind of bum I can talk dirty with.”

“You’re a dog.”

“You’re a lovesick hound,” Tom replied.

The 400-yard mark loomed directly ahead, chalked onto the track.

“Come on, Fido. Follow me if you can.” Jude took off on his friend as soon as they hit the mark simultaneously. This time, he ran all out.

Several minutes later, they were back at the start, Tom ahead of Jude by a stride length.

Both men stopped, choking and gasping after a drink from the water fountain. Tom threw his gym towel around his neck.

“Tell you what—” he grunted.

“What?”

“If you’re still seeing her in a month, why don’t we do dinner together? Posey will size her up, and I’ll tell you if I see the comfort factor or not.” Tom bent over from the waist, trying to touch his toes. His fingers dangled just south of his knees.

“Dinner sounds good, but I can do my own sizing up.” Jude bristled at the idea of Tom’s wife sizing up Farrah. Already he felt protective toward her. The hurt in her golden eyes when he’d mentioned trust fund kids had told him she didn’t lack the wound. But he’d already known.

“Natch. I’ll just let you know if Posey thinks you’re good enough for her.”

“Great. Just what I always needed.”

“What are friends for?” Tom swatted him with his gym towel. “Especially ones who can tell when you’re bullshitting from a mile away.”

“Takes one to know one.” Jude grabbed one end of Tom’s towel and yanked it out of his hands, then flicked it hard at his friend’s running shorts.

It wasn’t a bad idea to have one of his oldest friends meet Farrah, if they continued to see each other. Tom had known Jude from sophomore year at Fairfield University when they’d roomed together. He was aware that Jude had grown up minus a silver spoon in his mouth. They had joined the Greenwich Track Club at the same time after running in a race sponsored by the club out at Tod’s Point, a spit of public land, including a beach, that jutted out into Long Island Sound for the use of Greenwich residents and their guests. Tom lived in nearby Stamford, a middle-class community, and was able to train at Tod’s Point by virtue of being a member of the track club. Like Jude, Tom knew what it was like to be in but not of.

“Ow. Watch the family jewels,” Tom protested, shielding his groin area from Jude’s swats.

“What family?” Tom and Posey had been married a few years. Both worked hard as accountants, she in New York City, he in Stamford.

“The one that Posey keeps hinting about starting,” Tom said ruefully.

“Whoa. Anything in the works?”

“No. I mean, as far as I know. And that’s the way I like it.”

“Come on now, Papa Tom. What’s your problem? Isn’t it time to get a move on?” Jude joked.

“You should talk. How about if you just manage to score?”

“Working on it, brother.”

“Let me know when you’re ready for dinner. Posey will love it. She’s been trying to set you up for years.”

“I can do my own hunting, thanks.”

“As long as you catch something worth holding onto.”

“Like I said, working on it, bro. Same time next week?”

Tom nodded, his hand up in goodbye.

As Jude slowly jogged up the hill to his house, he thought about Farrah. He sensed she was worth holding onto. But he hadn’t caught her yet. How did that work, anyway? Hadn’t his sister told him once that men chase until women turn around and catch? What the hell did that mean?

B
Y
T
UESDAY EVENING,
Farrah still hadn’t communicated. Jude was puzzled. Maybe he should call again. He didn’t want to look like he was stalking her, but he wanted to see her again. Soon. Was she waiting for him to call with a more tangible plan than his previous message had offered?

As he reached for the phone, it rang.

“Jude?” The voice was unmistakable. Larchmont Lockjaw was on the other end.

“Ginny?”

“You made an impression last night.” She giggled.

“Huh.” If only he had made an impression on Farrah. It was beginning to look as if he hadn’t.

“Anne Alexander told me you cornered her,” she said.

“Oh really? If I remember correctly, she was the one who started the conversation.”

“Well, whoever started it, you hit it off with one of the biggest fish there.”

“That’s interesting, considering what she called me.”

“Why? What did she call you?”

“Clueless. Then she walked off.”

Ginny’s laugh was hearty, but not unkind. “Well that’s why I’m calling. She called this morning to get some background on you, so I told her a bit about your new book project.”

“Oh no. I hope you didn’t tell her the title.”

“Listen, Anne’s got a sense of humor. She didn’t take it amiss at all. She’s also got a terrific business sense, so she has a proposal for you.”

“For someone she called Clueless?”

“Yes. She thinks you need to do a lot more research. And to that end, she’s ready to line up four of her girlfriends who may be able to help you out.”

“You mean they all married money, and they’re willing to talk?”

“Strictly off the record.”

“Of course. And is this all being offered in the name of charity?”

“How did you know that?” Ginny sounded surprised, as if he’d just guessed her sun sign or something.

“Uh—I didn’t. I was joking.”

“It’s not a joke. Anne will supply you with four interview subjects if you run your next race as a sponsor for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.”

“How’s that?”

“You collect money from her friends in exchange for inviting them to watch you run your next race. Then you give Anne a check for LLS for the amount you raised. Didn’t you tell me you run a race at least once a month? When’s your next one?”

“It’s in about three weeks. Leatherman’s Loop up in Putnam County.” Jude’s wheels were turning. This might not be a bad idea. He needed to pull together some research fast, so he could get down to actual writing. “But doesn’t it take time to find sponsors and get them to give you money?”

“Not if your introduction is Anne Alexander and the cause is the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Everyone in Fairfield County needs to make charitable contributions before December 31 for their tax write-off. You’ve got good timing and a good cause on your side.”

“Where do I start?”

“You start by calling Anne, getting the names of her four friends, then calling them all and getting a verbal agreement for sponsorship. Anne will have alerted them already to let them know they get a one-hour personal training session in exchange for a short interview by a handsome athlete and author,” she giggled. “I’d ask each of them for at least $500 to get started. Then ask each of them for the names of two other people they’d suggest to sponsor you.”

“Ginny, I’m writing a book, not running a personal training business for rich, bored wives. Where do I find time for all this?”

“You can’t write your book unless you know your topic. And if worse comes to worse, just stop with four sponsors. At least you’ll get four interviews.”

“But what about the one-hour personal training thing? What’s that all about?” Ginny knew Jude had worked as a personal trainer after finishing college, until he’d landed his first editing job at a financial firm. What she didn’t know was how much he’d disliked it. Rife with missed appointments and rescheduling, his mostly neurotic clients either hadn’t liked the way he’d made them work too hard or had talked him into going easy then complained afterward that they hadn’t gotten results. He knew enough about the whims of rich people to know he didn’t have the skill set to cater to them.

“Don’t worry. Just do some exercises or whatever you do, then take each of them out for a slow, easy run, then ask flattering questions about how they met their husbands. They’ll love it.”

“Sounds absurd.”

“It kills two birds with one stone. You raise money for Anne’s charity. In return, Anne supplies you with sources with enough confidential info to turn your book into a bombshell bestseller.”

“Why would anyone shell out $500 for a one-hour training session with a nobody who then turns around and grills them on their love life?”

“Everyone loves to talk about themselves. And everyone loves the idea of being in someone’s book, as long as the names are changed. But you’ll also invite them to come to your race—Leatherman’s Loot—or whatever it is. Tell them there will be lots of top male athletes there from all over the tri-state area.”

“But these women are all married, right?”

Ginny laughed. “They can still enjoy the scenery—fall foliage and all.”

“‘And all’ including nice hunks of male beefcake...”

“Your words, not mine. All of these women have single girlfriends, sisters, cousins, whoever, who might want to come, too.”

“They can’t come unless they sponsor me. Invitation only.”

Ginny laughed. “Now, you’re thinking like a businessman. Anne will approve.”

“Do you think I might get upgraded from Clueless?”

“If she really thought you were clueless, she wouldn’t have called this morning to find out more about you.”

“So what did she really think, then? What did she tell you?”

“Not for your ears, friend.” Ginny’s laugh was richer this time, ripe with secret inflections. “Now, get a pen to write down her number and call her as soon as we hang up.”

“Yes sir,” Jude said jokingly.

“203-661-8934. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now, go get your research subjects lined up.”

“Ginny?”

“What?”

“Will you be one of them?”

“I wish.” A snort sounded from the other end. “Listen, Jude—when your book comes out, I’m planning to read it and follow your instructions. Then, you can interview me for your sequel.”

He groaned. “What’s my sequel?”

“How to Sell People Stuff They Don’t Need.” She chortled as she hung up.

Ginny’s view of his career irked him. If he succeeded with this project, he’d never have to ghostwrite another book on a topic his heart wasn’t in. He could pay off his student loans and begin writing about something he really cared about—such as exploring the space between two worlds, belonging to neither, that people like him occupied. Meanwhile, she was right. He needed to strike while the iron was hot.

He punched in Anne Alexander’s number as his eye fell on his latest student loan statement staring up at him from the kitchen table. Sweeping it to the ground, he stomped on it. Something needed to change. Him.

H
E’D TRIED TO
keep Saturday evening open. But Farrah had left only the vaguest of messages saying she was at a conference and wasn’t yet sure what her schedule was for the weekend. She’d be back in touch soon. Was that double talk for “I’m not interested?” It didn’t jibe with the way their evening had ended—her hand on his face, his on her throat. She hadn’t objected, although she hadn’t kissed him back. When he’d said he’d see her again soon she’d answered “I’d like that.” What was up with that?

Friday was now out because Jim Witherspoon had mentioned his wife and kids were out of town, so it was a good night to go for that beer Jude had suggested the week before, as well as a bite to eat.

He’d introduced himself to Anne’s contacts over the phone the previous Sunday afternoon. All four had pledged varying amounts to sponsor his Leatherman’s Loop race, as Anne had said they would.

Then, out of the blue, one of the four called back Monday to ask if he wanted to escort her to a cocktail reception of the Greenwich Garden Club the following Saturday evening. Jordan Marshall’s husband had been called out of town on business. She had a second ticket to spare. The way she’d suggested Jude be her escort made him realize that Anne hadn’t minced words when she’d described his book project. Jordan knew exactly what he was about and who he needed to meet to fertilize his book. He couldn’t do better than to mix and mingle with members of the Greenwich Garden Club, Jordan assured him. They all had time on their hands which they whiled away tending to backcountry estates, managing landscape designers who in turn managed scores of Spanish-speaking workers.

Backcountry Greenwich, the north section of town, was where the real money lay, in grand estates concealed behind tall hedges and stone walls, featuring acres and acres of land, with
allées
of tall, slender trees reflecting the favored physique of the town’s denizens. It was the backcountry class of folk that really knew not only how to marry money but how to make it, then watch it grow.

Jude couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Keeping Saturday evening open for Farrah had seemed like a good idea, but she hadn’t responded. Ready to move beyond feeling rejected, he gave Jordan Marshall an enthusiastic yes. He imagined her to be a big-boned, well-tanned, horsey sort of woman, with large, shining white teeth in an enormous hat. Wouldn’t that match what a Greenwich Garden Club member would look like? He’d find out Saturday at six when he met her at the entrance to the Field Club, where the event was to take place.

By Tuesday evening he was flat out let down that Farrah hadn’t responded. It could mean only one thing: Friday evening had been okay for her, but nothing special. His sister Emily had coached him on all possible interpretations of how long it should take a woman to get back to him when he’d put the moves on. Not only had he put the moves on, he’d put the brakes on too, because it had seemed like the right thing to do. Then he’d taken a page out of Miss Manners for the after-call and after-message. A whole lot of good it had done him. Next time he met a woman he liked, he’d just try to get her in the sack as soon as possible.