Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (2 page)

She looked at him uncertainly. She had screwed up his race. Yet he was smiling at her. And he wasn’t chubby. At all.

“I wish I could make it up to you,” she said, then realized her words had come out wrong.

“How about telling me your name?”

“I’m—”

“Farrah, we’re going for breakfast.” Her friend Ana tugged at her left arm.

“Farrah? Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand.

Grasping it, she felt how muscular and dry it was. She hated sweaty palms on men. “I—uh—do you want to join us for breakfast?”

“Where’re you going?”

“The Jackson Diner in New Paltz,” Ana volunteered, eye-balling Jude.

“I know that place,” he said. “They have great homemade oatmeal.”

“Huh.” Oatmeal was Farrah’s favorite post-race breakfast. “Why don’t you meet us there?” she suggested.

“I don’t want to cut in,” he said, hesitantly.

“The more, the merrier,” Ana interjected, giving Farrah a sideways look, indicating he’d received her seal of approval in the looks division.

“Join us. You can meet the guy you should have beaten if it hadn’t been for me.” If humiliation was going to be her breakfast, it might not be tasty, but it would be nutritious. She’d take her oatmeal without honey today.

“Okay, then,” he answered quietly, so only Farrah could hear.

Tingling, she turned and ran to catch up with her friend on the way to the parking lot. Were her endorphins kicking in? Yes, and something else too. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

A
T THE
J
ACKSON
Diner, Jude pretended to study the menu. He already knew what he’d order, but it gave him somewhere to aim his eyeballs while he took in Farrah. A smell like grapefruit, fresh and tangy, came from her direction. She didn’t smell like most runners did after a race.

He made a note to wipe off some sweat when he went to the men’s room. Women’s sniffers were about a gazillion times more sensitive than men’s. Then, when they were pregnant, that number doubled. Jude’s track club buddy had told him that when his wife had been expecting she’d ordered him to move his dresser out of their bedroom into the guest room. He’d always used the top of it as a laundry hamper, but the smell of his dirty socks sent her heaving to the bathroom. Fortunately, his buddy himself hadn’t been relocated.

Raising his eyes to Farrah, Jude took a deep breath. Long, dark brown hair. Check. Were her almond-shaped eyes amber? Or hazel? Here they were running a trail race in the Mohonk Mountains in the Catskills, and he’d bumped into a woman who looked like Pocahontas.

“Coffee for everyone?” the waitress asked.

“Yes,” multiple voices chimed in.

“You got decaf?” someone asked.

“Yup,” the waitress responded.

“I’ll take mine with 2 percent fat organic milk, if you have it,” Farrah told her.

“I don’t know about 2 percent fat or organic, but we get our milk locally and almost everyone around here farms organic.”

“Great. Can you check please?”

It was all he could do to refrain from rolling his eyeballs. They went up, but he caught himself before they rolled down again.

“Uh-huh,” the waitress walked away. Jude was sure she would check. Right after she added a special service charge to the bill for neurotic customers from New York City.

“So what’s your next race?” he asked Farrah.

She looked at him vaguely. Was her mind still on whether she’d get the right milk in her coffee?

“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got some business trips coming up, so I haven’t signed up for anything. What about you?”

She traveled for her job. Did that mean she was never around?

“I’m thinking about doing Leatherman’s Loop next month,” he replied. “Ever run it?”

“No. What kind of race is it?”

He liked the way she tossed her hair as she turned to look at him. She’d taken it out of the ponytail she’d worn during the race. Now, he could see it came halfway down her back. Did Pocahontas have a non-business side?

“It’s a six-mile trail race. Nasty, mud, a river, hills—you name it, “he said.

“What do you do when you get to the river?” she asked, teasingly. “Swim?”

“No, you just wade through. It’s knee-high at most. Or in your case, mid-thigh.” He hadn’t meant to mention thighs. He was just being technically accurate.

“When is it?” She looked interested.

It would be fun to see her tawny-colored face all splashed with mud, as well as those strong, well-toned legs. She wasn’t slim as a stick, like so many female runners. She was well-proportioned, with broad shoulders, a small waist, and rounded hips—that’s what he had seen so far. If only she’d managed to pass him without tripping, he could have checked her out further. But that would have to wait.

“It’s October 20, I think. In Cross River.”

“Is that in Westchester?” she asked, referring to Westchester County, directly north of Riverdale and the Bronx.

“Yup. Horse country.”

The waitress arrived. She set down the steaming coffee mugs, avoiding eye contact and more questions from Farrah.

“I love horses. They’re so beautiful.”

“A true girl.” He hoped to distract her from further questioning about what kind of milk it was.

“I always wanted to ride. Are there horse farms along the race course?”

“No. Just woods.” She didn’t ride, which probably meant she wasn’t rich. Good. He’d had enough of rich girls back in Greenwich and Oyster Bay before that. They lacked the wound.

“Can I take your orders now?” the waitress asked.

“Chocolate chip pancakes for me,” John Boyleston boomed out.

“Me, too.”

“Make that three,” Ana Morales put in.

The waitress looked at Farrah.

“I haven’t decided yet.” She turned to Jude. “You go first.”

“I’ll take the oatmeal with a side of fresh fruit.”

The waitress eyeballed Farrah. “Ready?”

“What kind of fresh fruit do you have?” she asked.

“Honeydew melon. And blueberries.”

“Are they mixed together?”

This time, the waitress rolled her eyes on behalf of the entire staff of the diner.

“Yes.”

Farrah looked uncertain.

“It should be good. I’ve had it here before,” Jude said. He was beginning to detect a slight problem. She was female.

“I heard you’re not supposed to eat different types of fruits together at the same time.”

He’d heard that, too. But who cared? You also weren’t supposed to watch TV while you ate, but 90 percent of the world’s population did anyway.

“I’ll eat your blueberries for you, if you don’t want them,” he offered.

She hesitated, then smiled. “Well, okay.”

“Is that all?” the waitress asked.

“Umm—”

“Have the oatmeal,” he urged her. You just ran six miles. Eat.” He hoped she wasn’t one of those women who didn’t eat. He couldn’t stand them. Watching them just push bits of food around on their plates took away his own appetite.

“Another oatmeal, coming up.” The waitress walked away without waiting for Farrah’s response.

“So how many place winners have we got here today?” John asked the table. Of the eight runners present, four hands went up.

“Mike, congrats. Was that a P.R. today?” He referred to a personal record, in runners’ lingo.

“Yeah, it was. I sliced off six seconds from my time two years ago in this race.”

“Any other P.R.’s set by anyone?”

Jude Farnesworth raised a hand.

“Congrats, man. By the way, I’m John Boyleston, track coach for Van Cortlandt Track Club.” John half stood, extending his arm across the table.

“Jude Farnesworth. I run with Greenwich Track Club.” He shook John’s hand. Feeling four sets of female eyes on him, he quickly sat down.

“How much time did you take off?” John continued.

“Well, it was a different sort of P.R.”

“How so?”

“He added some time to whatever time he took off his previous record when he helped me,” Farrah cut in.

“Oh, so you’re the one who stopped to help Fairfoe when she tripped,” a sultry voice spoke up. Across the table, an older, good-looking Hispanic woman scrutinized him. Her gold hoop earrings flashed as she shook out her dark, curly hair.

“Fairfoe?” He looked at the woman uncertainly.

“Farrah, she means,” the woman replied. “That’s her nickname.”

“Fairfoe, huh?” he turned to Farrah to see if he’d get any further explanation.

“Foley’s my last name. They sort of mashed my first syllables together. It’s a club tradition.”

“I see,” he said, not sure that he did. He glanced over at the curly-haired woman. “I just stopped to make sure she was okay. She took a nasty fall.”

“What happened, Farrah? Did you trip on a root?” a male runner asked.

“Yes, but that wasn’t why it happened,” she told him.

“So, what’s the story?” he continued.

“I was trying to pass, uh—”

“This guy here?” another male club member asked.

“Yes. Him.”

“So you got a little ahead of yourself?”

“What was it about him that threw you off, Fairfoe?” The curly-haired woman looked teasingly in Jude’s direction. He turned to Farrah to see how she’d take the provocative remark as he attempted to hide the color creeping up his neck.

Before he looked away, Jude had noted both triceps and biceps definition in the older woman’s upper arms. Impressive. She looked like she worked out at the gym, as well as on the track. He’d worked as a personal trainer when he first got out of school, so he could tell.

Farrah made a face at her team member.

“Blanca, it wasn’t him. It was me. I was trying to show off.” She looked down, embarrassed.

“No. Really?
You
trying to show off? Try picking up your feet next time,” John lectured her, jokingly.

“She would have passed me if she hadn’t tripped,” Jude said in her defense.

“And you would have taken first in our age group instead of me if you hadn’t stopped,” Steve Patterson spoke for the first time.

“You won it, fair and square. Who’s to say what my time would have been? It was what it was.”

“I think it’s safe to say that your time would have been faster if you hadn’t done the right thing. Here’s to Farrah’s friend.” Steve raised his coffee mug, the rest of the table joining him.

“He’s not my friend. He’s—”

“Okay, then. He’s your champion. Here’s to Fairfoe’s champion!” The woman named Blanca cried, raising her mug.

Jude watched as Farrah picked up her mug, clinking his lightly.

“Thanks again,” was all she said.

It was enough. For the moment.

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
about Farrah’s running club that was like family. They offered her unconditional support as well as limitless teasing. And then, there was the trash-talking component. She hoped they would dial it down while Jude was at breakfast with them.

Both Ana and Blanca endlessly grilled her about her love life, lecturing her on the perils of waiting too long to start a family or, for that matter, go out on a date. Blanca was happily married with teenage boys in their first year of high school. They were at the stage where it was too uncool to speak with either of their parents, so Blanca and her husband had plenty of time to hang out with the club. But Big Bill wasn’t here today, so Blanca was in fine fettle, ready to stretch Jude Farnesworth out on the rack, from what Farrah could see. She would try to head her off at the pass, now that she’d detected her friend’s antennae waving in Jude’s direction.

“Blanca, have you ever done Leatherman’s Loop?” Farrah asked, deflecting her before she could ask Jude what he did, so she could speculate on how much his yearly income was.

“That’s a killer race, Fairfoe. I did it once. Not for the likes of you, Princess,” her friend said, with the subtlety of a pit bull.

“Maybe I’m ready to try something different,” Farrah shot back. What did her team members think of her anyway? And why did they have to let her know now? When a total—and admittedly handsome—stranger was here at the table with them?

“Today’s trail race was plenty different for you. And look what happened. Stick to your 5Ks on the pavement. That’s where you really shine.”

“Maybe I don’t want to shine. What was Leatherman’s Loop like?”

“You’ll have scratch marks all over your legs by the time you’re done. And mud everywhere. I think I fell in when I crossed the river. It was nasty,” Blanca related.

“That’s it, alright. You’ll feel like a rock star once you’re done. It’ll give you bragging rights,” Jude told Farrah. His chest muscles moved under his T-shirt as he turned to look at her.

“Farrah doesn’t need any more bragging rights. She’s already got that department covered,” Blanca taunted across the table. Trash-talking had commenced, a favorite club pastime.

“Iron Woman, you’re president of that division, last time I checked. Aren’t you using that trophy as an end table in your living room?” Farrah could give as good as she got.

“No, I’ve got it in my garden now, with a statue of Diana on it,” Blanca said, referring to the Greek goddess of the hunt. It’s my inspiration for next year.”

“You medaled at Ironman?” Jude asked, looking impressed. The Ironman World Triathlon took place in Hawaii each fall. It included swimming and biking competitions followed by a marathon. World-class elite athletes competed by invitation only.

“It was only third place.” Blanca looked at Jude modestly. Farrah had never seen such a girlish expression on her friend’s face. Blanca wasn’t president of the bragging rights division of the club for nothing.

“That’s a grueling race. Congratulations!” He turned from Blanca to Farrah. “You’re in one competitive track club,” he said admiringly, his eyes wandering to her full mouth.

“Tell me about your track club,” she said, a slight prickle tracing its way down her spine. “Greenwich, did you say?” The name brought to mind tennis, sailing, and golf. Did they get sweaty in places like Greenwich, Connecticut? Surely, it wasn’t anything like the Bronx.

“We have some top runners, men and women, but no Ironman finishers from what I know,” he shot another respectful glance in Blanca’s direction.