Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (30 page)

She pulled back, retreating to her comfort zone. Meanwhile, three runners including one who looked no older than eleven, sped past. Nothing humiliated Farrah more than having kids pass her in a race.

At the bottom of the slope, she took off after Blanca. In another five minutes she came out of the back hills cross country course onto the flats of Van Cortlandt Park. Her teammate ran barely 100 yards ahead, toward the finish line another half mile away, around the perimeter of the park next to its landmark statue of the tortoise and the hare.

She rediscovered her pace, flying down the flats, plotting out the right moment to put on her kick—the one that should make her fly by Blanca at the end.

Rounding the first of two corners, she sped up on the straightaway. As she pulled closer to her, she took the final turn then gauged where she needed to kick in the Fairfoe surge that would get her across the finish line ahead of her fiery friend. If she began her move too soon, she’d run out of steam before the finish. If she waited too long, she’d shorten the distance between them and improve her race time, but Blanca would still beat her.

Worrisomely, her friend still appeared to be a good ways ahead. Farrah took a deep breath, then began her final move. Furiously pumping her arms, she kicked up her feet, barreling toward Blanca with every ounce of strength she possessed. Five yards gained, then ten. The gap narrowed slightly.

“Go on, Farrah, catch her!” someone yelled.

“She’s gaining on you. Watch your back,” a voice in the crowd warned Blanca.

Grimacing, Farrah decided to approach Blanca on her right, knowing if she looked back she’d glance over her left shoulder.

“Argh!” she moaned, the blood pounding in her head. She kept it down, looking neither to right nor left. All she needed to do was pass Blanca. Any and every other thought fell away as her consciousness distilled down to each individual stride.
Beat her, beat her, beat her
—her heart pumped.

But it was too late. Blanca had caught on that she was being pursued and had put on her own kick. It wasn’t as fast as Farrah’s, but it was fast enough to get her over the finish line two paces ahead.

Gasping, Farrah shot over the finish then caught up to her vanquisher, already having her bib tag removed by a course marshal.

“You got me,” she grunted, breathless.

“No, honey,” Blanca said. “You just didn’t get me. And you should have. If you hadn’t slowed down on the hill back there, you would have taken me.”

Infuriating. And so right.

Farrah composed her face as she bent over to recover.

“Yeah, I slowed down on the downhill. I just didn’t want to fall.”

“I know. That’s what you need to work on. You keep slowing down like that, you’ll never become the runner you should.”

Farrah burned inside. Who the hell was Blanca to tell her what kind of runner she ought to be? Her friend had balls. She also had compassion and wisdom. Blanca had just cleaned her clock. Part of Farrah wanted to kill her. The other part wanted to hug her.

Farrah held up a hand, offering a high five.

“So what happened with that guy from Headless Horseman?” Ana Morales asked ten minutes later as they jogged a slow recovery lap with Blanca around the flats.

“He—uh—we saw each other a few times but he wasn’t my type.” Farrah kept her game face on, anger chasing the adrenalin still coursing through her from the race.

“What do you mean? He looked totally interested in you when we went to breakfast. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I mean—we went out a few times and then—”

“Didn’t he mention Leatherman’s Loop to you?” Blanca cut in.

“Uh—yeah, he told me about it.”

“So you ran it, right? I saw your time in the newsletter.”

“Yeah—I ran it.”

“Well? Was he there?”

“He placed third. I meant to find him at the end but he was busy doing some sort of photo shoot.”

“What do you mean?”

“He ran for the Lymphoma Society, so a bunch of his sponsors came down from Greenwich to cheer him on.” All women, she didn’t add.

“Yeah, I remember. All those babes hanging over him.”

“Right. He looked busy. Plus I had a headache.”

“I would have had a headache too after taking in that scene. Especially the little one with the boots who went home with him. Remember?” Ana said, looking skeptical.

“It just wasn’t the moment.” How could she forget?

“Chica,
you gotta be the one to decide when the moment is. If you don’t, it’ll pass you by,” Blanca said.

“I know. I know.”

“Yeah, like you knew in the race. You stepped on the gas too late. And you let me get too far ahead of you with that wussy hill work back there.”

“Okay, so I blew it. You’re a better runner than me.”

“No, I’m not. You’re just too cautious. You run like you run your love life.”

Both Blanca and Ana burst into laughter.

Seething, Farrah broke into a fast trot to get ahead of the two women.

“Don’t run away,
chica.”
Blanca pulled up alongside her. “This is a recovery lap, not a sprint. Now, what are you going to do about this guy? You haven’t told us why you let him slip away.”

“He’s history, okay? Let’s talk about running, not my love life.”

“Sure, smarty pants, let’s talk about your running. When are you going to let me put you through some hill repeats?” Blanca was relentless. There was no getting away from her, so she’d re-route her instead.

I’ve been doing hill repeats,
she almost blurted out. But the last one she’d done with Jude would be her final one. No way was she going to get further involved with a man with such a complicated life. Whatever excuse he gave her about staying temporarily with the knockout who referred to him as Big Boy, it wasn’t going to fly. Only being running buddies with Jude wasn’t going to work either. There was no denying the electricity that had flowed between them as they’d watched the sun go down on the Hudson the last time they’d run together. Her issues with Will were enough for the moment. The last thing she needed was another man with a problem profile entering the picture.

“How about during the next track workout?”

“So you can get out of the workout? That’s your speed base, sweetheart. No way. Let’s pick another day. Like Saturday mornings after the regular run. We’ll be all warmed up by then.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“I’m sick of passing you in hill races. You should be beating me at least half the time. When
are
you going to make it your moment, girl?”

Good question. Why did Blanca always have to be so right? Not just about running, either.

“How many workouts are we talking here?”

“Pick a race coming up with some hills in it, and we’ll work toward that.”

“I’ve only got one lined up when I go to California for Christmas.”

“So let’s find another one,” Blanca said, bringing her back to the present moment.

“What about that short run they have in Greenwich every year right before the holidays?” Ana suggested.

“You mean the Jingle Bell Trot?” Blanca asked.

Farrah knew the race. She’d run it two years earlier. She’d passed a low income housing project on its course, surprised to discover Greenwich’s diversity. Before that she’d thought it was all mansions on the water or other large, fancy homes. A twinge of guilt shot through her. She’d filed Jude in a certain “not my type” category, automatically lumping him together with the ladies she’d seen draping themselves around him after Leatherman’s Loop. But was he necessarily one of them? He lived in people’s pool houses, not in his own home. Was he some sort of boy toy for women like the one whose place he was staying at now? Whether he was one of the Greenwich crowd or just a hanger-on, she needed to exercise damage control with him before any further damage was done.
You run like you run your love life,
Blanca’s words rang in her ears.

Farrah kicked the dirt path with her toe. “Yeah. Does the course have hills?”

“A few small ones.”

“What’s the date ?”

I think it’s December 15, this year,” Farrah put in casually. She knew exactly what date it was. She’d checked it out back in October when she’d been on good terms with Jude, wondering if they might run it together.

“Ever done it before?”

“Two years ago, yeah.”

“Okay, so we’ll look at your time from two years ago, do a couple of hill workouts then aim toward shaving off half a minute.”

“But it’s only a few weeks away!” Lord, what if she bumped into Jude there? The thought sent ripples through her. She’d let him have it, if she saw him. Just when she’d begun to soften toward him over the past few weeks—bam—his living arrangements had shown her which side his bread was buttered on. Whatever explanation he had wasn’t going to cut it for her.

“Fine. So all you need to do is bust your behind a few Saturday mornings with me. It doesn’t have to take months, girl. You just need to understand what’s holding you back when you run downhill then let it go.”

“But what if I trip?”

“Everyone trips sooner or later. Get over it.” Their recovery lap completed, Blanca ran off into the crowd. She held up her hand in a backward goodbye salute.

W
HAT WAS IT
with women these days? He couldn’t get rid of the ones he didn’t want, and he couldn’t get the time of day with the one with whom he’d just begun to fan a flame.

He stared at his e-mail in-box. He’d sent several messages to Farrah, none returned. Weren’t they supposed to get together Thursday for their usual run up Wave Hill?

Something had made her stop in her tracks with him. He’d guess it had something to do with whatever had taken place over Thanksgiving weekend. Had Farrah spent time with the other guy’s family, firming up whatever was getting re-ignited? Why couldn’t the re-igniting be going on at his end?

He pummeled the top of his desk with his fist until it hurt.

Although the Marshall’s quarters over their garage were comfortable, and most important, private, he could barely focus on working on the book with the question marks Farrah had left dangling all over the place. Was she back with her ex-boyfriend? Couldn’t she at least return a phone call if she was? Why the hell had Missy Henckels referred to him as Big Boy anyway? He could hardly blame Farrah for misunderstanding an appellation like that one. But didn’t he deserve an explanation?

The follow-up session with Missy had been confusing as hell. He was furious with her for blowing things with Farrah for him, but the information she’d given him had provided him with the book’s most meaty chapter. One of his only chapters, to be honest. The whole project was getting out of hand. He could hardly wait to be done with it.

Jim Witherspoon had called the week after Leatherman’s, asking for a status report. Jude gave him a quick oral sketch of Anne Alexander’s story, then Jordan Marshall’s.

“It’s not interesting enough. Squeeze more juice out of your interviews, man.”

“I don’t want to offend anyone, Jim. It’s a book, not an interrogation.”

“You’re changing everyone’s names, so what’s the big deal?”

“I need to tread lightly,” Jude protested. “I’m hunting in my own backyard.”

“Then get out of your playpen and dig up some dirt somewhere else.”

“I’ve got to work with the contacts I’ve made here. Just give me some time to deepen the stories. All under control, buddy.”

“Remember, you’re not convicting the innocent here. You’re exposing the guilty.”

That was certainly true in Missy’s case. He’d never come across a more calculating female in his life. To top it off, she took pride in her machinations. She came across as someone who took life as a game to be played and won. He couldn’t help but admire her
chutzpah,
just as he admired Anne’s. Both women struck him as infallible, invincible and unloveable—at least by him. Where the hell was Farrah, and why wasn’t she missing him the way he missed her?

“Get back to work and bring me three more chapters by the end of next week.”

“I’m finishing up one now that’ll knock your socks off.” If he worked nonstop for the next ten days he could finish up Missy’s chapter and the “Horsey Talk” one to get to Jim by his deadline. Three chapters was out of the question.

“I want three completed chapters on my desk one week from Friday.”

“And you’re buying again, right?” Inspiration struck. He’d divide up Missy’s story into two.
Chapter One:
“Baby Shark Learns How to Swim.”
Chapter Two:
“Baby Shark Grows Up and Devours Her Prey.” With some title tweaking, it would be a page-turner.

“Depends on what you deliver. I want readers on the edge of their seats.”

“Turning pages, drooling for more, right?”

“The way you’re drooling for that extra royalty cut.”

“I don’t have to drool. It’s in writing. Signed, sealed, and delivered. By you.”

“You get nothing if you don’t get the full manuscript in on time. Zip.”

“It’s in the bag,” Jude lied, wondering how he could possibly pull together 100,000 words by December 31. Wasn’t that around 400 pages? So far, he had fifty.

“I’ll believe it next Friday when I see what you’ve got.” The line went dead.

Maybe it was a good thing Farrah had dumped him. He had nothing else to do now but write, with breaks in between of stewing over what had gone wrong.

Turning back to his computer, he stared at the title of the chapter he’d been working on, How to Close. Obviously, he didn’t know how to. What was between him and Farrah was still very much on the table—at least for him. Not only had he not closed with her, he couldn’t seem to close the door on the memory of their moments together. Both of their dates had had a floaty sort of magic to them. He hadn’t been trying to get anywhere. Instead he’d spent both evenings feeling as if he’d arrived somewhere he wanted to be. He hadn’t felt that way in years. Had he ever? But her ex-boyfriend had re-entered the picture, relegating Jude to Farrah’s workout companion, if he was even that. He burned to think about it.

Slamming the slim manuscript shut, he pushed back from his desk and jumped up. It was time for a run.