Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (31 page)

T
WELVE

I
t was almost unbelievable. Finally, she was meeting Will’s mother after plans gone awry Thanksgiving weekend. They sat on the mezzanine of the Metropolitan Museum eyeballing each other. In the case of Helen Young Shaw, there was a lot of scenery to take in.

“What did you say you do, Farrah?” the older, blonde woman asked. Three ropes of gold chains hung over her red and gold St. John-style jacket. She looked as if she could out-Barbara Feretti Barbara Feretti, Farrah’s boss.

“I’m in sales. I work for a pharmaceutical company selling optical supplies for post-laser eye surgery care.”

“How fascinating,” she said politely. Do you meet a lot of interesting people in your field?”

“Umm—I meet a lot of busy people. Most of the doctors I meet are too hard-working to be interesting.”

“I see.” She frowned, as if Farrah had just told her she was a manual laborer. “And what do you do in your free time?”

“Well, I fill out expense and sales reports, and I run.”

“Do you run in the Park? she asked, apparently referring to Central Park.

“No. Van Cortlandt Park. I’m with the Van Cortlandt Track Club.

“Ahh—Van Cortlandt Park. Is that downtown?”

“No. It’s uptown. In the Bronx.”

Helen Young Shaw’s eyebrows rose.

“Ahh. You go all the way up to the Bronx to run?”

“No. I live there. In Riverdale.”

At a loss for words, Will’s mother turned to her son, her eyebrows still raised.

“Could you find a waiter, dear? I’m parched.”

Will got up and went in search of refreshment. The Met’s mezzanine café was buzzing, eleven days before Christmas. Every table was full, with families and couples standing in the wings waiting. The week before Will had said his mother would be in town for Christmas shopping that weekend and might join them, time permitting. The way he’d said “might” had dampened Farrah’s enthusiasm. For a second she’d felt that same off-balance feeling she’d had when they’d dated three years earlier. Two months before they broke up, right before the holidays, he’d told her his mother would love her. She’d been so pleased, she’d hardly registered on his next words.

“That’s why I don’t want you to meet her.”

“What do you mean?” she’d asked, astonished. “You just said she’d love me.”

“She will. I’m just not sure if I’m ready for that.”

Why do you have to be so complicated about everything?
“Why can’t you stop overthinking and just introduce me?” she’d responded laughingly, ignoring the twinge of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. She was dying to get a larger picture of the people and place from which her boyfriend hailed.

“It’s just not a good idea right now.”

She’d burned. First a compliment then an insult. She’d chalked it up to Will’s complexity. But three years later another name came to mind. A good reason to meet his mother would be to find out if she had contributed to his passive-aggressive behavior.

“I thought Will told me you were on the Upper West Side somewhere,” she continued, turning back to Farrah.

“I moved almost three years ago.” So he
had
mentioned her to his mother when they’d dated before.

“What an interesting change of locations,” Mrs. Shaw remarked, poker-faced.

Farrah’s inner Bronx-girl rose. Time to clear the air.

“I needed a change. When your son left me, I wanted to leave behind everything that reminded me of him.” She sat back, secretly thanking Blanca Mills for giving her inspiration, as well as
chutzpah.

Will’s mother looked at her sharply. Suddenly, they were woman to woman, down in the trenches.

“My son wasn’t prepared to settle down at that time. He’s what you might call a late bloomer.”

Farrah sharpened her claws. Two years in sales had taught her a few things. Getting to the point was one of them. Less than two weeks away from Christmas, Will hadn’t said a thing about holiday plans, and she was fed up with him making her feel insecure. She wasn’t about to let his mother make her feel bad, too. Thank God, she had gone ahead and booked a flight to California to visit her brother and his family for the holidays.
“Is
he a late bloomer? Or has he always been like that?”

“Been like what, exactly?” A slight uptick of respect gleamed in Helen Shaw’s eyes behind her tiger-striped designer glasses.

“Someone who thinks through every possibility to the point where—where—”

How could she say what she wanted to without offending the woman who’d given birth to Will?

“Where he can’t make up his mind,” Mrs. Shaw finished for her. She looked blasé, as if Farrah had just mentioned Will’s widow’s peak or a freckle on the back of his arm.

“Yes.” There. The cards were out on the table.

“Did Will tell you his brothers’ childhood nickname for him?” Helen Shaw leaned closer to Farrah, conspiratorial. Instantly, the temperature between them heated up about ten degrees.

“No. What was it?”

“Hamlet.”

Farrah couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping her. “Was that your nickname for him too?”

“No, dear. I had others.” A half-smile played on her face.

“Want to tell me any of them?’

Will’s mother shook her head ever so slightly, sharing with Farrah a just-between-us-girls sort of smile as Will reappeared and took his seat.

“I ordered your usual, Mother.”

Inside, Farrah rolled her eyeballs. There was something about the way he addressed her as “Mother” that made her squirm. She could imagine him addressing Alexandra Dingle across the dinner table as “dear.” It would have all the chilly resonance of “Madam” or “Your Majesty.” Trying to imagine Will addressing her as his wife, she came up blank.

He looked over at her, his face enigmatic, as usual. Suddenly, she wanted to talk further with his mother, without him around.

“Will, could you check something for me? I want to tell your mother about the Ming dynasty exhibit in the next room, but I’m not sure it’s still there.”

“We can take a look later.”

Farrah stared meaningfully into his pale blue eyes. “Could you check now? I think the exhibit might close earlier than the rest of the museum.” On Friday and Saturday evenings, the museum stayed open until 8:45
P.M.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing at the Met. Sounds like something they’d do over at the Guggenheim,” Will harrumphed. He took the program out of his shirt pocket and studied it.

“It’s not listed in the program. Would you just go see when it closes, so we don’t miss it? I think your mother will like it.” He had told her years earlier that his mother collected
chinoiserie.
She’d had to look up the word later to figure out what he’d meant. Back then she’d been dazzled by all the finer points Will had taught her. They were refinements she hadn’t been exposed to back in Jackson Heights, Queens. Sighing, she thought about how madly in love she’d been then. One thing was certain. She didn’t feel that magical light feeling now. Would she ever again?

Will got up and ambled off toward the room adjoining the mezzanine where they sat, overlooking the Great Hall of the Met.

Immediately, Farrah turned to Mrs. Shaw. The older woman’s antenna were up and waving. She looked interestedly at Farrah.

“I’d like to ask you something.”

“Yes dear?” Helen Shaw had warmed up in direct correlation to Farrah becoming sharper with her. It reminded her of someone, now only yards away. She thought of how exhausting it might be to maintain a dynamic like that over years.

“Is what went wrong with Will and Alexandra the same thing as what went wrong with Will and myself?”

“I wonder why you think I’d know the answer to that.”

“Because you know your son better than I do.”

“Have you asked him?”

“He said it got stale.”

“Yes. I gathered that was the gist of it.”

“Mrs. Shaw, I’ve never been married, but you have.”

“Three times, dear. I was nineteen when I married Will’s father.”

“Well, we both know how talented and artistic Will is.” She needed to tread delicately. “Do you think maybe he would just get that stale sort of feeling after a while, no matter who he was married to?”

Helen Young Shaw coughed slightly as she set down her vodka martini.

“You ask exactly the sort of questions you should be asking.”

“I’m counting on you to give me some answers.”

“Have you talked this over with your own mother?”

The lump rose in Farrah’s throat faster than the olive rising in the older woman’s martini glass as she stirred.

“She’s dead.”

“Oh my dear. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Shaw’s hand shot out and patted Farrah’s. It was the first warm gesture she’d made that evening.

“About eight years ago. I wonder if maybe Will might not be the sort of person who takes to domestic life.”

Mrs. Shaw looked at her keenly.

“Farrah, nobody can answer the questions you’re asking except yourself. Whatever I tell you might turn out wrong in your particular case. It all depends on the combination of you and him. You might have just what it takes to keep him engaged and intrigued.”

Wise words. Farrah studied the marble wall over the head of the woman across from her as she weighed them. Finally, she spoke.

“I’m not sure I’d want to feel like I need to keep someone constantly intrigued if I was married to him.” As the words spilled out of her mouth, she realized how much she had changed over the past three years. No way was she interested in being someone’s entertainment committee. Not even Will’s.

Mrs. Shaw sighed. “I know what you mean, dear.”

“I think I’d rather feel comforted or supported by a husband who wasn’t looking for constant stimulation.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Mrs. Shaw smiled wryly then glanced around.

Farrah followed her gaze. Will was walking back toward them. He looked petulant, discriminating—all the points that had captivated her then. They weren’t humming to her now.

“You mean good luck with Will on that score, right?” Only seconds remained to find out if his mother was speaking in generalities or specifics.

“I mean you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Mrs. Shaw murmured as her tall, handsome son put his hand on her shoulder.

“The Ming Dynasty Exhibit awaits,” he announced, his eyes restlessly scanning the crowd. What was he looking for? The next challenge?

“Sit down, Will. We’re still enjoying ourselves here,” his mother said.

He swung into his chair, running a hand through his leonine, ash blond hair.

Farrah knew that gesture. It looked debonair, but it meant he was nervous.

Suddenly, she realized she didn’t want to have to try so hard to make a relationship work. Playing zero-sum games with Will and his mother was entertaining. Winning at them helped refine her sales skills. But these weren’t games she wanted to play with a man she loved and who loved her back. What did zero-sum games have to do with love at all?

Looking in his direction, she watched as he gave her the faintest of smiles.

This time she didn’t return it.

I
T POURED THE
day of the Jingle Bell Trot. Blanca and Farrah ran the three-mile race wearing black garbage bags over their sweats. Yet despite the nasty weather, Farrah’s confidence soared as she kept a steady pace up the first hill. The extra workouts over the past two weeks had paid off in increased strength. But how would she handle the down slope, especially in the rain?

“Don’t think, just follow me,” Blanca yelled out as she ran past. No one could have a better coach. Blanca was strict but warm. She wouldn’t let her student fail her.

Tentatively, Farrah leaned into her run as they crested the first hill. It felt counterintuitive. She should be pulling back to protect herself from falling on the downhill slope.

“Don’t lean back!” Blanca blared out in front of her.

Did she have eyes in the back of her head? Blanca knew her so well. If only the same could be said for the men in her life.

Farrah couldn’t escape. Her friend would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t put into practice some of the skills she’d picked up the past two Saturday mornings when Blanca had put her through her paces for over an hour both times, up and down Cemetery Hill behind the flats in Van Cortlandt Park.

She leaned forward again. Truly, she was scared to death. Every fiber of her body wanted to pull back, protect itself.

“Keep your head down. Chin down,” Blanca yelled back to her.

Farrah tucked her chin into her chest. She’d pretend not to be scared just for the sake of shutting up Blanca.

One stride, two strides, three—she sped up. Four—she was tripping over her feet. Five—she was praying to God not to let her fall. Six—she was doing it! She flew down the hill.

“You did it! Now, keep it up,” Blanca breathed into her face as she slowed to run next to Farrah.

“Don’t slow down. Go on ahead.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,
chica.
I’m your coach today.”

“Get off my back.”

“Run the next downhill same way you just did and I will.”

Farrah panted in response. The next modest hill was coming into view. As she climbed it, she decided to let herself go on the down slope. What did it matter if she fell? Christmas was around the corner, she had no sales trips coming up until January, and if she arrived at her brother’s place in California on crutches, who cared? The worst that could happen would be that she wouldn’t be able to run in the 5K race they’d signed up for the day after Christmas. So what? Maybe it was time to just get over a few things. Will, for example. Her fear of taking chances, for another.

Her meeting with his mother had been insightful. Helen Shaw had started out irritating her and ended up charming her. She would love to have a woman like that in her life to teach her about the finer things, then laugh with her over how silly some of them were. But Helen’s son that evening at the Met had had the opposite effect on Farrah. Will would never laugh with Farrah over her attempts to better herself. He would just judge her—harshly. Did she really need that?

Thinking about it made her run faster. As she crested the next hill, she told herself she was still climbing. She leaned forward, tucking her chin in like a bird trying to stay dry in the rain. Striding down the hill, every instinct in her body warned her to slow down.