Heartache and Hope (8 page)

“You're just being…chivalrous.”

“And if I am”—his gaze narrowed with a hint of confusion—“is there something wrong with chivalry?”

“No. Of course not.” Daylin untucked her hair from the collar of her coat as she searched for the right words. Chivalry was something as foreign and dead to her as Latin. She flicked her hair over the jacket's collar and sighed, keeping her voice light and steady so as not to wake Aubree, whose halo of curls spilled over Patrick's strong arms. “It's just…as I've said before I'm out of the running loop. I haven't run so much as half-a-mile in one stretch during the past year. I'll hold you back.”

“Or, conversely, I'll push you forward.” Patrick nodded firmly, as if to cement the assertion. Daylin noticed a small, white scar near the cleft of his chin and remembered that he'd acquired it while attempting to conquer hurdles along the track. It was an accident worthy of a blooper award and they'd shared a good laugh together, despite the stitches his chin had required. “Does that frighten you?”

“Nothing frightens me.” The words leapt without thought, and Daylin wished she could retract them. Her cheeks heated at the complete and utter lie. Maybe Patrick wasn't the only one whose tongue wagged ahead of his brain. Could he see through the flippant cover-up? Did he hear her pulse galloping through her veins like a team of wild stallions? No matter, she wouldn't back down now. She
couldn't
. Years in the foster system had taught her well: When all else fails, stand tough
. Like a puffer fish that triples in size when it needs to appear fierce and unwavering.
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “I can do anything I set my mind to, even a silly race.”

“Good. That's what I like to hear, and there's the spark I remember. It's settled, then. Let's give training together a go and see what happens. That is, I mean, if you don't mind spending some serious time with me.”

“Well…um…” So much for standing tough. Daylin's belly turned to marshmallow crème as panic ignited. One look at Patrick and it was quite obvious he stood as the definition of perfection. She, on the other hand, was definitely…not. “I need some time to consider this. I think—”

“Enough of this gibberish. You're both as hardheaded as the next.
I
think teaming up to train is a perfect solution.” Frannie clipped further objections off at the knees as she stepped over and reached for Aubree, taking the child from Patrick's arms with the confidence of a mother who'd raised her fair share of children. Aubree barely stirred, lolling in her grandmother's arms like a ragdoll, her breathing only slightly labored. “Tell you what, I'll take this sweetie home for you, Patrick, and get her tucked into bed while you and Daylin work out the details. There's no need to rush. Take your time, grab a bite to eat and talk things through.”

“It's late. I—”

“Pish posh, late.” Frannie winked mischievously as she slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder. The gesture was so slight and fleeting that Daylin figured she'd imagined the whole thing. “You're not going to turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of nine.”

“I suppose I could grab a salad. I skipped dinner.” And lunch…not to mention breakfast. Not a good start to the training regime. She'd have to find a balance concerning calories and training time.

“Now, that's the spirit.” Frannie nodded vigorously. “Climb on board, Patrick. This ship's about to set sail.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick jammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he addressed his mother. “You'll have to be back in the morning to homeschool Aubree, and it's already inching toward nine o'clock.”

“Of course I'm sure, and, for the record, I can tell time. Feel free to chit-chat past midnight, if you'd like. We've already asserted that Daylin is safe from the pumpkin change and, at my age, I couldn't morph into a pumpkin if I wanted to.” Frannie waggled a hand as a short huff of laughter spilled over. Her smoky eyes twinkled merrily. “Now, just hand me Aubree's coat and hat, and we'll be on our way.”

“I suppose I can't argue with that.” Patrick reached for the pint-sized outer wear, piled in the booth's seat. “Let me help you get the little cherub ready to go.”

Daylin looked on as Patrick helped Aubree into her jacket and wool cap. He topped things off by wrapping his own trench coat, like a blanket, over her shoulders.

“It was good to see you again, Daylin.” With a slight nod and a smile that made Daylin feel as if she'd known Frannie for a lifetime, the kind woman turned to leave. She glanced back over her shoulder and added, “I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon. I'll call you about that luncheon. I'll get your number from Patrick.”

“It was nice to see you, too.” Daylin returned the smile, a flush of warmth spreading through her that chased any chill away. Her eyes stayed glued to Frannie as she retreated, aware of the light slap of snow boots over tile as Frannie wound her way toward the exit.

“Well…” Patrick watched his mother go, scratching his head as he blew out a breath. “That was Mom at her finest. If we're going to train together, I suppose you're in for more of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“About a year after Sandra died, Mom began to think of herself as Yenta from
Fiddler on the Roof
. The past few months she's really cranked things up a notch.”

“Yenta?” Daylin drew a blank for a moment before realization dawned. Her cheeks heated. “Oh… the matchmaker.”

“That's right.”

“I…see.” So he really didn't want to spend time with her. He was simply appeasing Frannie. Why did this come as such a disappointment?

“Yeah. You'd have to be blind not to.”

“Don't be too hard on her.” Daylin shrugged it off as she felt old, familiar bricks strategically form a wall around her heart. “She's just looking out for you.”

“I can look out for myself.”

Keep your distance
warned a small, sharp voice inside Daylin.
Guard yourself. You don't want to get hurt again.

But this was Patrick. He wouldn't hurt her…at least not intentionally, would he?

Daylin plastered on the smile she'd perfected over the years—one that stretched her lips but failed to reach her eyes. “I'm sure Frannie's just concerned for you…and for Aubree.”

“Well, Aubree and I are just fine but I suppose it won't hurt to make the best of things.”

“No, I suppose it won't.” And another brick was neatly placed.
Slap, splat
went the mortar.

Patrick stepped toward the now-empty booth as the door closed behind Frannie. Through the glass Daylin watched the woman cross the boulevard with Aubree in her arms, zig-zagging toward a black SUV framed in a wash of moonlight. Patrick watched, as well, shaking his head slightly at Frannie's resolve. “It's settled, then. I'm famished. How about you? We can grab something to eat while we hash out the details.”

Hash out the details…yeah, that just about nails it on the head.

Daylin's appetite played hide and seek as she shucked from her coat once again, her gaze connecting with Patrick's. Though she fought for levity, knowing with her head that he was just acting as the team leader attempting to make a newcomer feel welcome, her heart did a little two-step when she realized the diner crowd had thinned to nothing—not another customer in the place. She and Patrick were alone.

Except for Vera, who had her back turned to them as she worked on restocking a tray of small, white ceramic holders with colorful packets of artificial sweetener and disposable creamer cups. Her lighthearted whistling skimmed over the flow of music drifting from the speakers. Daylin wasn't sure, but the tune sounded like some snappy rendition of
Amazing Grace
.

Daylin thought of Aubree and of her purpose for being here tonight in this all-but-vacant diner with Patrick. They had things to discuss, details to knit together. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “OK, then. Let's start hashing.”

****

“Have you had dinner?” Patrick asked as they settled into the booth. Daylin's perfume, a subtle floral scent infused with a hint of citrus, drifted as she piled her purse atop her coat in the seat beside her.

“No, but I'm not all that hungry now. Coffee would be nice, though.”

“Would you mind if I grabbed something quick? These meeting nights always seem to sneak up on me, and I worked right through dinner with Aubree's bath and then preparing my notes and the handouts.” Patrick sighed while patting his midsection. “The truth is, I've got this lion in my gut that's going to start roaring soon if I don't feed him.”

“Go ahead.”

Daylin laughed at his offhanded humor. The sound eased guitar-string-tight nerves that thrummed through his system. A waterfall of hair spilled across her brow, framing wide-set eyes that seemed to drink in every nuance. The peach-colored sweater she wore looked warm and soft to the touch, like a rich crème against her dark-chocolate eyes.

Patrick shook his head to clear thoughts that compared her to exquisite foods.
Man, I must be hungrier than I thought.
I'd better get on it.

“What does a long-distance runner eat, anyway?” Daylin's voice broke in.

“I'm not sure about the rest of them, but I try to take in all the important food groups—burgers, fries, apple pie.”

“You eat all that and still look like…”—her gaze drifted over him in a slow sweep of appreciation—“
that?”

“Running is the greatest furnace I know. Whatever you ingest, pounding the pavement is sure to burn it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Daylin rolled her eyes and flattened her palms over the tabletop. “You're a guy. You have it easy. Women have to work for every ounce. Something about the whole metabolism thing just doesn't seem fair.”

“It works all the way around. You'll see.” His gaze swept over her. “Not that you have anything to worry about in that department.”

“I beg to differ.” Daylin shifted in the seat and lowered her gaze. “But I'm a work in progress.”

“Aren't we all?”

“Some more than others.”

“Wow…you're still as much of a firecracker as I remember.” Patrick shook his head. “Just like a rewind back in time. That's good…that attitude will come in handy as you travel toward the finish line.”

“It's sure to be a long journey.”

“But one you don't have to travel alone.” Patrick rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We're in this together, remember? No man…um, woman…left behind. Not on my watch.”

Vera, who'd graciously kept the coffee flowing during the meeting, approached their booth. She'd worked hard to make each of the meeting attendees feel welcome, and Patrick deeply appreciated the effort.

“Hi there, honey.” She greeted Daylin with a familiar smile. “Still hanging in there?”

“Doing my best.” Daylin lifted her coffee cup in a welcoming gesture.

“Good for you. I knew you would.”

“Thanks for everything you've done tonight, Vera.” Patrick nodded in deference. “You've worked your fingers to the bone, and I hate to heap more on your plate by ordering this late.”

“Nonsense. This is a diner, and that's what I'm here for. You've worked hard, too.”

Patrick knew that Vera saw and understood more than most gave her credit for. She and his mom were close friends.

“Get your order together,” Vera prodded. She had an eagle-eye look about her with a mottled bush of silver-streaked hair brushing her pointed chin. Wire-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Because of her gruff exterior, many overlooked the compassionate soul beneath. Daylin had seemed to pick up on Vera's kindness, though. She smiled as Vera slapped a pair of menus on the table. “I know you've probably already made up your mind, but just in case.”

“Right.” Patrick lifted the menu and peered over the top. “I'll take the usual—a southwest burger with a side of fries and a tall glass of sweet tea, hold the lemon.”

“And you, honey?”

“Just a small salad with low-fat Italian dressing, no crackers.” Daylin closed her menu and pushed it aside. “And I'll have another cup of coffee, if you don't mind.”

“Now, why would I mind?” Vera yanked a pencil from behind one ear and jotted the order on a green pad. “Can I bring a slice of pie to go with that?”

“No, thank you.” The response was emphatic. Daylin shook her head firmly. “My waistline will thank me later for refraining.”

Vera left with a lighthearted cackle, and Patrick leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms along the length of the bench top. He watched Daylin for a moment, sizing her up and lining up a slew of questions. “What brought you here tonight?”

“I…lots of things.” Daylin tore the top off two packets of pink no-calorie sweetener and dumped the contents of both into a steaming mug. “Do you want the
War and Peace
or the condensed version?”

“Whatever works.”

“I got dumped, I got mad and then I just got…tired of being angry and tired.” She sighed and stirred the coffee, pausing for a moment to stroke a hand through her hair. “The song says life is a highway, right? So, sometimes you have to bounce over a few pot holes to reach the Promised Land. My reasons for coming here tonight were selfish at first, I'll admit—”

“How so?”

“You wouldn't understand. You're not…a woman.”

“Thank God you've noticed.” Patrick winked. “Try me.”

“I was feeling sorry for myself, indulging in a pity party of sorts. It's gone on…well…much longer than I'd like to admit. This was a kick start to weight loss. But now, after hearing your speech, I'm embarrassed for my behavior. Honestly, compared to what you've endured, I have no right whatsoever to feel sorry for myself. How did you…how
have
you managed?”