Heartache and Hope (9 page)

“I do what I have to, that's all anyone can do.”

Sandra's words rang once again through Patrick's mind.
Begin your morning with a song and a prayer and the rest of the day will take care of itself.

He smiled at Daylin, and then sipped his tea through a straw. “I'll bet you sing real nice. I'd like to hear some time.”

“Only if you buy a ticket.”

“I just might do that.”

Vera returned carrying a platter heaped with Southwest burger and seasoned fries. She set it on the table along with Daylin's meager salad and a small, plastic cup filled with watery yellowish dressing. It looked anything but palatable, and Patrick was thankful to have his burger and fries.

“You enjoy, now, and holler if you need anything.” Vera clucked her tongue.

“Thanks.” Patrick nodded as he reached for the ketchup. “This should hit the spot.” But he wasn't so sure about Daylin's selection.

Vera glanced back over one stooped shoulder to flash a toothy grin as she made her way down the aisle. “I'll say it will settle just fine. Have fun working out those details now, you two. I'll be back to check on you in a bit.”

“Are you sure that's all the dinner you want?” Patrick asked as he unrolled silverware from the restaurant-grade paper napkin. “It looks like barely enough to feed a baby rabbit.”

“It's plenty.” Daylin eyed the mix of chopped lettuce sparsely covered with cherry tomatoes, a few slices of cucumber, and a spattering of shredded cheese. “Especially this late in the evening.”

“Do you mind if we pray before we dig in, then?” Patrick reached for Daylin's hand. “My stomach is roaring. It's about to become embarrassing.”

“That would be…just fine.” Daylin draped her napkin over her lap. “I thought I heard a growl. Better make the prayer a quick one.”

He reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers. She surprised him by reciprocating with a gentle brush of her thumb.

“Would you like to do the honors?” He asked.

“I'd rather not.” Daylin lowered her gaze. “That is, would you mind? It's been a long time since I've prayed.”

“Sure.” Patrick wondered at her hesitation, but didn't question. Instead, he bowed his head and allowed his eyes to slip closed. Daylin's breathing shuddered and her fingers stiffened in his. As he blessed the food with heartfelt words, he sensed a wave of anxiety course through her that caused his heart to ache. What had made her so nervous to talk to God in simple prayer?

When Patrick lifted his head, his gaze connected with Daylin's once again. In those wide-set honey eyes, he found a plethora of questions. He had one of his own.

“Is there anything else you'd like to pray about?”

“No.” Daylin shifted in her seat and reached for her fork. “I mean, what's the point?”

“The Bible says, ‘…call upon Me in the day of trouble—'”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I call on Him all the time. He's my Counselor, my Guide. Life is virtually impossible without an ongoing dialogue with Him, at least for me."

“Does it help?”

“Of course.”

“Then you must be one of the lucky ones, because He doesn't listen to me.”

“How do you know?”

Daylin splayed her hands and blew a wisp of hair from her eyes. “History…my track record. My life hasn't exactly been a cakewalk, so I just
know
.”

“Sometimes His silence is the best answer.” Patrick picked up a fry and dunked it in ketchup. “He's sure given me my fair share of no's. That doesn't mean I've quit asking.”

“I know. You're right. I'm sorry.” The tines of her fork clattered against the salad plate. “Boy, am I doing a good job of making a mess of things.”

“We all have our hidden talents.”

“Or, in my case, not so hidden.”

“That's one of the things I like about you, Daylin. You are what you are. You don't put on airs. It's…refreshing.” Patrick's lips curved into a slight grin, and he suddenly wondered how another man could so carelessly discard such a treasure. “Do you own a pair of running shoes?”

“I do. I used them this morning.”

“You ran?”

“Just a little—and walked—on my treadmill. My thighs are protesting as we speak.”

“You'll get used to it.”

“I know. But the shoes, they're not in the best of shape. I guess I'll need to buy some if I'm going to run regularly enough to attempt this race.”

“You're not just going to attempt the race, you're going to
finish
this race—I'm confident that you will.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“I've seen you train, and I've watched you run.” He remembered the thrill as if it was just yesterday. Would they share that again? Could they?

“And…”

“I remember. I
know
.”

“Well, I'm glad you do because me…I'm not so sure.”

“Just go with it. Trust me. Along with the shoes, you'll need some warm, comfortable clothes to train in. Layering is important.”

“Layering? I vaguely remember that concept.”

“Right…T-shirts, thermals, a hat to hold in the heat on cold, pre-dawn mornings.” Patrick saw the confusion register to widen her eyes, and knew he had his work cut out for him. “You
do
own a hat?”

“It's not the hat I'm worried about. I've got at least that much covered. But what do you mean by pre-dawn?”

“Just that.” Patrick sliced the burger and handed her half. “You'll need this. You look good, Daylin. There's no need to starve yourself.”

“I'm not…” But she was doing just that…no breakfast, no lunch, and now barely dinner. Was it possible to find a happy medium?

“Take it.” Patrick lifted his half of the burger to his mouth but paused before taking a bite. “You know, pre-dawn…that time between dark and light when the entire world seems to be sleeping—everyone except for you and me.”

“Good grief.” Daylin choked on her coffee and bobbled the mug as she tore a handful of napkins from the dispenser to swipe at her lips. Her voice was a twisted strangle of syllables. “Is this training or boot camp?”

“Pick your poison.”

“I should make it clear that I'm not much of a morning person.”

“Not yet, but you'll learn to love the crisp, morning air.” Patrick took a bite of the burger, chewed and swallowed. “The streets are devoid of traffic and, when you run, your breath curls out in a trail of white puffs. It's invigorating.”

“That's the best word you have…invigorating?” Daylin chased a cherry tomato around her plate with her fork. “What about insane, crazy, beyond reason.”

“Beyond reason is a phrase, not a word.” Patrick washed the burger down with a sip of tea and reached for another fry. He drowned it in ketchup.

“Word—phrase…whatever you want to call it, it's an apt description.” Daylin captured the tomato and popped it into her mouth. “I was thinking of something a little kinder and gentler. Pre-dawn is not in my vocabulary. I'm more of a night owl. Can we go for lunch-hour runs or after-work jogs?”

“Sure, we can compromise and mix things up.” Patrick finished off the burger. “But I try to get in at least a couple of runs in the morning each week in order to free up my evenings for Aubree. Mom homeschools her, but I can't expect her to stay late every night. I wouldn't want to, anyway. Aubree needs me to be there. But I'm willing to sacrifice an evening or two each week if you're willing to meet me on the greenway before work another morning or two.”

“Oh, I neglected to think—of course mornings are better for you.” Daylin sipped her coffee. “I wasn't even considering Aubree. How thoughtless of me. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. She'll understand.”

“Mornings will work.”

“Of course they will. And evenings, as well.” Patrick drained his tea glass. “Stop by my shop tomorrow, and I'll hook you up with the proper equipment. We'll start our training from there.”

“How long have you owned The Runner's Source?”

“Two years this August.” He'd have liked to open the store earlier, but Sandra had been against the venture, unsure of the outcome and less than willing to shoulder the risk with Aubree to care for. At the time he'd first considered starting the business, Market Square was just beginning to flourish. Patrick had done his best to convince Sandra to give it a go; it was his dream. But, her resistance had prevailed. Her death had caused him to toss caution to the wind and go for it. In the end, it was one of the best decisions he'd ever made. “So, does tomorrow work for you?”

“I don't get off work 'til five-thirty. Can we make it six?”

“That's perfect. I'll close up shop then so we should have the place to ourselves.”

“Where do you run?”

“I'll surprise you.” He reached for the last of the fries and considered a slice of pie but decided against it. “Does that work for you?”

“Against my better judgment…yes.” She took a tentative bite of the burger, chewed and swallowed. “Last time I trusted you, I ended up taking cover in a storage shed in the eye of a downpour.”

“It wasn't so horrible, being stuck with me, was it?”

“No…” Daylin grinned at him. “I kind of liked it, actually.”

“Kind of?” He bit off the end of the fry, chewed, swallowed. “So, if we were swept up together in another storm, that would be OK with you?”

“We'll see.”

6

Daylin parked in the Locust Street garage and walked the block or two over to Market Square. Her thigh muscles protested beneath the strain of the past few days pounding the treadmill, and she did her best to ignore the deep ache. She felt good, toned in a nagging sort of way. The pain wouldn't win; she was stronger than that. She just wondered how she would manage to complete a run with Patrick tonight.

The weather had cooperated; a southern breeze chased away storm clouds that had threatened throughout the day and replaced them with a sparkle of sunshine and warmth. It was barely five-fifteen, and the sky sang with hues of bubble-gum pink and soft lilac. The aroma of sweet chocolate fudge drifted from Polly's Pastries, making Daylin's mouth water. Too nervous to eat since the bowl of bran flakes she'd wolfed down at breakfast, Daylin had worked through lunch and was headed that way with dinner, as well. What had happened to finding that happy medium?

Patrick's shop was at the far right-hand corner of the square, and the quarter-mile walk allowed the butterflies that had swarmed Daylin's belly a little time to settle down. Her shoes slapped along the sidewalk as she picked up her pace, letting the last vestiges of sunlight chase away a chill that crept through her. She'd changed into running clothes in the staff bathroom at work and now wore black cotton leggings that flared at the ankles and a long-sleeved T-shirt blazoned with a ‘give blood…give life' logo from the last time she donated blood to the blood-mobile months ago. Both pieces of clothing had been culled from her cast-off drawer and run through a quick cycle in the dryer to dispel caverns of deep-set wrinkles since she could barely recall the last time she'd worn them. Remembering what Patrick had said about the importance of layers, she carried a sweatshirt and hat in one hand and her purse in the other. Inside the purse, she'd tucked a small gift for Aubree. She'd ask Patrick to carry it home to her.

The square lulled between afternoon shoppers and the evening-into-night crowd. The bandstand stood vacant, and only a few of the hardy sat in the open dining areas of restaurants, enjoying their meals in what remained of teasing daylight. Through long fingers of shadows, Patrick's shop came into view with its eye-catching window display. The glass was polished to a shine and carefully-positioned mannequins donned a colorful array of the latest sports apparel and equipment.

Suddenly, Daylin's sensible ensemble turned to a dull, lifeless gray. She caught her reflection in the glass and groaned inwardly at the frumpy appearance. It was enough to make her yearn for a hasty retreat toward Locust Street and the parking garage. But Patrick managed to nix that thought as, working diligently at a register behind the counter, he caught sight of her and immediately rounded the counter to stride toward the doorway.

“Right on time. I was just finishing up here. Come on in.” He ushered her into the shop to an upbeat song spilling from the radio. Then he turned the sign to Closed. The earthy aromas of leather and rubber mingled with coffee. Daylin noticed a small coffee bar across the way, near a display of shelves stocked with energy supplements. The carafe was empty, the power switched off. Too bad…Patrick must have just drained the pot. She sure would have liked a cup.

“Don't worry, I saved some for you. I just poured it, so it's still good and hot.” As if reading her thoughts, Patrick offered her a lidded cup. “I stirred in two packets of sugar substitute, just like you doctored yours with last night. I thought you might like something warm to drink while we decide on a pair of shoes and whatever else you may need.”

“That's so kind.” Daylin set her purse and sweatshirt on the counter and took the cup. She sipped, sighed with approval as the delicious heat coated her dry throat. But the heat of the drink couldn't begin to compare to the bloom of warmth that spread through her belly at the thought that he'd remembered how she liked her coffee. “It's been a day. The beginning of the month, especially after a holiday, always is.”

“Same here. Stock, inventory…it's never-ending. Not that I'm complaining. Business is good.” He straightened a few items on the counter alongside the cash register. “What, exactly, do you do?”

“I'm the senior editor of
Home Spice Magazine
. It's a regional publication that specializes in down home recipes, improvement project advice, holiday specialties, handmade crafts…basically anything to do with home and hearth.”