Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (10 page)

“We do speed workouts at the track on Tuesday nights. It’s well lit.”

“Good. Are you okay getting home after?”

“Sure. I just run up the hill. Unless you’re parking on the street overnight, Riverdale’s a pretty safe area.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Almost three years.”

“Where were you before?”

“The City,” she said, referring to Manhattan the way everyone does. “What about you?”

“I’m from Long Island, North Shore. I went to college in Connecticut and never left.”

“Was Long Island that bad?”

“No. As a matter of fact, Greenwich kind of reminds me of my hometown.”

“What was it like growing up there?”

“Like growing up in Greenwich, but with a “Long guy-land” accent.” Growing up in Oyster Bay, Long Island, had been no picnic, although by comparison to almost anyone else’s childhood it had been a non-stop banquet of material abundance. There had been the haves and the have-nots. His father’s position as caretaker of a large estate on Long Island Sound had placed Jude firmly in the latter group. While his schoolmates sailed, golfed or played tennis, he had manned the gas pump at the marina of the Oyster Bay Yacht Club, when he wasn’t tending to the pool and grounds of his father’s employers. When his friends had gone to the Caribbean or on ski vacations in Vermont or out west during Christmas or winter school breaks, he’d stayed behind, helping his father shovel driveways after snowstorms and stuff drafty holes with insulation.

They’d lived in separate living quarters over the garage attached to a twenty-five-room estate. He’d had it good. But the kids at school had let him know from an early age he was different from them.

“It was good. I had lots of space to run around in.” He’d had over forty-five acres to play in, mostly to himself over the summer, since the rich kids spent their time at their parents’ beach clubs until they got shipped off to sleepaway camp. “What about you, where’d you grow up?”

“Jackson Heights, Queens.”

“Wow. What a melting pot.” She hadn’t a trace of a Queens’s accent from what he could hear.

“You can say that again.”

“Lots of Irish families?’

“Yup. Mine was the smallest.” A tiny shadow flicked across her face.

“You’re not all Irish, are you?”

“How’d you know?”

“With a name like Farrah and hair like yours, I’m guessing.”

“My name is actually spelled like an old English one.”

She was holding something back, of that he was sure.

“But that’s not where it’s really from, is it?” Her hair and slanted amber eyes told him there was more to her bloodline than Irish or old English.

“No. It’s from somewhere else.”

“You’re going to make me guess?”

“It’s your homework.”

“Do I detect a teaching background?”

She laughed.

“Yes. I was a teacher for a few years, right out of school.”

“But no longer, huh?”

“It was hard work. Harder than I’d expected.”

“Where were you teaching?”

“I started out at a public high school near Riverdale. Then I taught at Fieldston for a year.”

He’d heard of it. It was one of New York City’s best private schools. “Let me guess. Your first job was too stressful, and your second was great, but you couldn’t pay the rent.”

“I had the rent covered, but I wasn’t making a dent in my student loans,” she smiled ruefully.

“I know the feeling,” he volunteered, impressed with her candor. He couldn’t quite bring himself to match it by mentioning his own educational debts. “So then you took a job that actually paid.”

“Yes. I finally made a decent salary with benefits.”

“Did you like teaching?”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparked, then fell. “I just didn’t like teaching classes of forty kids at a time, most of whom weren’t motivated. Then when I switched to Fieldston, it was great. Classes were small, the kids were on fire, but I wasn’t making any money.”

“So you’re not a trust fund kid,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like he was fishing.

“No way,” she snapped then caught herself. “I mean—no—I’m not. No one is where I come from.” She put her hand up to her face, nervously smoothing a wisp of hair from her cheek. “What about you?” she asked, looking guarded.

“I grew up with a lot of them, but I wasn’t one.” He locked eyes with her. If only she knew how happy he was that she wasn’t one either.

“Did you want to be?” she asked, intuitively.

“Sometimes I thought I did,” he responded truthfully, surprising himself. “What about you? Did you?”

“I didn’t even know what a trust fund kid was until a few years ago. Then I found out the hard way.” She looked away, shifting in her seat.

“So you bumped into one.”

Not exactly.” Farrah’s eyes flamed again, this time with anger.

“Let me guess. You dated one, and it didn’t work out.”

“I dated someone who left me for one.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, then released it. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to tell you that.”

“I’m glad you did. So the guy made off with a trust-fund babe? Let me guess. Someone with rich parents who works at an art gallery or in public relations?”

“P.R. How did you know?” Farrah looked astonished.

“Her father works in finance or law, and her mother is an interior decorator or kindergarten teacher at a private school and sits on a board.”

“That’s—you’re—how do you know all this?” she stammered, looking as adorable as she did vulnerable as she stared at him. She didn’t lack the wound.

“It’s a type. That’s all.”

“Not mine.” she said vehemently. The look in her eye told him whatever had happened, it had hurt. He wanted to reach out and wrap her in his arms.

“Were there scholarship kids at Fieldston?” he asked, desperate to move to a less sensitive subject. No way would he mention his book project.
How to Marry Money
wouldn’t go over well with her. It sounded like someone from her past had done just that at her expense.

“Plenty. Some of them blended in. Some didn’t.” She paused, looking as if she were collecting herself. What about you? Were you one?”

“Well—I was sort of a scholarship kid who blended in. But when I wasn’t in school, I took off my blending-in disguise.”

“Are you wearing it now?” Her question was apt. Back in Greenwich he wore his blending-in disguise all the time.

“No. I don’t need to.” He paused. “I mean, I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“It gets old after awhile.” He looked around the restaurant, although he really wanted to look at her.

“You’re in the right place then. You don’t need to wear a disguise here. Riverdale is pretty down-to-earth,” she said.

She liked her neighborhood, the place where she’d chosen to live. It was more than he could say for himself. He couldn’t put his finger on what he didn’t like about Greenwich, but he suspected it was more that he didn’t like himself in Greenwich. He didn’t belong there anymore. The problem was he’d gotten so good at wearing his blending-in disguise that he didn’t know how to take it off and go somewhere where he didn’t need to wear it.

“And what about you?” he teased. “Are you wearing your blending-in disguise?” Somehow, he doubted it. She looked too fresh, too vibrantly real.

For a reply, she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “Add that to your homework assignment,” she challenged. Her leg swung up and down, crossed over her knee. It bounced jauntily despite the story she’d just told him. He’d guess she was a survivor of the same dating war stories most single women in New York City were. Yet here she was, swinging her leg in high spirits, and lighter than air. He wanted to float away with her.

S
HE CLEARED HER
throat to cover the sound of her stomach rumbling. Jude Farnesworth was different from what she’d expected. Greenwich, Connecticut was like that, too, she remembered. She had run a race there two years earlier. On the course, she’d been startled to pass a large housing project with a few scruffy characters hanging out in front, cheering on the runners. At the end of the race, she’d asked a colleague about it. He’d told her it was one of several low-income housing projects in the central Greenwich area. Until then, she’d thought of Greenwich as a town largely made up of enormous mansions and gorgeously landscaped lawns. Apparently there was more to it.

“Hungry yet?” Jude asked.

“Yes. I am.”

“I’ll see about getting us a table.” He jumped off the bar stool and headed toward the hostess. As he turned, the back of his shirt stretched over the broad horizontal muscles of his back. She was startled to see how unlike a runner’s his build was. All of a sudden, she was off the kibbutz, in the company of an entirely different kind of man from the ones she hung out with on the track club. Then she remembered she’d put his name on the waiting list for a table two nights ago.

“Wait—” she called after him, but he didn’t hear. “Jude?”

He turned, looking pleased. Had he liked hearing her say his name?

“Tell the hostess we’re on the waiting list.”

“Your name or mine?”

“Yours.” She turned back to the bar, catching the bartender staring at her. He looked quickly away, then came over, wine bottle in hand.

“Freshen your drink?”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Qualified ladies’ drinks freshened on the house Friday nights,” he said, ignoring her response and filling her glass three quarters full.

“You sure about that?” she laughed.

“Only for ladies with golden eyes.” He looked at her meaningfully. Behind her, she heard Jude Farnsworth spell out his name to the hostess. Suddenly it was raining men.

“There’s a table in the corner upstairs that’ll be ready in a minute.”

“They must have had some cancellations. The hostess told me they were fully booked two days ago,” she said, surprised.

“Something like that,” he answered cryptically. Had he pressed a bill into the hostess’s hand? Whatever he’d done, she liked the way he’d taken charge.

Soon they were upstairs, seated at a corner table near the front window. Farrah gazed out at the inky night sky over the park. Its vast expanse, devoid of city lights, relaxed her. She sank back into the plush banquette seat.

“It doesn’t feel like New York City here,” Jude remarked.

“You’re right. I love living near the park. There’s so much open space. No one would believe this is the Bronx.”

“The Bronx seems full of surprises,” he said, studying her over the rim of his menu.

“Greenwich has some too, no?” she asked, thinking back to the unexpected neighborhoods she had passed on the race course there.

“Come visit and find out.”

“What are you eating?” she asked. He was thinking ahead. So was she.

“Sirloin. How about you?”

“Sirloin with sautéed mushrooms.”

“Yuck. I’ll pass on the mushrooms.”

“I’ll eat yours.” He’d said ‘yuck.’ Will would have never used that word. Inside she giggled, relaxing.

“Fine. Mind if I eat your dessert when the time comes?”

“Yes. But you can have a bite, if you like,” she offered.

“I do.”

“How do you know? We haven’t gotten there yet.”

“I’ll like whatever you’re having,” he said, gallantly.

“You sound very flexible.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice putting up appearances.” His blue eyes appeared almost navy, they were so dark. They shone at her mirthfully, under thick, dark eyebrows.

“Ready to order?” the waitress appeared. She looked at Farrah expectantly.

“You order for us,” Farrah told Jude. She was curious to see how well he’d guess her preferences. And mindful of Blanca’s advice, she was not going to turn this into an organic milk kind of evening.

He looked pleased. “We’ll have two sirloin steaks. One medium rare, and the other—” He looked at her questioningly.

She cocked her eyebrow, saying nothing. Something told her not to make things too easy for him.

“Medium, right?” he guessed.

“If that’s the way you like it. You already ordered mine for me.”

“Make it two medium rares,” he told the waitress.

“Baked potatoes?”

“Yes. Sour cream on both,” Again, his eyes went to Farrah’s. She nodded. Ordinarily, she didn’t put sour cream on her baked potato. But tonight, she would toss dietary prudence to the wind. It was time to live a little.

“Sautéed mushrooms?” the waitress asked.

“Yes. Mine on the side,” he said.

“Your entrées come with tossed salads. What kind of dressing would you like?”

“What have you got?” Jude asked.

“Rosemary basil vinaigrette, oil and vinegar, blue cheese, ranch, and honey Dijon mustard.”

“The first,” he said.

“On both?” the waitress asked.

Jude’s eyes sought out Farrah’s again. She nodded ever so slightly. She’d never seen eyes the color of midnight before. It was like looking at the sea on a clear day in Maine. She’d been there once. It had been very cold. But Jude’s eyes didn’t look cold at all.

“Yes.”

The waitress swept up their menus and was off.

“Nice job,” Farrah congratulated him.

“Whew. That was tough. So little time, so many guesses,” he joked, wiping his forehead. The sweat glistening on it told her he wasn’t entirely joking.

“You did well.”

“Thanks for all the help.” He looked wry.

“I liked seeing you work.” Where was this inner sassiness coming from? Something about Jude gave her permission to unleash her inner teen spirit. It hadn’t come out to play for a long time.

“Spoken like a true dame.”

Another word Will would have never used. Jude was fun, down-to-earth. She could put whatever drawing room manners she’d picked up from Will back in the drawer this evening.

“Thank you.” What could she say? He was right. She was curious to see what he was capable of. Crossing her legs under the table, she flexed her upper body. Tuesday had been a track workout night, but tonight would be a mental workout one. Except that she wasn’t working this evening.

Wordlessly, the man across from her picked up his glass. This time, he didn’t smile when his eyes met hers.

She shivered, clinking her glass gently against his. Then she set it down, her gaze level with his. A melody played inside her that hadn’t sounded in a long while. The last time she’d heard it, she’d found herself alone at the end of the tune.
That was then, this is now.
Jude, not Will, sat gazing at her with deep blue eyes, a serious look on his face. Was it wonder? If it was, she felt it, too.