Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (21 page)

Then, she visualized the woman sitting in the dirt back there, all alone. What if the snake came along in another minute? That was ridiculous. Serpents were even less interested in trail races than people. It would have slithered off into the woods by this time to avoid further annoyance from other runners leaping over it.

Yet still. What if the woman couldn’t walk? How was she going to get out of the woods and back to the race staging area?

Wasn’t that someone else’s problem? A course marshal would find her. Farrah would tell the next one she saw about the woman back there. She thought back to how many course marshals she’d seen thus far.

None.

Gripping her fears, she slowed down then turned around and ran back to where the woman had been sitting. Her eyes glued to the path, she swept it for further snake sightings. In a minute, the woman herself came into view, barreling toward her. She was back in the race. Her face down, she breezed by Farrah without a glance.

It took her a second to realize the woman had just passed without any acknowledgment. What did she think Farrah was heading the wrong way for?

“You okay?” Farrah yelled out as the woman disappeared around the bend.

Silence.

Of all the nerve. That’s what she got for going back to help a fallen runner. Then, it occurred to her the woman had passed her in silence in exactly the same way she’d passed the woman when she’d been down.
What goes round comes round, girl.

Furious, she sprinted to catch up with her. After a minute, her breathing became ragged and hoarse. The formerly fallen Flyer had caused her to lose at least two minutes off her time. No one knew, and no one cared. That was what she got for trying to do a good deed. Maybe if she’d tried a little harder and stopped the first time, she’d be ahead of her now. Then again, maybe not. Mad at herself, she groaned, picking up her pace. She cleared the final bend to see the feline Flyer about twenty-five yards ahead, equidistant between her and the finish line. It was now or never to catch her.

“Argh,” Farrah groaned, kicking up her feet behind her in a full out sprint. She’d beat her competition if it was the last thing she did in this race.

She heard the crowd roar as she came up fast behind Orange and White. People liked a good finish, especially when one runner came out of nowhere and overtook another who didn’t realize they were being chased.

Orange and White was now five yards from the finish. Farrah grit her teeth, straining to catch her.

“Go, Farrah. Take her!” she heard John Boyleston roar. Someone else was yelling something, too. Jude?

She pumped her arms wildly.

But Orange and White ahead had caught on that she was being pursued. The lithe runner sprinted a final five paces to the finish line, crossing it just ahead of Farrah.

Just barely missing smashing into her, Farrah careened wildly into the finishers corral, her heart thumping wildly. All that effort for nothing. Fallen Flyer had prevailed.

It was Farrah’s turn to fall. She crumpled in a heap to the ground then lay flat out on her back. Puffy cumulus clouds in the brilliant blue October sky accused her while she struggled to control her breathing.
We saw what you did back there. Next time you play hero, try being one all the way.
No one would believe her story about going back to help the fallen Flyer. It didn’t even sound that good, since she hadn’t stopped the first time she’d passed her, when she’d been lying on the ground.

She stared at the sky as the insight came to her. It didn’t matter what other people thought. What mattered was what she had done.

She had gone back to help the fallen runner. Two months earlier Jude had stopped to help her after she’d tried to pass him and tripped. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how his compassion had seemed so much finer than her competitiveness. Because of him, today it had felt natural to turn back to help a fallen runner, losing seconds off her time. Then another thought hit her. She’d flown down the hill after spotting the snake. And she hadn’t tripped. Something had changed for her back in the woods. And it didn’t matter whether anyone else knew it or not. She did and that was what counted.

Getting up, she dusted herself off, praying Jude wouldn’t turn up until her face became a bit less red.

“L
ET’S GET A
shot in front of the banner,” the photographer suggested, gesturing to the large Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Fairfield County sign Anne Alexander had arranged to have put up behind the platform in the race staging tent.

Jude looked toward the finish line wistfully. He’d wanted to cheer in Farrah, but he’d missed her. Anne had been at the finish line when he’d crossed it about twenty minutes earlier. He’d never expected her to drive down from Greenwich to actually see the race. But there she’d been, along with a couple of girlfriends, kitted out in puffy quilted vests with fur-trimmed collars. Anne was wearing riding boots and some sort of camel-colored jodhpurs that fit her like a second skin. She looked like she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to a Bedford Hills horse farm.

“Okay, so let’s get the ladies grouped around number sixty-seven like you’re congratulating him on his big win for the cause,” the photographer directed them, referring to the number on Jude’s race bib.

Jude felt himself propelled by the firm grip of Anne’s hand on his arm. How could anyone so petite be so commanding? Napoleon came to mind.

“I’ve got another candidate for you to meet,” she whispered as she pushed him up onto the stage.

“A candidate?”

“For your book.” She narrowed her eyes at him then winked. With a slight nod to the right she indicated the woman next to her now speaking to the race director. “That’s Missy Henckels. She’ll talk to you as part of the exchange.”

“What exchange?” Jude asked, peering beyond Missy to see if he could catch sight of Farrah. He noticed Otis Matthews blush at whatever the woman was saying. She looked like a miniature version of Julia Roberts with huge brown eyes and a wide, red mouth that was now moving in a dramatically mobile fashion. These Gold Coast ladies didn’t lack for confidence. They just lacked the wound.

“You know. The one-hour personal training session you’ll do in exchange for an interview.”

“The what?” Was he up for this?

“Ginny Slade told me that was the deal.” She pulled a face as if to say ‘don’t disappoint me.’ “Isn’t it, Jude?”

“Uh—sure.” Now, he remembered. He had to hand it to Ginny. If his book succeeded, he owed her at least an agent’s commission for leading him to his sources.

“Cluster round the champ, ladies. Get closer. I can’t get you all in unless you squeeze in together. Now, everyone smile. Come on ladies, don’t be shy,” the photographer directed, entirely unnecessarily in Jude’s mind. “Let the big guy know he’s your hero.”

Jude felt a small, firm hand clamp down on his shoulder. Nervously he looked down to see four perfectly manicured fingers curl into his clavicle, as if testing the musculature. What was he, a race horse? These ladies were way too self-assured for his taste. He needed to get away from them before he began to feel like a male concubine.

“Great race,” a musical voice whispered into his ear. He looked up behind him to see the owner of the hand staring into his eyes, an impish smile splashed across her face, practically from jawbone to jawbone. Missy Henckels didn’t just resemble Julia Roberts. A dash of Eva Longoria was in there, too. He willed his right knee to stop shaking.

“Thanks,” he said, wondering how he could get the hand off his shoulder before Farrah walked into the staging tent.

The photographer’s flash went off half a dozen times. Finally, the group trooped off the stage so the awards ceremony could get started.

“Jude, I’d like you to meet someone who sponsored you even though you didn’t know. I took the liberty of signing her up myself,” Anne said, directing him to Missy, who was attempting to step off the stage.

He’d never seen high-heeled riding boots before. As the woman teetered at the top of the step, he put out a hand to help her down.

“Thank you,” she purred, slithering down the steps like Cleopatra descending from Mark Anthony’s chariot.

“Missy Henckels, Jude Farnsworth. Jude, this is Missy Henckels from Belle Haven.” Anne said, referring to Greenwich’s most exclusive shorefront neighborhood, where the likes of Diana Ross and hedge fund manager Paul Tudor Jones lived.

“Nice to meet you,” Missy said. She slipped a tiny feline paw into Jude’s hand. It was as smooth as wax.

“Anne told me about your book. Do you want some help with it?”

“Umm, well I’m now in the interview process. Are you interested?”

“I might be,” she replied. Her voice was like a kitten’s tail brushing against his face.

“It’s all arranged then. Jude—you take Missy back with you. We were squeezed in like sardines on the trip down, and I’ve got an errand to run on the way back—so why don’t you two drive back together and talk?”

“I—uh—I’ve got someone coming back with me, actually,” Jude said, frantically searching for Farrah in the crowd. Where was she? He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to see him now, surrounded by women. But he’d been thinking about their drive back to Greenwich together all week long.

Finally, he spotted her. She had just come into the tent and was looking around.

“Farr—”

Anne cut him off.

“Jude, this might be your only opportunity. Missy’s off to Europe next week,” She gave him a hard look as if to say “I arranged this, now don’t blow it.”

“I—uh—Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve already made plans,” he managed to get out.

“Then change them,” Anne whispered firmly, leaning her head toward Jude so Missy couldn’t hear. Missy had resumed chatting with Otis Matthews, who looked like a limpet trying to glue itself to her side.

Who the hell did Anne think she was? Director of his social life? Still, this wasn’t social, this was business. He needed to flesh out
How to Marry Money
in less than ten weeks. Thus far he’d only done two interviews, with no more lined up.

“Missy
Henckels,
Jude. Ever heard of Zwilling knives?”

“Umm—maybe?”

“Best knives in the world. Made by a German group called Zwilling J.A. Henckels. Huge. Her husband is
Johannes Henckels
,” she hissed as if she was referring to Arnold Schwarzenegger or someone.

“You mean Jay Henckels?” He’d heard of him from equity report editing days.

“That’s the one. He goes by Jay because no one can pronounce Johannes.”

“He lives in Greenwich?”

“It’s one of his residences. Get the interview today, while she’s still here. You won’t get another chance.”

Inside, Jude seethed. He and Farrah had plans. How could he just break them? And what if Farrah found out for whom? Or why? He didn’t want her knowing about the actual topic of the book, especially not after seeing her face crumple when she’d told him her ex had dumped her to marry a rich woman. He’d told her he was writing a book on personal finance, not gold digging. But he didn’t want to lose this interview. Nervously, he looked over in Farrah’s direction again.

She was no longer there. Clenching his teeth, he turned back to Mrs. Johannes Henckels. As she laughed in response to something Otis Matthews said, she caught Jude’s eye, narrowing her own. She hadn’t winked at him, had she? Was she flirting with both of them at once? What else would she be able to do with two men at the same time?

He willed himself to just say no, as Nancy Reagan advised.
Mrs. Henckels, I’m so sorry I won’t be able to drive you back to Greenwich today. I’ve already got plans with my girlfriend. Do you think you could catch a ride with Otis here? I’d bet he would be happy to take you anywhere you would like to go.

“Sure, I’d be happy to drive you home. Would you excuse me a moment? I’ll be right back.” Jude turned from Missy’s perfectly heart-shaped face, beaming up at him. He felt like Judas Iscariot betraying Christ. Was there any way he could explain to Farrah that a work-related situation had come up, and he was no longer able to spend the afternoon with her? Maybe he could suggest picking her up in Riverdale to take her to dinner that evening instead. That’s it. That’s what he’d do.

Quickly, he walked toward where he’d last spotted her. With every step, he felt relieved to distance himself from the girl gaggle behind. They were all so slick. But now he’d let their slick style rub off on him. He’d just allowed himself to be manipulated, throwing time with Farrah to the wind like some sort of sacrifice. He felt sick to his stomach. Hopefully, Farrah would buy whatever nonsense he gave for the plan change, and then he could get this interview with Missy Henckels over with as soon as possible. He hoped Farrah and he would be able to connect that evening. She was so different from the self-satisfied uber-chicks behind him. What a pleasure it would be to see her genuine reactions instead of feeling like everything happening to him had been rehearsed and pre-ordained by a bunch of highly-skilled female puppeteers with him as their doll.

S
HE COULDN’T BELIEVE
it. Jude was up on stage being photographed with a bunch of society women who all looked as if they’d stepped off the pages of Town & Country Magazine. The one on the left appeared to be the same one who’d come up to them in the Mexican restaurant the other night. Her camel-colored pants fit perfectly, no creases or seams anywhere. She looked down at her own mud-splashed legs, now red with the cold and covered in goose bumps.

As she glanced back at Jude squatting in the middle of the group, a woman standing behind him put her hand on his shoulder. Why wasn’t he pushing it off? When she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face she saw why not. Gorgeous. An Eva Longoria lookalike.

Jude’s fan club was ravishing. There was no way she was going over there to be upstaged by a bunch of Fairfield County foxes. She was competitive, but in the self-possession sweepstakes, women like the one touching Jude’s shoulder had advantages with which she couldn’t compete. She watched as the woman leaned down, whispering something in Jude’s ear. He smiled stupidly, clearly enchanted with whatever she’d said. Were these women from the Lymphoma Society or the Nymphoma Society? Whichever it was, they were society types alright.