Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (8 page)

Heading to his computer, Jude decided to start on a rough outline after he cleaned up his e-mails. Scanning down the screen, he saw something from an unfamiliar address. A message entitled “Hi” had come in from
[email protected]
.

She had gotten back to him. He hadn’t been sure she would, given her lukewarm reception of his dinner suggestion.

His pulse raced. Why hadn’t he seen this last night? Then, he remembered. He’d forgotten to check his e-mails after coming in from his evening run. He’d been so down about the possibility of losing the only job on his horizon that he’d just watched some baseball and gone to bed. He double-clicked on her message:

“Hi—Wanted to let you know I’m free for dinner this Friday, the 27th or the following week, either Thursday or Friday. —Farrah”

The tone wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but it was a start. He looked at the time that it had been sent, 10:48 p.m. the evening before. That was a good time of day for her to have been thinking about him.

Where should he suggest they go? He knew a bunch of places in Greenwich, but they were all too fancy for a first get together. Riverdale sounded more intriguing. He knew next to nothing about it, other than hearing that it was the best neighborhood in the Bronx. He typed back.

“Farrah—Good to hear from you. What about this Friday? Want to go somewhere in your neighborhood? I’ll pick you up around 7 if that works for you. Let me know your coordinates. —Jude.”

He hit send. Then, he remembered that he’d told Jim they’d go out for a beer Friday afternoon. He’d let him off the hook so his boss could get home and start the weekend sooner with his family.

Jude pushed back his chair, satisfied. It was going to be not only a good day, but a good week.

F
OUR

W
hen the message appeared on her screen from
[email protected]
, she froze. Opening it, she read his suggestion for dinner on Friday. He would pick her up if she’d let him know where she lived.

Getting up from her desk, she went to the window, opened it, and leaned out the sill. The brisk air felt good on her skin. He’d left the choice of where to go in her court. There might be thousands of restaurants in New York City, but Riverdale only had a few, all of them pretty basic. There was An Beal Bocht, the neighborhood Irish pub. There was Riverdale Restaurant, a thinly-disguised sports bar with wide-screen TVs mounted everywhere. There used to be a gorgeous, gourmet place called Riverdale Garden right down the hill from her apartment that had opened and closed within a year. It hadn’t taken long for the owners to figure out most of the locals couldn’t appreciate their menu, much less afford the prices.

Where to go? Farrah pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook it out. It had been a long day on the road, with two doctors’ office visits in Long Island. She’d gotten stuck in traffic coming back over the Whitestone Bridge. And by the time she’d driven her car into the underground parking garage in her building, she’d been beat. In the elevator, she once again thanked her lucky stars for landing her in Riverdale in a luxury building on the Hudson River. After four years in Manhattan, spending countless hours circling around the block trying to find a parking spot near her apartment, she knew the value of having an assigned parking spot in her building—priceless.

Then it hit her: Ryan’s Steakhouse on Broadway. It had a manly dark wood and leather sort of ambience, but a menu that appealed to the ladies—at least to Farrah. She giggled, remembering the time her track club had celebrated Blanca Mills’s fiftieth birthday there. The women had kept the Irish waitress busy with two rounds of Sex on The Beach. The bartender had sent over a third one on the house.

At the close of the evening, the ladies had staggered down Broadway, arms linked together, singing and shouting into the night air. Thankfully, John and some of the other guys in the club had followed at a distance, making sure their female cohorts didn’t end up in a heap, passed out in a dark alleyway.

Returning to her desk, Farrah hit
reply.

“Sounds good,” she typed. If Ryan’s Steakhouse on Broadway at 235th Street is okay with you, I’ll meet you there at 7 at the bar. See you Friday. —Farrah,”

Before she could second guess herself, she clicked on
send.
Then, she tried to go back to calculating her expenses for her last trip. It was a deadly dull task, as well as embarrassing. She’d eaten way too many chicken Caesar salads alone in her hotel room. Travelling for work wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

Pushing away from her desk, she got up again. She was restless and the night was young. She reached for her mulberry fleece jacket, stuffing her wallet and cell phone in the pocket.

Outside on the sidewalk, she could hear young voices and laughter wafting from the direction of An Beal Bocht. She decided to walk by, then stroll to the bottom of the hill where Van Cortland Park began. It was too late to go into the park alone, but there were plenty of people out on the sidewalks enjoying the Indian summer evening.

Outside of An Beal Bocht, a group of college-age kids loitered. They were likely students from Manhattan College, which was just around the corner. A young guy with a smudge of facial hair on his chin leaned over a cute, blonde woman. She was laughingly running her fingers through his long, wavy hair. Summer fun still lingered in the air.

Proceeding down the hill, Farrah breathed deeply. It felt odd to be walking in the direction of the park, since she usually ran to get there. But tonight, she wasn’t working out. She was thinking. Whatever new developments Will had to share on Saturday, she hoped to have some new developments of her own, after Friday evening. Though she wouldn’t be sharing them with her ex, no matter how dinner with Jude went.

In less than ten minutes, she was outside the entrance to Ryan’s. The smell of garlic bread and grilled mushrooms set her mouth watering. It was hard to eat a decent dinner when you lived alone. Earlier that evening, she’d had a takeout salad. It was supposed to be a good thing to eat foods in as close to their raw, natural state as possible. But there were times when Farrah longed for a fat, juicy, medium-rare steak covered with sautéed mushrooms. She would order one on Friday. That should put Jude Farnsworth at ease about whether she was a crunchy granola-type health nut. Part of her was, but the other part was a hearty red meat eater. Probably the Irish half.

Farrah paused outside the long rectangular windows of Ryan’s front room. The restaurant was quiet tonight. Pressing her nose against the pane, she saw only two tables occupied in the front section. At one, a family sat. The other was occupied by a dark-haired man and an attractive brunette talking intently, their heads together. She watched as the woman crossed one slim leg over the other, a sexy red pump dangling from her foot.

As the man spoke, he leaned both elbows on the table, templing his hands with the thumbs together, the forefingers pointed in the direction of the woman’s throat. Farrah saw the woman’s right hand go up to touch the indent at its base. It was as if the man had touched her there in his thoughts, and she had felt it and responded.

Transfixed, Farrah stood in the dark watching the dialogue of body language unfold. The conversation was even more interesting without hearing what was being said. Attraction flickered like an invisible flame between them. After a moment, the man got up and disappeared in the direction of the bar. While he was gone, the woman pulled out a compact and studied her teeth in its mirror. Then she applied deep red lipstick. Wasn’t that a good sign?

Apparently, the young girl at the only other occupied table thought so. She stared at the woman, fascinated by the lipstick-applying ritual. Farrah’s heart tugged. She hoped the little girl, who looked to be about seven or eight, would go out on a similar date one day. It was important not only for the continuation of the human species, but also the cosmetics industry.

“Can I help you?” a Spanish-accented voice asked, directly behind her.

Startled, Farrah whirled around to face a young, male Hispanic man wearing a black jacket with “Ryan’s” embroidered on the chest pocket. The valet parking attendant.

“No. Just checking out the scene tonight.”

“It’s a slow night. Weekends are busier.”

“They are?” Should she make a reservation?

“Sure. Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday brunches, too.”

“Should I make a reservation if I’m planning to come this Friday?”

“You’ll be lucky if you can still get one. That’s only two days away.” He gestured toward the door, then opened it for her. “Ask Eileen. She’s the hostess tonight.”

Farrah made her way to the hostess’ station, just as the man she’d been watching headed back to the woman waiting for him at the table in front. As he passed, his eyes swept over her. Farrah shuddered. Did men always have an eye out for the next best thing, even when they already had all they could handle? She remembered something a woman at her mother’s hair salon had said when she’d been about ten. The woman had said “It’s up to women to help men organize their biological urges.” Her mother and the other women had cracked up with laughter, but no one would explain to Farrah what she had meant. Now she understood. She was sure the brunette waiting at the table would help focus this guy’s.

“Welcome to Ryan’s. Would you like a table?” The hostess came over, smiling. She had honey blond hair swept up in a messy bun. On her, it looked good.

“I just wanted to ask about Friday evening—” Farrah began.

“This Friday? We’re pretty booked. What time were you thinking of?”

“About 7?”

“How many?”

Two people.”

The hostess studied her book.

“We’re full up in the regular dining room at that time, but you can take your chances in the bar.” She gestured around to the room they were in. There were three booths as well as a few tables in front.

“Do you serve dinner in the bar?”

“Sure. We serve dinner anywhere our customers want to eat.”

Farrah smiled. A vision of packing up steak dinners and heading over to the park across the street crossed her mind. Ryan’s fare would make a hell of a gourmet picnic dinner in Van Cortlandt Park.

“Should I give you my name in case someone cancels for Friday at 7?”

“Sure, sweetheart. What is it?”

“Foley. For two.”

The hostess started writing.

“No, wait.”

The hostess looked up, expectantly.

“Make that Farnesworth,” Farrah corrected herself. “F-A-R-N-E-S, then WORTH.”

“As in, how much is it worth?” The hostess joked, glancing in the direction of Farrah’s unadorned ring finger.

“Right.”

“Okay. All set.” The hostess stashed the black reservation book under the podium.

Farrah walked out into the night. Then, she remembered the couple seated in front. She looked around for the parking valet. He was nowhere in sight. She’d take one more peek to see how things were progressing.

Gazing in the window once again, she saw that the man now had the woman’s hand in his. He was playing with her fingers. Whoa. Two desserts had been served and sat untouched on the table. The woman looked to one side, most likely at whatever was on her plate that the man was preventing her from enjoying.

Go for it, girl. Get that chocolate where it belongs. Don’t let him stop you,
Farrah silently encouraged her. Why shouldn’t women occasionally have all their desires sated at the same time? Such opportunities didn’t arise frequently, from what Farrah had already experienced in life. She gestured with her hand, imitating the motion of grabbing a fork and spearing whatever it was that lay on the plate.

Suddenly, she sensed a physical presence next to her. The parking valet was back.

“You are rooting for someone inside?” he asked.

“Uh. Yes.” She was mortified, but it was true. Why shouldn’t a woman have her cake and eat it, too?

“She is your friend?”

“No.”

The valet pressed his nose up against the window, studying the situation.

“She will get to eat her dessert.”

“How do you know?”

“I have three sisters. They like boys, and they like sweets.”

“Which do you think they like more?” Why was she having this conversation with a total stranger?

“I think the sweets. But the boys know this, so they offer both.”

“Well, this guy seems to be preventing her from using her fork.”

“She will find a way. They always do.”

Both of them turned back to study the action inside.

After another moment of hand holding, the woman smiled into the man’s face, then moved her head suddenly in the direction of the wall, opposite where Farrah and the valet stood. The man’s face followed hers. He was probably wondering what had caught her attention. Quickly, the woman removed her hand and speared a large piece of dessert into her mouth.

“Brava!”
the parking valet applauded.

“Smooth move,” Farrah agreed.

“The man wins for the moment. The woman wins in the end,” the valet observed.

“Huh,” Farrah said. It was time to get home. Waving goodbye to the parking valet, she prayed he wouldn’t be on duty Friday evening.

On her way up the hill, Farrah thought about what the valet had said.
The man wins for the moment. The woman wins in the end.

In some respects, that thought corresponded to the different ways men and women ran. In short races, it frequently happened that a guy overtook her on a final stretch, putting on a burst of speed that she couldn’t summon in herself. But in half marathons or even longer races, there were times when men who had been ahead of her the entire race began to crash and burn somewhere around the ten-mile mark. Had the Hispanic valet just shared with her a profound insight into the human race? Laughing out loud, Farrah jogged lightly up the hill to sleeping Riverdale, leaving Broadway’s twinkling lights behind.

S
HE HADN’T GIVEN
him her address. But she’d said yes. Jude tapped his foot in a seated jig. It wasn’t unusual for a woman living in New York City to be somewhat cautious. She’d be strange if she wasn’t. Humming, he filled his printer with paper and ran off the rough outline for
How to Marry Money.
In two hours, he was meeting Jim to drop off his proposal and outline and pick up the signed agreement that spelled out terms of the new project. Then, he’d be on his way to Riverdale to see Farrah.