Hometown Hero
Page 15
His excitement formed a bulge in his running shorts that he didn’t think the Future Farmers needed to get a look at.
“Thanks, Russ. My cramp is better now. So why don’t you just leave me alone?”
He set her leg on the ground and sat near her. “I realized two things when we were out there on the trail.”
“Only two things in fifteen kilometers? If you want to get ahead in life, you’re really going to have to put in some serious miles. Maybe you’d better get started. Like now.”
Okay, she was mad at him. Well, he hadn’t treated her very well the previous day. After a night of passion, he had owed her a chance to have her say. Instead, he’d let the emotional backwash of losing his dog overwhelm his common sense. He'd been justified in being angry, perhaps, but he hadn't been fair. As Cynthia had pointed out, he'd been a jerk.
“I won’t argue with that. But aren’t you going to ask what I realized?”
“Ohmigod, you’re assuming I care. I’m so sorry I somehow gave you that mistaken impression.”
This wasn’t going well at all.
“Maybe you don’t care, but I do. And since you’re not going anywhere until your leg finishes uncramping, I’m afraid you’re going to have to listen. First, I realized that you’re a tougher woman than I had given you credit for. You really sucked it up when you could have cratered.”
“That’s why I puked all over you. If you insist on standing close to me, maybe I can manage to do it again. No extra charge.”
“I can wash up. The second thing I realized is that my memory is coming back and that I’m afraid of it.”
She didn’t say anything, didn’t care to make it easy for him.
“Here’s the thing, Cynthia. I’m remembering more and more now, which has to mean that I don't have much more time to live as myself, that we don’t have much time to spend together. And I’m sorry that I messed up, sorry that I wasted so much of what little time we do have.
“I realize you might not have much use for a short-timer. And the memories are coming faster now. I don’t even have the excuse of being exhausted to the point where all of my resistances were dropped. One thing for sure, I don’t want my stupid pride to get in the way of spending some of my last hours or days with you.”
Chapter 11
He wasn’t being fair.
Hating Russ should be easy. He’d rejected her after they’d made love, when she was at her most sensitive, had needed his understanding and sensitivity most.
It wasn’t her fault that he was getting his memories back, after all. And he was dead-on right about being a short-timer. If she spent more time with Russ, she risked falling more deeply in love with him. And what did he risk? Nothing. Because he wasn’t going to be there anyway. Russell would be back and Russ would be just a fragment of memory.
His face twisted before she could answer him.
“I just remembered the convoy. It was probably the night we got hit by the roadside bomb because Billy and Paul were with me.”
She couldn’t stand seeing him in pain.
“Okay, you can drive me home. But we’re taking my car. How you get your car back to town is your own problem.”
“Cool. Let me get Gomer and I’ll be right back.”
Heather was chatting with Andrew only a few yards away. When Russ stepped away, she smiled at him. “Is Cynthia all right? I was so worried about her when she barfed on you.”
Trust Heather to come up with that reminder.
“We got some fluids into her and she was cramping, but she’s fine now. I’m ready to take Gomer back.”
“I was wondering if you’d let me borrow him a bit longer.”
“Why?”
“Andrew said he’d never had a dog. His parents were allergic and he thought he’d like to spend a bit of time with Gomer to see if he reacted.”
“That okay, buddy? You want to go out with Aunt Heather?”
Presumably Gomer’s answer was to the affirmative because Russ finally agreed to Heather’s request.
“I’ll swing him by this evening, Russell.” Heather’s voice took on that slightly hoarse sexy tone she seemed to reserve for Russ.
“Fine. I’ll see you then.” He turned back to Cynthia. “Come on, babe. Let’s go.”
She hobbled to her feet but stiff-armed Russ when he headed for her looking like he intended to pick her up. She was prepared to accept the pain that came from losing him again—after all, would it really be better to just ignore him until he went away? Still, the less physical contact they had, the better.
“At least lean on my shoulder if you won’t let me carry you.”
“You’ve got to be at least as worn out as I am, so stop trying to be Mr. Tough Guy.”
Russ was all man, but for just a second, his grin reminded her of the beautiful boy he’d been when she’d first moved to Shermann and seen him strolling through school like a young Apollo. “Right. Well, we’ll lean on each other, then.”
He nabbed the keys from where she’d left them in her sweats, opened her door for her, then went around to the driver’s side and started the engine.
The radio blared loud enough to do ear damage as soon as the engine caught and Cynthia cranked down the volume. “Sorry.”
“No problem. I love the blues.”
“You hate the blues. You were always making fun of my music.”
“Really?” He shifted into gear and pulled out of the trail parking lot, stopped to let a couple of bicyclists go by, the riders intent on the Katy Trail and not even aware of the cars or the race that they had barely missed. “I wonder if I ever really listened to them, then. Because it’s hard to understand how anyone could dislike the blues. In the hospital, it seemed like the blues were the only things we could agree on. Some of us loved rap, some country-western, a few grunge-rock, but everyone loved the blues.”
It was no mystery to Cynthia why injured soldiers had gone for the blues and still less mystery why the earlier Russell hadn’t.
The blues are about suffering and struggle. Before he’d been called up and sent to learn hard lessons in a far-off land, Russell had never faced suffering. His intelligence, good looks, and physical abilities had made everything easy for him. To him, the music of the blues had just seemed like men complaining about things. He’d lacked the perspective to see that sometimes struggle was all there was: that, all too often, there was no golden reward at the end.
That earlier Russell would have caved in during their race, as she’d believed Russ would. He’d never had to summon every ounce of his energy just to put one foot in front of the other, then do it again, and again, mile after mile. Back then, he’d always been looking for the goal line, the touchdown only a few yards ahead.
The bitter irony was, just when he seemed to have developed a deeper understanding, Russ was about to lose it all again. Any goal that was more than hours—days at most—away was unattainable.
“I’m sorry about the Gomer caper,” she blurted. He hadn’t been willing to listen before but now she had him as a captive audience. They were driving in her car, after all. He couldn’t exactly boot her out.
Russ’s fingers whitened on her steering wheel. “I’m sure you did what you thought you had to do.”
“Are you going to let me explain?”
He inhaled deeply, then slowly let that breath out. “Sure. And I’m sorry I’m being a jerk about this. The least I can do is let you have your say.”
“Heather and I were both hurt. We had a couple of drinks and were getting silly. Someone said something about how we could kidnap your dog, if you had one. One thing led to another.”
“But you weren’t drunk when you actually did it.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Never mind, you already told me that, didn’t you? You really didn’t know Heather was going through with it?”
“Of course I didn't, Russ. If you think I’m that hateful of a person, why are you wasting your time with me anyway?”
* * *
He’d almost reached Cynthia’s apartment building but he turned and headed east.
“What? Are you kidnapping me, now?”
“You’ve got a smart mouth, you know that?”
She snickered. “You did mention it a time or two. Or should I say, Russell did?”
“I don’t agree with Russell on music, but I think he called that one right. Anyway, to answer your question, I’m taking you to breakfast. After that run, you need to get some calories into you.”
“I was planning to eat at home.”
“And I need to get some calories into me,” he added. “Any suggestions? The Brew-Pub is not exactly speaking to me and I had heartburn for hours after Andrew took me to Molly’s.”
“He loves that place.” She wrinkled her forehead in concentration. “Okay, turn left.”
He followed her directions, finally stopping at what looked like an abandoned gas station.
“What’s—“ The smells from Sam’s, the Highway 94 diner, smacked into his memory like piledrivers. He remembered heading to Sam’s with the guys after all-night poker games, arguing about whose turn it was to pay, and chowing down on some of the best biscuits he’d ever tasted.
Heather had refused to come out there, calling Sam’s 'a blight,' but what the décor lacked, the food more than made up for.
They walked into the diner, found a comfortable booth and were served coffee without even ordering. Russ insisted on getting both of them the ‘Gut Buster’ breakfast despite the somewhat disgusting name. Cynthia’s pale face when she’d pitched forward at the finish line had frightened him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
“You don’t have to take care of me. I’m a big girl.”
She probably still thought of herself that way, he realized, holding on to a mental image that was years out of date.
He sipped his coffee and was hit by another surge of memories. Pictures of Cynthia on the first day of high school, her black-framed glasses dominating her pretty face, her plump body hidden under a dress that looked as if it had hung in the back of a closet since the 1950s.
He’d been at the center of a crowd, of course. Since football practice started weeks before classes, even as a freshman he’d made friends, formed relationships, established a place for himself in the school’s hierarchy. Cynthia had none of his advantages and had looked lost.
He strained to remember. Had he done anything to welcome her?
No memory emerged. Unfortunately, he couldn’t blame that on his amnesia. He suspected he’d simply been too busy, too uncaring. He’d been a teenaged boy, and teenaged boys worry that association with anything less than perfectly cool might rub off on them.
“Buck up, Russell.” Sam was a big man with a voice that boomed loudly enough to shake the diner’s flimsy walls and skin so dark, it was almost blue. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he answered. “I can remember you, Sam.”
“Not too surprising since you first rode your bike out here when you were twelve. Wanted to sell me some fish you’d caught. Had an investment idea and just needed to raise some start-up capital, you told me.”
He wondered if he would ever recover that memory. It seemed a lot more positive than the ones he was getting. But then, maybe there had been a lot more of the negative ones.
“Did you buy them?”
“Heck, yeah. Didn’t serve them in the restaurant though.” Sam patted his massive stomach. “Ate them myself. Then you took the money, plus money you got from washing cars and mowing lawns and stuff, and bought corn futures. You’d figured the dry winter would mean higher prices.”
“How’d he do?” Cynthia’s eyes twinkled.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Turned out he was right. Corn prices went through the roof. That’s how Russell here ended up with his first car. Not that a thirteen-year-old kid is supposed to be driving.”
Russ did remember that car. It had been a Chevy Belair, an ancient car with three-on-the-tree transmission and an appetite for gasoline that had shocked him. His parents had been appalled and refused to allow the car on their property, but he’d loved it, repainted it, waxed it, and tinkered with the engine until it ran like a top.
“Then he used that car to run a delivery service. Pulled a little trailer.”
“I do remember something about that.” Cynthia’s eyes took on a far-away look.
Maybe the old Russell wasn’t a totally bad guy after all. Russ hoped so—since each returning memory made it more likely that Russell would be returning soon, crowding into his brain, pushing the person he'd become out of the way.
Another customer demanded Sam’s attention and he bustled off leaving Russ and Cynthia with heaping plates of breakfast steak, biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, pancakes drenched in real maple syrup, and hash browns fried to a golden crunch.
“I’m going to have to run another fifteen ‘k’ to burn off these calories,” Cynthia groaned. “This really wasn’t fair.”
“Tomorrow maybe. I was thinking we’d run up the river. Sam reminded me that I need to take a look at some of the corn coming in. I’ve got more investments hanging out.”
“What’s this we stuff?”
It was a good question. Russ wanted there to be a ‘we.’ Their run together had been more than a race, more than a win or lose. He’d enjoyed the time together, the competitiveness, yes, but the companionship even more. While running with Cynthia, he’d felt a closeness to her that had been more than just a shared interest or hobby.
“I guess we can play the ‘we’ by ear.”
“You don't play anything by ear, Russ. You’re always planning, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “You’re thinking about that Russell guy. I’m a lot more spontaneous.”
* * *
Breakfast had been fun.
Cynthia was pleased when Russ offered her back the keys to her car.
She shook off his offer. She didn’t mind being chauffeured around by Shermann’s most eligible bachelor.
“Are you in a hurry to get home?”
She looked at him trying to judge whether his question had some ulterior purpose. But then, what difference did it make? Of course she wasn’t in a hurry to go home. There was nothing for her at her apartment. If he took her there, she’d just go into the office, check out the headlines coming over the wire, and polish stories she’d already polished within an inch of their lives.
“What do you have in mind?”
“You know I’m an investor in the new health club.”
She was afraid this was one investment Russ would lose money on. Most small-town Missourians are sensible about exercise. They figure they get enough working on the fields or loading trucks or whatever they get paid to do without having to pay someone else to do it for them.
“I heard that.”
“I’ve got a key. What do you say we check it out?”
Checking out one of Russ’s investments didn’t sound particularly interesting. From the look in his eye, she suspected he had some ulterior motive. But hey, it wasn’t like she had a lot going on that day. Maybe she’d get a story out of it. “Fine.”
He pulled in front of a building that had once held Shermann’s movie theater, closed more than thirty years earlier and left abandoned and rotting ever since.
A sign proclaimed it to be the new Shermann Health Spa and announced its grand opening party in three weeks. Russ punched a security code on a pad and then unlocked the door.
“Come on in.” He actuall
y looked excited, like she was supposed to be enjoying this. Whatever.
She quickly revised her thinking when she stepped inside.
Sure the weight machines were the usual sleek black and chrome monstrosities. But a huge whirlpool, at least thirty feet in diameter, bubbled in the middle of the room. Massage tables and a steam room lined the back.
Russ yanked off his t-shirt. Fortunately a clean t-shirt he’d put on after the race. Unlike Cynthia who had merely pulled her sweats on over her drenched running outfit.
“A good soak is what you need to get those muscles loosened up.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What a lucky break they’re not open yet. No rules.”
A frission of fear mixed with pure lust ran down her back. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
“Or you can keep your running clothes on if you want. There isn’t much more to them than a bathing suit, anyway.”
She hadn’t been sure he’d noticed. But yes, modern running clothing was designed for efficiency, not for modesty.
“Okay.”
She stepped out of her sweatpants, unzipped the windbreaker top, and she was ready.
The hunger in Russ’s eyes both thrilled and frightened her. She wasn’t that special. No one would ever mistake her for Miss Missouri. No one had even asked her to serve as a model in Cochran’s fashion show. She wasn’t fat, the way she’d been in high school, but that was about all you could say for her body. Her breasts were too small, her legs too muscular from the running, and her hair and eyes were a boring brown.
“Don’t let your negative thoughts control you,” he said.
“You’re a mind-reader now, are you?”
He winked at her. “Sometimes you’re too easy. Come on. Let’s get in the whirlpool.”
“Does it run all the time? I’d think you’d be running up a huge utility bill.”
“Turn off those reporter instincts, babe. If you must know, I phoned earlier and asked the manager to set it up.”
She was working on a snappy comeback, but made the mistake of stepping into the bubbling water—and all of a sudden, arguing seemed like too much work.