Run So Far

by Peggy Nicholson

  ‘They still sound like jerks.’

  She shook her head again, it wasn’t like that at all, Jem. They made me very welcome. It’s just that I ... always felt like the third wheel. They never quite notice there’s anybody else in the room, when they’re together,’ She heaved a deep, silent sigh and that brought back a winter’s evening when she was about Jem’s age, the red-orange light of the flames flickering across her sketchpad as she sprawled on the hearth, doodling drowsily, her mother curled in the armchair above her, asleep with one of her law books open across her lap, one lock of her dark hair curving across her cheek.

  Jolian had looked up to find her father standing in the doorway, home from one of his frequent business trips, had watched his slow, single-minded passage across the room, his eyes fixed on her mother’s face. Just as his fingers touched her mouth, he had sighed, and it was the soft sound of a man putting down a heavy load. He hadn’t made it home until that instant.

  Her mother’s lips had turned into his hand before she woke ... And she, Jolian, had understood at last the emptiness within herself, had been searching for that kind of belonging ever since. She wanted to be home to someone too.

  She must have sighed again. ‘Jerks,’ Jem had pronounced beside her with all the conviction of youth.

  Jolian laughed, shook her head, and let him swing open the bakery door for her. So who was comforting whom here? She pulled a deep, appreciative sniff. ‘Mmm, you buy the coffee, and I’ll buy the cookies.’ Jem shook his head quickly. ‘I’ll get it, Jolian. What do you want?’

  He chose a table in the corner and sat with his back to the room. Fletch had raised no fool, she thought, studying his odd, triangular smile as she bit into a hermit bar. When he relaxed, his smile wasn’t like Fletch’s at all—so why was it familiar? She hadn’t seen a play in New York in years. ‘So you still have some money left, from what your mother gave you?’ she asked idly.

  Jem’s smile faded. ‘Loaned me, you mean. She said if Dad had finally made something of himself, he could afford to pay my way back.’ He scowled.

  Finally made something ... ‘So your ... you haven’t always had money, then?’ she asked, studying her cup guiltily. The urge to pump the boy was well-nigh irresistible.

  Jem bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so. I know we had to sell the house and all Dad’s tools, when my mother left.’

  ‘His tools?’

  ‘Woodworking tools—table saws and stuff. He used to make things ... a hobby, I guess.’ He took a boy-size bite of his brownie and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee, then flashed a rueful face at his cup. With no one watching, she guessed he would have ordered milk. ‘I’ve still got a rocking horse he made me. It’s beautiful, Jolian. I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere—all these different colours of wood, steam-bent and laminated into all these crazy curves...’

  ‘That must have taken a lot of time and love to make,’ she pointed out softly.

  ‘Yeah.’ The boy sighed, staring down at the table. ‘But he hates it ... keeps telling me I’m grown up now, to stick it in the attic.’ His lips trembled. ‘It’s just in the way ... like—’ He scraped his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘You finished?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ Jolian pushed aside a half-full cup and followed him outside. He waited for her to choose the direction, so she set a slow pace back towards Beacon Street, where she had left her car. There would be time for a few hours at the studio before her night class. ‘So do you have much of that loan left, Jem?’ Perhaps when the money ran out, home would look like a better deal.

  He laughed shortly. ‘I don’t have any of it left, Jolian. I got mugged the night before I called you that second time.’

  ‘Mugged! Did he hurt you?’

  Jem shook his head, smiling his father’s tough-guy smile. ‘They,’ he corrected, as if that made it all right somehow. ‘Keeping your money in your shoes is sure a waste of time!’

  Jolian laughed in spite of herself, then frowned. ‘But you ... what are you ... doing for money now, Jem?’

  He pulled the Red Sox cap further down over his eyes and gave her his gangster leer. ‘Livin’ by my wits, lady.’

  She smiled dutifully, then studied him from the corner of her eye. How many legal jobs could a boy his age and size find in Boston? She didn’t like to think of the alternatives. Panhandling, shoplifting, perhaps playing courier for some small-time drug pusher ...

  His answering three-point smile was a trifle smug. The mirrored glasses gave no clues, and they were at her car now. Reluctantly, she fished her keys out of her shoulder bag and leaned back against the car’s dented fender, twirling them idly. ‘Do me a favour, Jem?’

  He frowned, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his ridiculous pants. ‘I wish you wouldn’t ask, Jolian.’

  ‘Just call him, Jem. Talk with him.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Can’t.’

  She sighed. ‘Well then, here’s another favour.’ She found her wallet, pulled out a pale grey and black Quicksilver business card. ‘That’s my home phone number. If you ever want to talk, or eat a home-cooked meal...’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly. He bent his head over the card, the bill of his cap hiding his face. After a second he glanced up. ‘Cambridge? You’re not very—’ He stopped.

  She waited, smiling. Jem smiled back and shook his head. ‘Are you going to tell him you talked with me?’

  She frowned thoughtfully, feeling like a tightrope walker. ‘Don’t you think he’ll want to know you’re healthy and taking care of yourself?’

  Jem shrugged, suddenly glum.

  ‘You know he will.’

  ‘Okay, Jolian, but I can’t tell you anything like ... where I’m staying.’

  Her smile was ironic. ‘Think I can’t keep a secret?’

  Standing on the kerb, Jem had perhaps two inches of advantage over her and he obviously relished them both. He stared down at her, smiling his cool smile, if you knew, Dad would get it out of you, Jolian. He can get to people, believe me.’

  She did. Oh, did she ever! Well, something told her that she’d pushed as far as she could today. And it was best to end on a light note. ‘So how’s the weather up there?’ she teased.

  This cocky grin was his own. ‘Super, lady, just peachy ... keen!’

  ‘As tall as your father is, I expect you’ll shoot up there on your own in another year or so,’ she assured him.

  The words wiped Jem’s grin away. An expressionless, mirror-eyed mask gazed back at her. ‘Er ... yeah,’ he murmured blankly, ‘... yeah ...’ He tried to smile and didn’t quite make it.

  Jolian maintained her teasing face with an effort, hoping her eyes weren’t reflecting her sudden questions. She reached out and gave the peak of his baseball cap a gentle tug. ‘Don’t lose that phone number, Jem.’

  ‘Right ...’ he murmured. He was a thousand miles away. Some place that hurt.

  He was still standing on the kerb, motionless, when she drove off with a wave. Far down the street, in the rear-view mirror, she thought she saw his hand lift at last.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A lazy man always tries to carry too much. It was one of Katy’s favourite sayings, something the nuns had told her in school, and they were right. She really ought to put one down and come back for it. Instead, Jolian stopped on the stairs and took a firmer grip on the two grocery bags that were trying to slither out of her bear-hug. And which bag had the eggs in it? No telling. She braced the bags against her hipbones again and trudged upwards—listening for Yaffa’s first yowl.

  Instead she heard footsteps—someone descending. She edged over to hug the waif, but kept on climbing. With any luck they would pass at the first landing. She looked up as a shadow wheeled across the open space above and then a man stopped short at the top of her flight of stairs.

  Her heart stopped with him. Fletch. There was no mistaking that taut, hard-edged shape looming dark against the light from the window beyond.


  As he moved again her heart started as well, but with a different rhythm now, as if it were taking the stairs two at a time to meet him. ‘Fletch,’ she called softly.

  ‘So there you are.’ The low voice wasn’t quite as smooth as she’d remembered, or perhaps he was just out of breath. He stopped again and waited, let her climb the last few steps to him.

  ‘Hello,’ she managed shyly. He was the same. She hadn’t imagined a bit of it.

  ‘Hello, yourself.’ Casual words. Words that did not match his tight half-smile, nor the intensity of that green-gold gaze that raked her face feature by feature, starting with her eyes and returning to them at last. His hands reached out to smooth the wind-blown hair back from her cheeks and lingered to let his thumbs, follow the swoop of her eyebrows. As she smiled, he sighed—a deep, soft sound. His fingers spread slowly to cup and lift her face, and he kissed her. ‘Hello, silky cat.’ He kissed her again, but the first slow sweetness had changed to a fast-burning hunger now. His lips were harder, quicker, his breathing suddenly harsh.

  ‘Fletch!’ Jolian twisted free from his mouth, shivered as his lips found her throat instead. ‘Fletch!’ She tried to laugh. Any man with a heart would take these bags off my hands!’

  He laughed softly, his hands gliding down to cup her breasts with the lightest of touches, a touch that sent hot, crazy tremors shuddering across her body. ‘And any man with a head would know you’re at his mercy right now, with your arms full. How can I resist that?’ His lips found the bare skin at the vee of her open collar.

  ‘Better try resisting it, friend!’ she gasped, the pulse in her throat hammering against his mouth. ‘You’re about to have one dozen eggs, a pound of ... ham ... and ... ten cans of-fff...’ Her voice failed.

  His fingertips—slow mountain-climbers—scaled the peaks of her breasts where they swelled to stand out against her thin vee-neck sweater, danced tiny victory dances as they gained the summits. ‘Of what?’ he laughed against her throat.

  ‘Of-fff...’ What had she been trying to say? Oh! ‘—of cat food dropped on your toes!’ she gulped. ‘Fletch! Cut it out!’

  ‘Uh-oh!’ The dark head lifted and his hands slid gently upward to rest on her shoulders. ‘That sounds like the General speaking. I was wondering where she’d gotten to.’ He grinned down at her, his fingers tightening reflexively.

  There is a name for this, Jolian thought dizzily staring up at him as she tried to catch her breath. A most dangerous and lovely name. And if she didn’t distract him now, he would start again, she realised as he pulled her forward. She thumped the bags up against his ribs; they made an excellent blockade. ‘Fine. If I’m giving the orders, take these.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ His voice and eyes mocked her, warned her that delay was a feeble military tactic at best. There was still a battle to be joined.

  And nothing has changed, she warned herself as she retreated before him up the stairs, nothing except that now you know how much you want him. You want him, and he wants you. For a while. Play with this match, Jolian, and he’s going to scorch your fingertips right up to the elbows. Right up to the heart.

  ‘Where have you been all day?’ Fletch complained at her heels. ‘This is the third time I’ve stopped by.’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘With Frasier?’

  ‘Who else?’ she asked lightly, ignoring the edge to that question. ‘He is my partner, after all.’

  ‘And you two ... work on Saturdays?’ His emphasis suggested more interesting ways to pass the time.

  But she was not going to rise to that. ‘Saturdays, Sundays and Christmas when necessary, Fletch. We spent all day choosing and photographing the designs we’ll use to apply for the American Crafts Council Show in June.’

  ‘The crafts fair at Rhinebeck?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a juried show. That means we have to prove to a panel of judges that we’re good enough to exhibit there.’

  ‘Yes, I know what that means.’ he said dryly, stopping behind her as she found her key ring. ‘Have you made the cut before?’

  A low, throaty moan greeted the click of the key sliding into the lock. ‘Yes,’ she told him proudly, ‘for the last two years. That’s where we make a lot of our gallery contacts.’ She hesitated, staring down at the key.

  ‘Try turning it, Jolian. That’s how they usually work,’ Fletch suggested at her ear.

  ‘Yes ...’ But she wheeled to face him, feeling suddenly suffocated by the overwhelming size and nearness of him, and the open desire in the eyes that searched her face.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, silky.’ It was almost a whisper, laughing words to soothe a treed cat.

  Jolian tried to smile. He could read her like a book. ‘But I am afraid. I don’t want you to come in, Fletch.’ Yaffa seconded that from the other side of the door.

  One dark brow rose slowly as he studied her. ‘Why not? You should know you can trust me.’

  Trust him to break her heart? Without a doubt. ‘Trust you to keep your hands off me? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You can trust me to do whatever you want,’ he said smoothly. A nice evasion. His eyes flicked across her breasts and back to her face and he almost—smiled.

  ‘I don’t want you to touch me,’ she insisted, crossing her arms in spite of herself. She frowned to make the gesture look stern rather than defensive.

  His half-smile became whole. ‘And I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Then I guess this is what they call an impasse,’ she said lightly, her nerves jumping. How far could she push this? When Fletch put those bags down, her game would be up. One touch and she was done for. She leaned back against the door, struggling to hide her fear with a look of bored patience.

  His breath hissed in exasperation as he shifted the grocery bags. ‘Jolian, don’t be absurd. I have to talk to you.’

  Talk? Ha! ‘So phone me.’

  His lips twitched. ‘I’d rather talk to you ... in the flesh.’ All of his eyes said.

  She shivered suddenly, her body responding to the threat and promise in those eyes. ‘You can’t come in!’ she blurted helplessly. ‘I’m tired. I’m not in the mood for a wrestling match. Go away!’ She shook her hair back, suddenly furious at being cornered this way. Cornered by him, cornered by her own treacherous desires.

  ‘Wrestling wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,’ Fletch murmured whimsically. Those green-gold eyes were laughing at her.

  She hissed the words at him one by one. ‘You can not ... come ... in!’ The realisation that she would lose this confrontation made her all the angrier. She would lose if he stayed, lose if he turned and left her now.

  Fletch was frowning now, staring down at her thoughtfully. ‘You really don’t want me to make love to you?’ he asked finally, one eyebrow lifting.

  His scepticism almost made her laugh. What a healthy ego! He must be good ... He was good. As she remembered his touch, her amusement vanished and she shook her head firmly. Trouble, Jolian, he is TROUBLE. Be smart for once in your life! She shook her head again.

  Fletch let his breath out slowly—male patience tried beyond all rational limits. ‘All right,’ he said sarcastically, ‘we’ll call a truce. I promise I won’t touch you tonight. How’s that?’

  ‘That’s not good enough!’ Out of her life would be better. Or wiser, if not better. There was no use loving what she couldn’t keep.

  ‘That’s all I’m offering, lady, and you’ve got ten seconds to take it or leave it!’

  And if she left it? Narrow-eyed, she measured him across the shopping bags, wondering if she could work a better deal than that, a long-term detente.

  ‘Seven ... eight ...’ Chanting softly, Fletch stooped to set the bags down, his eyebrows at a dangerous angle. ‘Nine...’

  ‘Taken! I take it!’ Her words came out with a squeak. Infuriating.

  ‘Wise, lady,’ he murmured, eyes glinting, ‘wise.’

  It took an effort of will to turn her back on him and open the door, an effort to keep her sho
ulders from shuddering with his eyes boring into her back. Yaffa thumped on to her neck as she passed the counter, wobbled, then caught her balance with lashing tail. Fletch dropped the bags on the table and turned back to the door. ‘Where are you—’ Jolian bit the question off and reached up to steady her passenger.

  Fletch stopped and looked back at her. ‘I’ve something in the car for you.’ He pulled her key ring from the lock, stood staring down at it, then looked up with his tough smile. ‘So here’s your chance to lock me out.’ The keys sailed in a clean arc across the kitchen.

  Jolian caught them absently, her eyes on his face. For a second, he looked almost vulnerable. Could that smile, that joke hide a touch of uncertainty? ‘I won’t be doing that,’ she told him softly, and his smile faded. Their eyes held for a moment, then he was gone.

  No, might as well admit it. She would not lock him out. Could not. Fletch was inside her gates already. It would be about as useful as locking the barn door with the horse thief still inside. Too late, God help her, too late. And speaking of horse thieves, where was he? Jolian had time to feed the cat brush her hair; choose a soft, long, flowered skirt and a softer blouse; decide that this was too fancy and then put them on anyway, and still he didn’t show. Unpredictable, beastly man! She settled at last on the sofa with a glass of Chablis and the newspaper, her ears tuned to the stairwell.

  But when the knock came at last, she jumped all the same. He had a thief’s light step. ‘Who is it?’ she teased the door.

  ‘Me.’

  Preparation for Fletch’s impact didn’t really help much. There was still that little jolt, that catch in the breathing when she opened the door and their eyes met. ‘Hello, you.’ The jolt gave way to enveloping warmth as his eyes flicked over her and widened for an instant in obvious approval. ‘Thought you’d gone back to Chicago.’

  ‘I walked to the river to cool down.’ The faint smile mocked himself, but the eyes on her face were serious. ‘I’ve been arguing all week, Jolian, and I’ve had enough. Let’s have a real truce tonight, shall we?’ He moved past her to set a large box on the table, then accepted one of the long-stemmed glasses she held out.