Meet Me in the Garden

by Rosa Sophia

  Most of all, she wondered if the sorrow from the past had made its way forward, tainting the present. How much of Ian was still Malachi?

  Chapter 30

  Joy had redecorated her office. Amalie wondered where she found the time. She’d replaced some of the pictures on the wall with lively, colorful paintings that depicted action scenes. She said they inspired her to get moving, and the visual stimuli was just the push she needed. With the white, built-in bookcases covering one wall, her curved desk decorated with knick-knacks, and the collection of penguin figurines on the shelves over a comfy loveseat, Joy’s office looked like the sort you’d see in a photograph on the back of a best-selling book, the author casually seated behind the desk with a winning smile on her face.

  She beamed when Amalie entered and gestured to the chair across from her desk.

  “Have a seat.” Joy sipped her coffee. “Have you taken a look at your new project yet?”

  “Yes, it’s great. I love Jackson’s new book.” Amalie couldn’t suppress a grin. She hadn’t met the author yet, but she was already talking about him as if she knew him.

  “I know you’ll do a wonderful job, Am.” Joy cocked her head and placed her coffee mug on the desk. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.” Amalie shrugged a shoulder. “The TN has been holding off a little bit. I haven’t gotten it anywhere near as bad as I did that day on the beach, even though they still can’t seem to figure out why I passed out. Maybe I’ll never know.”

  “Stress can do that to you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Doctor Lee said.”

  “She’s a smart woman. Listen to her.”

  “I will,” Amalie assured her.

  “How are things with you and Ian?”

  She stared unblinkingly at the carpeting for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Feigning a smile, she shook her head. “I should get back to work. I can tell you’re busy, I don’t want to take up your time.”

  “Piiish.” Joy waved a jeweled hand and rolled her bright eyes. “I’m not just your boss, Am, I’m your friend. Unless you’d rather not tell me…”

  “No, it’s not that. Things have just been different since we moved in together. I guess I’m seeing a different side of him.” The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop herself. “He came home drunk last night. I never noticed it, but he does drink a lot. Maybe I didn’t notice it because of Dad.” Joy knew the whole story about her father. She was one of the few who did. “Something about it, the way he was, just didn’t feel right. I can’t explain it. I went back to my room and…I just went to sleep.”

  Joy waited a moment before responding. “Well, Ian’s a good man, but we all have our faults. And you never really know a person until you live with them.”

  “I know, you’re right.”

  “Just take care of yourself, okay? Keep me posted. If you need anything, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Joy. I’m going to get some coffee and head to my office.”

  “Sounds good, hon.”

  As she left and headed out into the main area, Amalie felt ashamed, as if she shouldn’t have mentioned anything. But she knew it was okay to tell Joy. After all, she was one of the few people she trusted.

  ***

  Running provided the solace she needed. With Amalie’s newfound wellness came an urge to return to her daily exercise. She feared the return of the pain, but she loved running too much to give it up. The wind on her face sometimes caused a tingling sensation to pass across her scalp, and occasional stabs in her cheek and temple, but she forced herself to ignore it.

  Jupiter was a runner’s paradise. Clad in her sky blue running shorts and tank top, her sneakers kicked up wood chips as she picked up the pace along the trails at Carlin Park. The tall palm trees bowed gently to the sea breeze as she followed the path around the parking lot and headed along Ocean Drive.

  For the next few weeks, she continued the ritual, too frightened to confront Ian again. They spent time together in the evenings after work, but it was superficial. With the television on, and Ian glued to his computer screen, Amalie was disconnected. She couldn’t tell what was brewing in her heart—resentment or hurt—but whatever it was, it was cleaving a deeper distance between them. Running made her feel better somehow, even if the euphoria was short-lived.

  The man she loved was not the man who drank too much, and she was finally beginning to realize it. It was as though he became a different person when he drank, just like her father. She didn’t know how to make him see that when he drank, a demon flashed in his eyes, and he said horrible things to her he wouldn’t remember the next morning. He hurt her without knowing it. And it was slowly tearing her apart.

  Each morning, she paced herself with strangers, running alongside them or jogging around them. She made a game of it. As the sun rose over the ocean, she darted around a blonde who was too distracted by the music blasting from her iPod to notice Amalie. Once she’d hit the three mile mark, she started to feel as though she weighed less than a feather, and her feet bounced off the cement as if she were prancing on clouds in the sky. The pain hadn’t returned for weeks. She felt safe, complacent, distracted by myriad thoughts.

  And one day she realized she was playing her racing game with a runner who took light steps on the other side of the street, always jogging in the same direction as her, keeping time with her steps as though he’d intended it that way.

  It continued for at least a week. He was tall, lean, and muscular. She could tell he was an experienced runner, and from his apparent dedication, she was sure he was a marathoner. He wore shorts and a pair of black and silver sneakers. His body, covered in a glistening sheen of sweat, seemed to cut through the thick air. Every day, she tried to match his speed to test herself, running adjacent to him as the traffic passed them by. She glanced at him every so often to make sure she was keeping up. At some point during those innocent glances, he looked over, too. For a brief moment, their gazes locked, and each morning they continued the ritual—runner pacing runner, each in a seeming stalemate, a race neither won.

  They had one thing in common; unlike many of the runners they passed, neither of them wore headphones. Over time, she grew accustomed to their wordless interaction. One day, she called across the street, in between breaths, “Don’t you ever slow down?”

  He glanced over at her and grinned, pearly teeth flashing in the sunlight. A Prius slid slowly by as he retorted, “Not likely!”

  “I should know the name of my opponent,” Amalie huffed, her voice carrying across the asphalt. They were ignored by other passersby.

  “Artie,” he called back, “Artie McLaren.”

  Amalie surprised herself. She was normally withdrawn, the least likely person to approach anyone. Yet she glanced both ways to make sure the traffic was clear, and darted across the street. Soon they were running side by side. For a few moments, neither spoke. A few more cars whizzed by, and they listened to the waves breaking on the beach below.

  They slowed to a pace that made for comfortable chatting, and Artie said, “I’ve seen you around before.”

  “I’ve been living here a few months, but I just got back to running maybe a month ago,” she explained. “Do you live in the area?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He smiled at her and squinted in the bright morning sunlight. Unlike Amalie, he didn’t wear sunglasses. “I live on a boat.”

  “You do? Really?”

  “Yeah. Jupiter Yacht Club Marina.”

  Amalie slowed as they reached the point where she normally turned around. Artie jogged for a moment and then turned on his heel, his lean body gleaming with sweat. Amalie remembered hearing that an excess of sweat was like a badge of honor for runners; if that was true, Artie could win a medal for it.

  “Is this where you stop?” he asked, anticipating her movements.

  “Usually.” Amalie placed her hands on her hips, breathing deeply, the sa
lty scent of the ocean filling her lungs. She wondered why she was hesitating. It was time to turn back. So why aren’t I moving?

  Artie stepped over to her and grinned. “Care to join me on the beach? I run along the road, but then I head along the beach on my way back to the marina. Makes for a nice change of scenery.”

  Amalie shrugged. “Sure.”

  Ian was at work. In fact, she hadn’t seen much of him lately. It was nice to have someone to talk to. She wondered if he would be jealous she was spending time with someone else, let alone a complete stranger. The thought left her mind as she and Artie jogged across the street to a beach entrance surrounded by the foliage of sea grapes, which bowed over the wooden path and steps, creating a pleasant shaded alcove.

  It was not quite ten o’clock, and people were just beginning to wander onto the beach in flip flops and bathing suits, dragging beach chairs and umbrellas behind them. Amalie and Artie slowed on the steps, passing an old man in a t-shirt and jeans, who lugged a pail and held a fishing pole in the air.

  Briefly forgetting their intention to run along the beach, the two of them walked briskly and talked about where they were from and what they did for a living. They quickly learned they had similar interests in writing and history.

  “May I ask, why do you live on a boat?” They passed under Juno pier.

  “My dad was a boat mechanic, and I grew up working with him in California,” Artie explained. “He’s retired now and lives in Mission Beach. I go back now and then to check on him, but for the most part I just sail wherever I want. That’s what I love about living on a boat, I can go wherever I want. And if I get sick of the bullshit too close to land, I can sail into international waters and be a free man.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “It depends.” Artie shrugged his wide shoulders.

  “I should get in on that. No rent unless you dock,” Amalie mused.

  “Do you know anything about sailing?”

  “A tad.”

  “You’re smirking. I sense a good story.” Artie bent to scoop up a shell, then tossed it toward the water.

  “Am I that transparent?” Amalie joked.

  Artie chuckled and shook his head. “Back to the original question, if you please...”

  “I can tinker with an engine if I have to. I did grow up on an island, after all. My dad is a fisherman. He has a good business going. I’ve helped him out before, and I’ve had the occasion to…in a sense, hotwire a motorboat or two.”

  This seemed to intrigue Artie, who raised an eyebrow, giving Amalie a chance to notice the bright green of his almond-shaped eyes.

  “Are you a mechanic?” he asked.

  “No, not in the slightest.” Amalie laughed as she considered the fact that she had no idea how to change the oil in her Honda. “I just know a few things about boats, that’s all.” She shared the short version of her boat theft adventures, leaving out personal details regarding why she’d done such a thing in the first place.

  Artie seemed fascinated by the whole thing. She wondered if he would think any differently of her if he knew her family history.

  “Wow. When I left the marina this morning, I never thought I’d meet a boat thief.”

  “Hey, it was years ago.”

  “Still…”

  “It’s cool you can live on a boat,” Amalie said, intent on steering the conversation away from her past. “I don’t think I could do that. I’m too much of a landlubber.”

  After a lull in the conversation, Amalie suggested they run again. They kept pace along the beach, their sneakers kicking up soft sand. Along the way, they commented on the heat of the morning, and wondered whether the fish were biting as they caught a glimpse of a few fishermen with poles who stood in the surf looking dejected.

  “Guess not!” Amalie said between breaths.

  Artie slowed when they reached a certain point, then turned on his heel. “Well, this is as far as I go,” he huffed, his hands on his hips. “It was great meeting you, Amalie.” He extended his hand, and she shook it, noting the strength of his grip and the sweat on their palms.

  “Great to meet you too, Artie. This was a wonderful run with good company.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. See you around?”

  “Sure!”

  Amalie waved as he ran off, his hand raised toward the light blue sky. She watched his feet pound on the steps, and then he disappeared around the corner. She slipped off her shoes and walked into the water, letting the small waves crash against her shins. She always felt more relaxed after a run. As she turned and headed home, walking at an easy pace, she thought of Artie and hoped she would meet him again.

  Chapter 31

  He didn’t run the rest of the way back; he was too distracted. Artie strolled to the edge of the water and slipped off his sneakers, tucking his socks into one shoe. The water lapped against his toes, refreshing him, helping to clear his head. He raked a hand through his short hair, then leaned down to dip his fingers in the ocean, letting the droplets cool the back of his neck.

  He’d been watching her for some time; he’d seen her running down the street, usually at the same time he did. He started to pick up on her daily patterns, and made a point to run when she’d be out.

  Not that he was following her. He just wanted to be near her.

  He couldn’t explain it, but being around her gave him a sense of relief—a heavy, unmistakable respite he couldn’t put his finger on. It was almost as if he’d seen Amalie someplace before, but he couldn’t recall where or when.

  When she’d jogged across the street to meet him, an ache rose deep within him, a lump formed in his throat.

  Who was this woman, and why did she have this effect on him?

  Artie kicked at the sand, then wandered along the water back toward the marina. It’d be a long walk. A shorter run—but he wasn’t feeling it. A sensation rose within him, something he couldn’t name at first. Was it grief?

  He remembered when his mother died last year. She’d held his hand when she drew her last breath; he never thought he’d stop crying those heavy tears, while his father stood there with a stony expression on his hardened face, unable to weep. No matter, Artie did all the sobbing for him.

  He’d always been close to his parents, and although he knew the cancer was getting ready to take Ma away, he wasn’t prepared. There was no way to be ready for that. He couldn’t ascertain why the sweet, classically beautiful Amalie made him think of his mother’s death.

  He plodded home at a slow pace, then jumped into the dinghy that awaited him before piloting the little motorboat out to his sailboat.

  That night, after checking the boat was secure, he ducked down into the cabin where his golden retriever, Humphrey, lifted his head off his paws and looked up, as if annoyed Artie had woken him from his slumber.

  “Sorry, old boy. Go back to sleep.” He patted the dog on the head, and stretched out on his little bed in a pair of boxers.

  Even though the eerie light of the moon on the water normally calmed him, and the gentle rocking of the boat usually coaxed him to sleep, he was unable to shut his eyes. He couldn’t stop thinking about Amalie, the runner who—unbeknownst to her—had captivated his thoughts.

  And maybe even his heart.

  ***

  “What’d you do today?” Ian asked that evening as he popped open a bottle of beer.

  Amalie was curled up on the couch, sipping a cup of hot tea. The smell of dinner cooking wafted from the kitchen.

  “I went for a run, did some editing work. Not a whole lot.”

  Amalie wondered if she should tell him about Artie. She knew Ian was a jealous person by the way he reacted whenever she mentioned Garrett, and lately she feared telling him things. Whenever he opened a beer, Amalie flashed back to her childhood, and her throat closed up, keeping the words at bay. She was rendered mute by a voice in her head that whispered, the truth just makes people angry. Keep your mouth shut. Nothing you say will come out right.<
br />
  “That’s all?” Ian settled on the loveseat on the other side of the room.

  “That’s all.”

  For a long time they were quiet as the television blared reruns and commercials, and Amalie’s mind wandered to her conversation with Artie. She stretched her legs out in front of her, thinking about how her muscles felt, taut and achy but in a good way. She was glad to be running again, grateful the pain was holding off, and the medication was working—for now.

  That day blurred into the next, and weeks turned into months. The distance between Ian and Amalie grew, bit by bit, bottle by bottle, until her daily runs were an escape that ended all too quickly.

  Breathe in, right foot down, breathe out, left foot down, breathe in…

  It was windier than usual that morning in November, and Amalie had heard on the news that a cold front was coming through. The following week wasn’t supposed to breach eighty degrees, and that made her nervous. Even as she thought of it, a sudden pressure crawled from her ear and toward her cheek, along the path of her trigeminal nerve. Cringing, she slowed and leaned her hands on her knees, staring down at the pavement. To her left, the wide leaves of the sea grapes shuddered, and the ocean crashed against the sand.

  Amalie shut her eyes, imagining the pain was a red hot salamander crawling under her skin, writhing, trying to get out.

  She startled when she heard a voice and felt a hand touch her shoulder.

  “Amalie, are you all right?”

  Straightening, she turned. “Artie!” Cringing again, she shielded her face from the sun.

  “Your TN bothering you?” They’d been spending a lot of time together, and Artie knew about her condition.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  Steadying her with his right hand, he gestured across the street. “Why don’t we go over and sit down, have breakfast? It’ll give you a chance to relax.”