Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  Portrait of a Girl Running

  Portraits Trilogy

  Book I

  by

  J.B.Chicoine

  Also in the

  Portraits Trilogy:

  Book II

  Portrait of a Protégé

  Book III

  Portrait of a Girl Adrift

  strawhillpublishing@jbchicoine.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2013 by J. B. Chicoine

  Cover art: watercolor painting—Portrait of a Girl Running—by J. B. Chicoine

  Cover and interior design and art by Straw Hill Design

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Other Novels by J. B. Chicoine

  Author Biography

  Acknowledgments

  So many people have been involved with writing this novel, either directly or indirectly, by providing feedback or encouragement. I originally wrote it for my husband’s amusement back in 2006, and since then it has undergone extensive revisions and restructuring.

  I’d like to thank my sister Diana for finding something positive to say about it after I made her slog through the first draft of over 150k words. Your ongoing support has meant the world to me.

  Thank you Craig A. Chicoine, for your tireless feedback and suggestions. Also, my other beta readers, Marie Skidmore, Liza Carens Salerno, Carol Newman Cronin, Lindsey Hanchett, Laura Martone, Susan Mills, Claire Dawn, and those who offered support and helpful comments, Errika Jenkins, Scott Daniel, Glenn Rawlinson, Beth Zygiel, Peggy Heinrich, Donna Morris, Ann Ireland, Emmaline Hoffmeister, Diane Dalton. Special thanks to Lisa Porter for your keen psychological insights, and to Ryan Skidmore for inspiration.

  Many, many thanks to my writing partner, Robynne Marie Plouff. I have lost track of how many times you’ve read this story—you helped me shape it into something fit for human consumption.

  Most of all, thanks to my Todd—all my stories are for you, but especially this one. Thank you for all your complexities, for a personality I can dissect a hundred different ways and still come up with complete characters that delight and inspire me!

  For Ryan

  Chapter 1

  Summer 1977, Long Island, New York

  Had the wind been blowing out to sea, Leila would have let the draft carry the ashes out over the ocean in one little puff and been done with it, but she had, on a previous occasion, the misfortune of not calculating wind direction and ended up with a face full of powdery remains. She had since learned to stand upwind before shaking the contents of the men’s-size handkerchief. Giving her fist a hard look, she squatted in the ankle-deep surf, unfurling her fingers.

  Just get it over with!

  Keeping the cloth high enough to prevent the ebbing water from wetting its hem, she dumped the contents—about as much as might fill a tablespoon. It drifted away in a little clump. A good swish would fix that. Once it dispersed, she waited until the surf drew it out, tumbling it along with sand and flotsam that shimmered as it roiled. She shook the handkerchief and folded it back into a compact square, then tucked it in the hip pocket of her loose-fitting cut-offs. She wondered how many tablespoons remained. Might she cry if she stood there long enough?

  Not waiting for the pang in her chest to erupt as tears, she faced the five-mile return stretch of Long Island’s Robert Moses State Park, walked a few paces, and then picked up her speed, sprinting from a jog to a full-out run. Too quickly her diaphragm ached though it wasn’t the run that winded her. Slowing, she arched her back to catch her breath and stopped. An offshore wind pushed wisps of hair from her forehead as she faced the surf. All eternity stretched out above and before her in shades of blue and gray—ultra-marine, cerulean, Payne’s gray—and even a swipe of ochre. What a grand paintbrush, strokes of perfection. Oh, the vastness of it! Today she wouldn’t ponder anything as lofty as God, only the magnitude of promises—especially those made under duress and later second-guessed.

  As an image of her father flashed behind closed eyelids, Leila’s chest tightened with each heartbeat. She drew in a constricted breath, pushing back the surge of panic—Just keep running—and continued down the beach.

  Waves crashed to her right, firming the shoreline as she ran. The Atlantic’s roar drowned out the increasing hordes of city dwellers—their transistor radios and squealing children —even the odor of tropical ointments, cigarettes, and greasy fries, but it couldn’t deafen the pounding in her ears. She focused on her breathing. If she ran fast enough, the jarring percussion of bare feet against compacting sand might numb the more acute pain in her heart. If she stayed focused on what lay in the distance, she wouldn’t stumble over immediate obstacles.

  Leila ran west, to the edge of Fire Island, and then doubled back to where she started. Near sunset, cool ocean air rolled in. She slowed to a jog, untied the long shirtsleeves from around her hips, and headed toward the dunes, slipping her arms into sleeves. Asphalt seared her feet as she sprinted across the causeway. Sprays of sand twirled upward and danced around the parking lot. Most cars had already left. Her body buzzed with fatigue—sweet exhaustion that she hoped would yield deep, dreamless sleep.

  Gulls overhead called out, guiding her to the pavement’s far side. They dashed at discarded French fries beside her old ’67 Volkswagen Beetle—and its flat tire. If not for her bare feet, she would have given it a firm kick. At that moment, the sound of blues blared from a nearby car. She smiled at the irony of it, at how her otherwise dependable little car had done her wrong.

  Everything would be exactly where she had placed it—the tire iron, the jack, and the spare—all tucked neatly in their places.

  “You need a hand?” came a voice from behind.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed the approaching blues-playing car as she popped the front hood, but she ignored it, hoping she was exuding a more-than-competent vibe.

  She tugged the tire and grumbled, “Nope,” without turning enough to get a look at the driver. “I got it.”

  The music track changed.

  “You sure?” he asked as the familiar blues riff grabbed her attention. “’Cause you’re getting the front of your white shirt all black.”

  Intent on the song, she gave her shirt a dismissive glance as the tire teetered half in and half out of the trunk. She raised a brow in his direction
and the words just slipped out—“That sounds sort of like ‘Cross Road Blues,’ but different.”

  “Yeah, it’s called ‘Crossroads.’”

  She turned just enough to note the make and color of his car. Two-door Saab. Dark green. Dented front fender. Cracked windshield. “Well, that sure isn’t Robert Johnson.”

  He chuckled. “No, it’s Clapton—Cream’s version.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, a little embarrassed that she hadn’t deduced it on her own. “I guess I’m more familiar with the older stuff.”

  His brow spiked and his mouth stayed agape. She had caught him off guard, but that didn’t keep him from pulling into the parking spot at her passenger side.

  Oh great! She let the tire hit the pavement. That’s what you get for talking to strangers.

  A track continued playing when he shut off the engine. She backed away from her trunk and again inspected the front of her shirt. One button hung by a thread. She yanked it and tucked it in her pocket.

  Get a good look at him in case you have to give the police a description.

  He repositioned his cap visor toward the back. Hazel eyes flashed as he tucked a lock of dark, chin-length hair behind his ear. His straight nose as red as her thighs, and his square jaw, rough as sand. He appeared as sun-weary and disheveled as she did.

  “It looks like you have everything under control,” he said, “but why ruin your shirt? Let me just give you a hand.”

  Just remember, all men are pigs, her father had told her—like the warning that stoves are hot—there was truth to it, but she had yet to test its application. Just the same, she did not intend to do any testing in an all-but-abandoned parking lot. And, she had little hope of employing her other dad’s warning, often accompanied by a wink—Whatever you do, don’t flash those dimples, as if she had any control over the way they graced her cheeks even when she spoke.

  She sized him up. A little taller than her, maybe five-ten, but if she caught him off guard, she could implement a few practiced maneuvers and disarm him—at least bring him to his knees. After that, with a build like his, taking to flight would be her best bet. She felt more than confident of her ability to outrun him.

  Rather than sidle past, she provided him ample room and positioned herself strategically behind his car, noted his license number, and watched. She had been around far more men than women in her seventeen years, and so she rarely paid particular attention to one man as being more handsome than another, though most had at least one appealing characteristic, if only a sweet singing voice. But the man changing her tire seemed a compilation of all the best features she had ever seen.

  He lifted her tire without effort as she scanned his car’s interior. On the back seat, a small Styrofoam ice chest lay atop worn upholstery. Beside it, a camera and long lens pushed back the flap of a professional-looking carrying case. No trash, but a carpenter’s tape measure and several cassettes cluttered the dashboard, and a few shavings amidst sawdust were visible through the hatchback. A pair of miniature sneakers hung from the rearview mirror. Harmless stuff. Nothing alarming.

  “Are you visiting or just moved?” He snagged her attention.

  “What?”

  His jaw tipped toward her rear window. “Your dump permit—it hasn’t expired.”

  Leila cringed. Ridiculous oversight.

  He spun the tire iron. “We don’t have dump decals around here. You must be from upstate or out of state.”

  “What—nobody likes dump picking on Long Island?”

  “Well, I’m sure there’s some pretty good pickin’s out in the Hamptons, nicer beaches too. But then I would have to wonder what you’re doing here.” His playful grin twisted to a wince as his arm bulged with exertion over a stubborn nut. He looked back at her, waiting for a response.

  She folded her arms. Her usual stance. “I moved to the Island a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh yeah? Where from?”

  It seemed a harmless enough question. “New Hampshire.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from N’Hampsha’,” he said, mimicking the distinct intonation of the state’s natives, and winked.

  A wash of optimism eroded a layer of caution. “You know New Hampshire?”

  “Some. I went to school in Hanover for a little while.”

  “Dartmouth?”

  “Yeah. But just for a semester.”

  “What did you study?”

  The flat tire hit the ground. “Nothing I was ready to commit to.”

  If he were trying to impress her, he ought not mention that he had dropped out of such a prestigious institution. In fact, the way he went about changing her tire, without any puffed-up posturing, even the way he wore a loose-fitting T-shirt when something skintight would better show off his physique, argued against arrogance, self-absorption, or any intent to impress her. His whole demeanor bespoke modesty and a defiance of her father’s warning. All the more reason to keep her guard up.

  He rolled and lifted the spare into place and seemed content for a minute. She doubted that would end his conversational efforts.

  Once he had the nuts back in place and tightened, he cast her a curious glance. Was he hoping she might take a little initiative? Leila tucked a wayward strand of chestnut hair back into her long braid and held her reticent ground. She could have come up with something clever to say but didn’t want to encourage him. He smiled and nodded as if granting whatever made her comfortable. She doubted he would leave it at that. He did not disappoint.

  “So, why did you move from beautiful New Hampshire to this rat race?”

  She shrugged. “That is a big question. Why does anyone move from paradise to, well, whatever you want to call Long Island?”

  He paused, as if giving her response weighty consideration.

  “Family. Job …. Or lack of options,” he said, flashing a glance that penetrated even in its brevity.

  “So, which was it for you?”

  He stood, leaning the tire iron against the flat. “Lack of options. And you?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Then I guess we both come by the blues honestly.”

  “Well, honestly, the blues are all I’ve ever known.”

  “You’re too young for that.”

  “I wish that were true.” She unfolded her arms and reached for the tire iron.

  He didn’t push the issue. He simply deposited the flat and jack in the trunk.

  “Got a rag?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” she said, joining him. “Here.”

  He wiped his hands and replaced the rag. “There’s some really great jazz and blues clubs in the area. Have you been to any of them?”

  She smiled at the memories he evoked. “Not recently.”

  “Well, there’s a place down on Merrick Road, east of here, the Blues Basement.” He repositioned his cap’s visor. “They play a bunch of the old stuff with some new twists. It’s pretty good. There’s a lot of local talent that are regulars. You ought to check it out sometime.”

  “Didn’t that used to be the Owl’s Nest?”

  He smiled at her mention of it. “Yeah, I think it was, right up till the last few years. A lot of the old guys have died out, but some of the new ones do a pretty good job.”

  “So, you like the newer renditions?”

  A slow but full smile lit his face as he slipped his hands in his front pockets. His eyes flickered. “I like the old and the new.”

  They faced each other, each leaning against their own car. The sun dipped below the horizon, and seagulls called out as the music tape ran silent. Neither moved.

  He didn’t seem like a pig, though she still didn’t dare ignore the warning. Perhaps he just had a better handle on keeping his piggyness at bay when changing tires for stranded young ladies. Or perhaps he might be genuinely kind.

  “It wouldn’t have been much fun changing my tire with sunburn,” she said. “Thanks for doing it for me.”

  “No problem.”

  A g
ull swooped, distracting them for a moment. When their eyes again met, neither moved. The only thing that stirred was her stray lock of hair. She drew in a long breath.

  He spoke up. “Maybe, we could meet up at a club sometime?”

  Her eyes shifted.

  He rebounded. “Or whatever you might be comfortable with.”

  “That sounds like a lot of fun.” She bit her lip. “But … this just isn’t a very good time for me.”

  “Okay,” he said, as if it were all the same to him.

  Rather than turning and climbing into her car, as she should, she looked at him as if she were formulating a further response. She said nothing.

  He removed his hat, swept his hair back, and extended his hand. “I’m Ian.”

  She leaned into the formal introduction.

  “Leila,” she said, withdrawing quicker than she would have liked. “I’ve never met anyone named Ian.”

  “I’ve never met anyone named Leila.”

  “Well … thanks again for the help.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said, but she didn’t give him a chance to say anything more. She rounded her car and slipped into the front seat with keys in hand, feeling his stare. As she started the engine, he tapped her passenger window and then retreated to the front seat of his Saab as she cranked the handle. He returned with the cassette tape that had been playing.

  “It’s just a bunch of stuff I compiled. You might enjoy it,” he said, handing it to her along with a business card. “Just in case a better time comes along.”

  She read the card. Ian Brigham—Photographer-at-Large —Portraits & On Location Photography. She grinned, thinking of her father. He used to call her ‘Leila-at-Large.’ She liked the coincidence.

  Chapter 2

  Leila stretched as she sat up in bed, scanning her room. Her attention paused at the business card tucked in the dresser mirror. She padded over to the dresser and fingered the card without removing it. At least her trip to the beach had yielded something more than simply satisfying a ritual. No, nothing would come of her encounter with the man who had changed her tire, but she had forgotten how nice it was to make a little conversation with a grown man—that is, one with all his teeth.