Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  Fortunately, when Miss Michaels announced the spring project—a self-portrait in any medium—she had also provided Leila with a supply of good paper. Arches Aquarelle. But still, Leila loathed wasting supplies. Unfortunately, the project deadline rapidly approached and all she had was a sketch, albeit a good one. At least she could transfer the sketch to her watercolor paper and call it progress for the day.

  Standing before the open window, she inhaled the scent of spring. Her feet tingled from sitting too long. She glanced around her room. The walls closed in.

  ~

  In Ian’s opinion, Easter Sunday would be the perfect day for running the beach. Southerly breezes had already started warming the atmosphere, and most people stayed at home hunting pastel-colored eggs. An all-but-vacant parking lot promised the hoped-for solitude and reprieve from Millville’s congestion.

  As he pulled into the parking lot, Leila’s little blue car sat in the exact same place she had parked in July. Even if he hadn’t predicted it, he laughed at her predictability. Everything seemed to have been falling into place lately, and this simply confirmed that all his plans might actually work out.

  He pulled in beside her car, remembering the way she once looked in the setting July sun. He tightened the laces of his sneakers. What a stark difference in climate a few months made. As he pulled on a pair of gloves and baseball cap, he crossed the causeway and breathed the heavy, salt air. In spite of the sun peeking through the clouds, and the warmer temperatures inland, wind stung his cheeks. It whooshed in his ears, pushing against him as he hiked up the path. He stood at the peak of the dunes, savoring the smell of the ocean. Deep gray water undulated, whipping into the March winds and then crashed ferociously onto shore. He was glad he hadn’t shaved the beard he had grown a month ago.

  A cursory glance up and down the beach revealed no other occupants. He started a slow jog, making his way toward the firm, wet sand where tracks headed east and west. One set had the gait of a runner—a light-footed runner, heading east. He veered off in that direction.

  Two miles into his run, he peeled off his first layer; his gloves had come off a mile back. As the sun ascended, the air warmed and the wind died a little. He scanned the far end of the beach where a figure nearly blended with the dunes. As he approached, his heart pounded. She lay with her knees bent skyward. Her hands folded across her middle. Her loose hair nestled her head and lifted with the gentle breeze.

  His breath caught in his chest. Blocking the sun from her face, he stood over her.

  Her hand shielded her squinting eyes. It took a moment before she spoke. “Ian?”

  “Hi.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing as you. I just haven’t gotten to the napping part yet.”

  She propped herself onto her elbows.

  “I saw your car in the lot. Same place as last summer,” he said. “Then I just followed your tracks—and—here you are. I guess we’re both creatures of habit.”

  Ian squatted beside her as she sat and gasped. “We’re not supposed to be talking.”

  He laughed. “What do you think is going to happen? Is the school board going to come out from behind the dunes? Or maybe Mr. Myles?”

  “No, but … I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You mean, we can just sit here and talk?”

  “Yeah, Leila. We can.”

  She stiffened and looked at him sideways. “But I’m only seventeen.”

  He recalled his own words with regret. “I’m sorry I said that … I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  “Then why did you say it? Why did you say all those things?”

  He wavered. How honest could he be without imposing himself or his needs upon her? The least he owed her was honesty. “I was desperate and I panicked. I realized my feelings for you were out of control, and it was my pathetic attempt at convincing myself of things that weren’t true.”

  She faced him. “You humiliated me, Ian.”

  He had that coming but her directness stung. “I am so sorry. You have every right to be angry.”

  “I’m not angry,” she said. “Is that what you thought, that I was angry, and so I got you in trouble?” Tears filled her eyes.

  He choked up. “I can’t imagine what you must have been feeling.”

  Her gaze dropped to her hands and then met his. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

  “Please tell me you haven’t been worrying about that.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “I tried to explain things….”

  “Leila. None of that whole mess makes any difference.” He wiped her tear. “Even if they fired me it wouldn’t matter.”

  “You haven’t been disappointed with me?”

  He drew her forehead to his, examining her eyes up close. “Not at all. You’ve never done anything but impress me.”

  A smile broke through her tears. “You have no idea how relieved I am.” She stroked his beard. “Your whiskers. They make you look like a French artist.”

  He chuckled. “It’s supposed to make me look rugged and outdoorsy.”

  “Well, I suppose it does a little. But it definitely makes you look older.”

  He smiled and withdrew. He didn’t want to look older. Shifting his body and closing the space between them, he sank his hands into the sand behind him.

  Leila moved closer, leaning into his shoulder. “There’s about a million things I want to say to you, Ian.”

  “There’s no hurry. If in three months from now you still feel the same, you’ll have plenty of time to tell me.”

  “You mean after I graduate.”

  “Right.”

  “Why wouldn’t I feel the same in three months?”

  “I don’t know that you will or won’t, but for a while there, it seemed you and Kyle might have had something going on. It wouldn’t be right for me to interfere with that.”

  “We don’t. I mean, we kind of did, but not really. We’ve always been just friends.”

  “He’s been a good friend to you.”

  “When he’s been my friend, yeah, he’s been good, but it’s been a lot of up and down. Maybe it’s just because he’s a teenage boy.”

  “As a general rule, teenage guys aren’t particularly dependable as love interests. The male species changes a lot between seventeen and twenty, and a whole lot more by the time they hit their mid-twenties.”

  “I guess that could just as easily be said about teenage girls.”

  “I suppose so. And that’s why I’m not in any hurry, and you shouldn’t be, either.” He looked at her. “Time is on our side, Leila.”

  “I know.”

  He moved his arm behind her.

  She tipped her face toward the sun. “I have a shrink now.”

  “No kidding. How is that going?”

  “Weird at first. Mr. Myles has to go with me every other session. That’s really weird.”

  Ian chuckled. “I’ll bet. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that show.”

  “What do you think of Mr. Myles—honestly?”

  “I think … he’s a passionate man who’s found something worthwhile to latch onto. I think he’s principled—and guarded—and believes that whatever he’s been through gives him the right to treat others like crap.”

  Leila’s lips pursed. “You don’t like him.”

  “I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him. Do you like him?”

  “I’m not sure that like is the right word, but, yes, I do.”

  Ian had to admit, “He’s been good to you.”

  “Yes, he has. I love him.”

  Her words surprised him at first, but then they seemed not so unexpected. “He probably won’t like the idea of you and me—if we happen. But of course you already know that.”

  “Yes, I know. But I think he also knows that won’t stand in my way.”

&nb
sp; He grinned. She had such a will of her own—he loved that about her.

  The sun dropped behind them now, and their shadow fell long in the sand before them. They had sat long enough.

  Ian stood, offering his hand and pulled her up. “It’s cooling off. We should go.”

  “We can’t go yet,” she said with urgency as she shoved her hand into her jacket pocket. “I almost forgot. There’s something I need to do.”

  “What?”

  She held out a white handkerchief. Its four corners gathered atop a bundle the size of a baseball.

  “What is it?”

  “What’s left of my dad.”

  Ian’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He made me promise to sprinkle a little of him whenever I went someplace new. I ran out of new places. Besides that, I’m tired of carrying him around.”

  She started toward the shore. Ian hesitated. He didn’t want to intrude.

  “Come on.” She motioned for him to follow.

  Alongside each other, they walked to the edge of the water. Without ostentation, she untied the knot and squatted.

  “You might not want to stand downwind of this,” she said. “It can get a little messy.”

  Ian moved to her other side as she emptied the ashes into the ebbing waters. They broke apart, moving away from her and then returning. She poked at them, breaking the water tension. They began to swirl. As she stood, one large wave came and dispersed them, wetting her sneakers.

  “Now he’s all gone,” she said, shoving both hands in her pockets and staring out over the water.

  Ian tried to comprehend the weight of the moment. He remembered burying his own father’s ashes, without pomp or ritual, interring them at the cemetery. He hadn’t been back to the Connecticut gravesite since. Leila appeared as stoic as he likely had, holding it all in, trying to make a brave show for the few who had attended. He hadn’t wanted sympathy. He sensed she did not want it now. He said nothing. He would not move until she did.

  She gasped as if it suddenly struck her. Tears streamed from her eyes. He moved her away from the encroaching waters and held her close. She sobbed like a child, her body warming his as his emotions throbbed in his chest. He allowed his own tears to come, grieving for her and for his own loss.

  When she pulled back, wiping her eyes, she whispered, “I didn’t mean to put you through that. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He stroked her face. “Be glad we were together. We both needed this.”

  He did not linger in her gaze, but neither did he relinquish her hand as they walked the two-and-a-half miles back to the parking lot in silence. When they arrived at their cars, he followed her to her door.

  She smiled, her nose still pink. “No flat tire today.”

  “Too bad.”

  He thought of kissing her. If he hadn’t just told her there was no hurry, that time was on their side, he would have kissed her without reservation. He simply pulled her close and held her tight as his lips grazed her hair. He breathed her in, amazed at the day fate had handed them. A strange and novel feeling washed over him, as undeniable as the waves rolling onto the beach.

  Chapter 28

  Myles sipped his coffee before homeroom, contemplating his upcoming weekend. The afternoon he had spent in therapy had altered his Saturday-evening outing in Greenwich Village, but an hour spent with Leila provided more emotional satisfaction than his jazz singer Twyla ever could. Besides, it was short term and he still had alternate Saturdays and Wednesday evenings to torment himself with Twyla. He had to wonder why he put himself through it, why he chose the unattainable, married woman as a romantic interest—though it didn’t take a whole lot of guessing. Not that therapy made him ponder such things. In fact, Judge Moore’s line of questioning gave him as much pause as sitting in front of an attractive therapist.

  Noise from the hall distracted Myles from his musings, and when his door opened, Leila walked in. He smiled at the welcome intrusion—she hadn’t shown up early in quite some time.

  “Good morning,” he leaned back in his chair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Leila stood in front of his desk and smiled, waiting a moment before speaking. “Since Dr. Jennings’ office is up in your neck of the woods, I was wondering if we could just drive over there together tomorrow. It seems like we haven’t spent any time together lately.”

  Myles squinted at her with suspicion. She had missed the alternate SATs, and ever since their last therapy session, she had given him the distinct impression she was avoiding him. Perhaps their therapy cahoots had backfired.

  He adjusted his glasses. “You want me to come down and pick you up?”

  “I could just meet you at your place. We could go from there.”

  He tried to read her motive, but she seemed to have brushed up on her poker face.

  “Alright,” he said, with a measure of skepticism, though happy she had sought him out. As an afterthought, he added, “Wear your skirt. If you can behave, perhaps we’ll eat out.”

  ~

  Leila sat tucked in the back corner of art class as always, clutching loosely rolled-up watercolor paper with one hand, and wiping sweat from the palm of the other.

  “I am looking forward to seeing the results of all your planning and hard work.” Miss Michaels clasped her hands and smiled at her budding artists. “Please get them out. We’ll start with William.”

  The first student stood front and center. Leila wished they could simply show and tell from their seat. One classmate did a nice clay bust, a moderately true yet more attractive rendition of herself, titled Wishful Thinking. Clever. Several sketched in pencil, one named Daddy’s Girl. Leila could have used that, but in the plural rather than the possessive. Someone even attempted soft sculpture and called it Bizarre—it was difficult to tell which end was up.

  At her seat, Leila flexed open her own work. It took a couple attempts but she was satisfied, even pleased with her result. She drew the lines of her likeness with precision, yet allowed her brush uncustomary liberty, not that anyone else would notice. Perhaps her satisfaction sprung from having to use her imagination with color or simply the inspiration of working from Ian’s photograph; either way, she liked the painting even though she could point out every flaw.

  “Leila?” Miss Michaels repeated.

  Leila stood and took her place beside her instructor, looking off to nowhere as she held up her project.

  She sighed discomfort. “Girl Running.”

  ~

  Clusters of daffodils and tulips bloomed along the veranda and in front of a trellis where roses would burst in a month. Leila had not imagined Clarence Myles as a gardener. Perhaps he hired out the groundskeeping.

  As she stood at the door, horizontal blinds in the large windows to her right prevented her from seeing in. She peered through the small row of leaded-glass windows high up on the door as she rapped the iron knocker.

  The door opened wide.

  “Come on in,” Mr. Myles said, giving her a once-over. “You look very nice.”

  He wore a tweed blazer and khakis, and to her amazement, a tie. “You look pretty nice yourself. You even shaved.”

  He offered a quick smile and closed the door. “Let me just go turn off the music and lock the back door.”

  Quiet jazz played as Leila waited in the spacious though dimly lit entrance. It melded into his living space where bookcases, stereo, several chairs, and a couch nestled around a grand fireplace tucked off at the far left. Between that and a heavy-balustered stairway directly in front of her, six chairs gathered around a dining table. Beyond that, Myles had just disappeared through a door that provided a glimpse of a bright kitchen.

  She smelled furniture polish and leather. The atmosphere felt heavy. It appeared almost smoky as thin shafts of light cut between slatted blinds. A rush of pleasure broadened her smile as he turned off the music and approached.

  He flung a sweeping gesture. “Is this what you wanted to see?�
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  “You read me too well.”

  “You’re not so opaque as you think you are, my dear.” He squeezed her arm. “Shall we?”

  As they drove, he asked, “So, have you ratted us out yet?”

  “You know I have. It’s not as though she hadn’t already figured us out anyway.”

  “Yes. She seems—” his brow twitched, “—astute.”

  “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “About what?”

  “That you wouldn’t like her, especially because she’s attractive.”

  “Why do you think I would dislike her based on her level of attractiveness?”

  “I don’t think that it’s so much that you dislike her. I think it’s more that you’re irritated by the fact that her attractiveness is distracting.”

  “And I think that is a very far stretch of your imagination, Miss Sanders.”

  “Maybe so. But I think you would be far more comfortable in a therapy setting with an ugly old man. Then you could be your rude self without caring. But you’re not as comfortable being your mean self with her. That’s what I think.”

  He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. “And what do you think of her?”

  “I like her alright. She sort of gets me thinking.”

  ~

  Leila again chose the sofa in Jennings’ office but this time sat with her back snuggled into the corner.

  “Sit with me.” Leila patted the cushion beside her. She doubted he would be blatantly rude in front of Valerie Jennings.

  Mr. Myles took his seat at her side, tightly crossing his arms and legs.

  “So,” Jennings began with a deep breath. “How have the two of you been doing?”

  Myles said nothing, he only looked at Leila who then spoke up. “I saw Mr. Myles’ house for the first time today.”

  “Did you?” Jennings glanced at Myles and then back to Leila. “How did you feel about that?”

  Leila directed her response to Myles. “He let me in because he knows that I’m curious about him, but I don’t think he realizes how much it means to me.”