by Rozsa Gaston
“No. Just woods.” She didn’t ride, which probably meant she wasn’t rich. Good. He’d had enough of rich girls back in Greenwich and Oyster Bay before that. They lacked the wound.
“Can I take your orders now?” the waitress asked.
“Chocolate chip pancakes for me,” John Boyleston boomed out.
“Me, too.”
“Make that three,” Ana Morales put in.
The waitress looked at Farrah.
“I haven’t decided yet.” She turned to Jude. “You go first.”
“I’ll take the oatmeal with a side of fresh fruit.”
The waitress eyeballed Farrah. “Ready?”
“What kind of fresh fruit do you have?” she asked.
“Honeydew melon. And blueberries.”
“Are they mixed together?”
This time, the waitress rolled her eyes on behalf of the entire staff of the diner.
“Yes.”
Farrah looked uncertain.
“It should be good. I’ve had it here before,” Jude said. He was beginning to detect a slight problem. She was female.
“I heard you’re not supposed to eat different types of fruits together at the same time.”
He’d heard that, too. But who cared? You also weren’t supposed to watch TV while you ate, but 90 percent of the world’s population did anyway.
“I’ll eat your blueberries for you, if you don’t want them,” he offered.
She hesitated, then smiled. “Well, okay.”
“Is that all?” the waitress asked.
“Umm—”
“Have the oatmeal,” he urged her. You just ran six miles. Eat.” He hoped she wasn’t one of those women who didn’t eat. He couldn’t stand them. Watching them just push bits of food around on their plates took away his own appetite.
“Another oatmeal, coming up.” The waitress walked away without waiting for Farrah’s response.
“So how many place winners have we got here today?” John asked the table. Of the eight runners present, four hands went up.
“Mike, congrats. Was that a P.R. today?” He referred to a personal record, in runners’ lingo.
“Yeah, it was. I sliced off six seconds from my time two years ago in this race.”
“Any other P.R.’s set by anyone?”
Jude Farnesworth raised a hand.
“Congrats, man. By the way, I’m John Boyleston, track coach for Van Cortlandt Track Club.” John half stood, extending his arm across the table.
“Jude Farnesworth. I run with Greenwich Track Club.” He shook John’s hand. Feeling four sets of female eyes on him, he quickly sat down.
“How much time did you take off?” John continued.
“Well, it was a different sort of P.R.”
“How so?”
“He added some time to whatever time he took off his previous record when he helped me,” Farrah cut in.
“Oh, so you’re the one who stopped to help Fairfoe when she tripped,” a sultry voice spoke up. Across the table, an older, good-looking Hispanic woman scrutinized him. Her gold hoop earrings flashed as she shook out her dark, curly hair.
“Fairfoe?” He looked at the woman uncertainly.
“Farrah, she means,” the woman replied. “That’s her nickname.”
“Fairfoe, huh?” he turned to Farrah to see if he’d get any further explanation.
“Foley’s my last name. They sort of mashed my first syllables together. It’s a club tradition.”
“I see,” he said, not sure that he did. He glanced over at the curly-haired woman. “I just stopped to make sure she was okay. She took a nasty fall.”
“What happened, Farrah? Did you trip on a root?” a male runner asked.
“Yes, but that wasn’t why it happened,” she told him.
“So, what’s the story?” he continued.
“I was trying to pass, uh—”
“This guy here?” another male club member asked.
“Yes. Him.”
“So you got a little ahead of yourself?”
“What was it about him that threw you off, Fairfoe?” The curly-haired woman looked teasingly in Jude’s direction. He turned to Farrah to see how she’d take the provocative remark as he attempted to hide the color creeping up his neck.
Before he looked away, Jude had noted both triceps and biceps definition in the older woman’s upper arms. Impressive. She looked like she worked out at the gym, as well as on the track. He’d worked as a personal trainer when he first got out of school, so he could tell.
Farrah made a face at her team member.
“Blanca, it wasn’t him. It was me. I was trying to show off.” She looked down, embarrassed.
“No. Really? You trying to show off? Try picking up your feet next time,” John lectured her, jokingly.
“She would have passed me if she hadn’t tripped,” Jude said in her defense.
“And you would have taken first in our age group instead of me if you hadn’t stopped,” Steve Patterson spoke for the first time.
“You won it, fair and square. Who’s to say what my time would have been? It was what it was.”
“I think it’s safe to say that your time would have been faster if you hadn’t done the right thing. Here’s to Farrah’s friend.” Steve raised his coffee mug, the rest of the table joining him.
“He’s not my friend. He’s—”
“Okay, then. He’s your champion. Here’s to Fairfoe’s champion!” The woman named Blanca cried, raising her mug.
Jude watched as Farrah picked up her mug, clinking his lightly.
“Thanks again,” was all she said.
It was enough. For the moment.
THERE WAS SOMETHING about Farrah’s running club that was like family. They offered her unconditional support as well as limitless teasing. And then, there was the trash-talking component. She hoped they would dial it down while Jude was at breakfast with them.
Both Ana and Blanca endlessly grilled her about her love life, lecturing her on the perils of waiting too long to start a family or, for that matter, go out on a date. Blanca was happily married with teenage boys in their first year of high school. They were at the stage where it was too uncool to speak with either of their parents, so Blanca and her husband had plenty of time to hang out with the club. But Big Bill wasn’t here today, so Blanca was in fine fettle, ready to stretch Jude Farnesworth out on the rack, from what Farrah could see. She would try to head her off at the pass, now that she’d detected her friend’s antennae waving in Jude’s direction.
“Blanca, have you ever done Leatherman’s Loop?” Farrah asked, deflecting her before she could ask Jude what he did, so she could speculate on how much his yearly income was.
“That’s a killer race, Fairfoe. I did it once. Not for the likes of you, Princess,” her friend said, with the subtlety of a pit bull.
“Maybe I’m ready to try something different,” Farrah shot back. What did her team members think of her anyway? And why did they have to let her know now? When a total—and admittedly handsome—stranger was here at the table with them?
“Today’s trail race was plenty different for you. And look what happened. Stick to your 5Ks on the pavement. That’s where you really shine.”
“Maybe I don’t want to shine. What was Leatherman’s Loop like?”
“You’ll have scratch marks all over your legs by the time you’re done. And mud everywhere. I think I fell in when I crossed the river. It was nasty,” Blanca related.
“That’s it, alright. You’ll feel like a rock star once you’re done. It’ll give you bragging rights,” Jude told Farrah. His chest muscles moved under his T-shirt as he turned to look at her.
“Farrah doesn’t need any more bragging rights. She’s already got that department covered,” Blanca taunted across the table. Trash-talking had commenced, a favorite club pastime.
“Iron Woman, you’re president of that division, last time I checked. Aren’t you using that trophy as an
end table in your living room?” Farrah could give as good as she got.
“No, I’ve got it in my garden now, with a statue of Diana on it,” Blanca said, referring to the Greek goddess of the hunt. It’s my inspiration for next year.”
“You medaled at Ironman?” Jude asked, looking impressed. The Ironman World Triathlon took place in Hawaii each fall. It included swimming and biking competitions followed by a marathon. World-class elite athletes competed by invitation only.
“It was only third place.” Blanca looked at Jude modestly. Farrah had never seen such a girlish expression on her friend’s face. Blanca wasn’t president of the bragging rights division of the club for nothing.
“That’s a grueling race. Congratulations!” He turned from Blanca to Farrah. “You’re in one competitive track club,” he said admiringly, his eyes wandering to her full mouth.
“Tell me about your track club,” she said, a slight prickle tracing its way down her spine. “Greenwich, did you say?” The name brought to mind tennis, sailing, and golf. Did they get sweaty in places like Greenwich, Connecticut? Surely, it wasn’t anything like the Bronx.
“We have some top runners, men and women, but no Ironman finishers from what I know,” he shot another respectful glance in Blanca’s direction.
“Thank you,” was all Blanca said. Farrah couldn’t believe it. She’d never seen her friend act coy before. What was going on here? Did Blanca think Jude was a bit of all right? She’d find out soon enough on the ride back, since they’d all come up together in John’s van.
The food came, and talk died down. Farrah attacked her oatmeal, eager to dispel whatever impression she’d given Jude about being high maintenance in the food and drink department. She rued worrying the waitress about the milk. Sometimes, she drove herself crazy with her own fussiness. It had been about the only thing she’d had in common with her ex-boyfriend, and it hadn’t helped their relationship.
“Do you live in the Bronx?” Jude asked.
“Yes. In Riverdale,” she said, referring to the Bronx’s most exclusive neighborhood, running north and south next to the Hudson River.
“Nice area.”
“It’s pretty. But parking is tough.”
“Do you work in the city?”
“Sort of. I’m based in the city, in Midtown.”
“So you take the train in?”
“Yes, when I go into my office.”
“You don’t go into your office every day?”
“No, I go in maybe once every two weeks.” The last thing she wanted to talk about was her job.
“Then what do you do the rest of the time?”
“I don’t go in.” She didn’t mean to be obtuse. But every time she told a man how much she traveled, it ended up being their final conversation.
“Sounds good to me.”
“What do you do?” She kicked herself. She’d just asked the one question she most disliked being asked herself.
“I try not to work. But that doesn’t work most of the time.”
His answer piqued her interest as well as her imagination. It was so different from the way men in Manhattan talked, typically bragging about the 100-hour weeks they put in. As if that could be a turn on.
“I know what you mean,” she agreed, at the same time trying to push Monday morning to the farthest corner of her mind.
“Will I see you at Leatherman’s Loop then?”
“I’ll try to make it.” She was intrigued by the sound of the race.
“I’ll show you some horse country afterward, if you’re interested.”
She nodded, at a loss for words. She loved horses, although she’d never had a chance to ride as a child. There weren’t any stables near Jackson Heights, Queens. Even if there were, her family hadn’t had money to pay for lessons.
“We’ll see,” she finally got out. She made a note to ride up in the team van that day.
“Sure.” This time, she caught his eyes wandering to her mouth, then back up to her eyes.
Suddenly, the diner felt hot and close. She needed some fresh air. Throwing down her napkin, she got up. “I’ll be right back,” she told Jude.
Blanca looked up questioningly, one eyebrow cocked. Farrah shot her a look that said “Don’t open your mouth.” It was like asking a bullfrog not to croak.
Hurrying outside, she gulped in the crisp, cool September air.
He’d more or less asked her out, hadn’t he? Farrah had not gone on a real date since her ex, Will, had disappeared almost three years ago. She just hadn’t felt like it. But maybe this wasn’t an invitation. It was only a date when a man asked for your phone number and then actually called, right?
“Hey, if you give me an e-mail address, I’ll shoot you some info about Leatherman’s,” Jude said, coming up behind her. He ambled down the steps of the diner, then sat on the bottom step.
An e-mail address? He meant her e-mail address. That was a roundabout way to ask for someone’s contact information. She’d find out soon enough what he really had in mind from the tone of the message he sent.
As she scribbled her e-mail address down for him, the smell of dried male sweat with a faint scent of woodchips wafted her way. She was glad she was sitting. The tantalizing scent made her dizzy.
A companionable minute passed. Overhead, the sky was cloudless, a brilliant blue. A large hawk flew by, several hundred feet above them.
“Is that something in its claws?” Farrah asked, peering at it.
“Looks like breakfast.”
She shivered. Then, a large triangular purple sail appeared over the top of Mohonk Mountain.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“Hang glider. They’re big around here. People come from all over to hang glide off that mountain.”
“Have you ever tried it?” She shaded her eyes to peer at him. The woodchip smell hit her again—she struggled to stay focused.
“I haven’t yet. But I’d like to. What about you?”
“I’ve thought about it. But what if something goes wrong?”
“Something can go wrong anywhere, anytime. If you don’t take a chance, you don’t get the reward when things go right,” he said.
“Okay, but you still haven’t talked me into it.”
“I can’t. Only you can.”
“Huh.” She liked the way the conversation changed size as they spoke. It had gotten bigger somehow, the way the horizon had broadened, rather than narrowed, when he’d answered the question about what he did. She’d found out that he didn’t live to work. Already, their conversation seemed open to limitless possibilities.
A clatter behind them drew her attention. Her teammates were spilling out of the diner and heading down the steps.
“Ready to go?” Ana called to her.
“Ready,” she said, standing and dusting herself off. Her legs were stiff, her body sore. She needed to stretch and then take a long, hot shower.
“See you at Leatherman’s?” Jude asked.
“I’ll let you know,” she replied.
Turning, Farrah joined Ana, Blanca and the others, guessing that Jude Farnesworth was watching as she walked away. Just in case he was, she moved her hips in the faintest of circular motions—Afro-Cuban rhythm they called it in salsa dancing classes. Living in the Bronx, with Blanca and Ana as friends, she knew a thing or two about the right moves at the right moment. For the first time in three years, she felt like this was one of them.
TWO
Back in Riverdale, Farrah spent a lazy, endorphin-filled Sunday afternoon. She loved fall. Everything about the season set her senses on fire. Although September was starting to look more like the end of summer than the beginning of fall these days, the hint of coolness in the evenings told her change was on the way. She liked the transitional seasons far more than the static ones. Winter was winter, summer was summer. But fall and spring were seasons where every day was different. Each morning brought a change to the air, the trees, the plants, and grass. It wa
s exciting just to wake up to see what had happened overnight.
The only thing she didn’t like about September was that it marked the traditional start of the work year, as well as the school year. Not that the work year ever ended, but at least August was a month of long vacations and diminished expectations on the job.
She’d been a pharmaceutical representative for just over two years. When she’d gotten out of school she’d gone into teaching, but it had been difficult in more ways than one. Her first job had been teaching science at John F. Kennedy High School in the Bronx. It was a tough school filled with kids at an even tougher age. Although she’d loved teaching, after two years of exiting and entering a workplace behind concrete barriers and wire mesh fences topped with barbed wire, she’d had enough.
She applied for a job at the prestigious Fieldston School in North Riverdale, and had gotten an adjunct position. Everything about Fieldston, beginning with teaching motivated kids, had been privileged, except for her paycheck. Finally, she’d recognized a cold hard fact—to enjoy the feeling of privilege you need to be privileged—and she wasn’t.
Her rent on the Upper West Side had eaten up almost half her salary. And she’d still had student loans to pay back. Her adjunct status meant that she paid for her own health insurance and had no retirement plan. She was left with little disposable income.
After the break up with Will, she had been ready to leave behind Manhattan and everything that reminded her of the two years they’d spent together. She’d moved to Riverdale in the westernmost section of the Bronx, along the Hudson River, and joined the Van Cortlandt Track Club. There was no sport as inexpensive as running.
Riverdale wasn’t cheap, though it was nowhere near as expensive to live in as Manhattan, where she’d shared a one-bedroom apartment with three other teachers. After the city, she found the neighborhood quiet, with next to no night life. But between her teaching and running schedules, she was content not to go out five nights of the week, as she’d felt pressured to do in Manhattan.
It turned out her club’s coach worked for one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. He’d introduced her to his boss, who had hired her. For the first time since finishing school, she’d been able to pay off her student loans and credit cards, live in a spacious one-bedroom apartment without roommates, and still have some mad money left over at the end of each month. Assigned to cover the entire Northeast and Mid-Atlantic regions for her division, she was on a plane at least twice a month and away for three to four days at a stretch. It had been a great way to leave behind everything she wanted to forget.