Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers

by Rozsa Gaston

  “Welcome to Ryan’s. Would you like a table?” The hostess came over, smiling. She had honey blond hair swept up in a messy bun. On her, it looked good.

  “I just wanted to ask about Friday evening—” Farrah began.

  “This Friday? We’re pretty booked. What time were you thinking of?”

  “About 7?”

  “How many?”

  Two people.”

  The hostess studied her book.

  “We’re full up in the regular dining room at that time, but you can take your chances in the bar.” She gestured around to the room they were in. There were three booths as well as a few tables in front.

  “Do you serve dinner in the bar?”

  “Sure. We serve dinner anywhere our customers want to eat.”

  Farrah smiled. A vision of packing up steak dinners and heading over to the park across the street crossed her mind. Ryan’s fare would make a hell of a gourmet picnic dinner in Van Cortlandt Park.

  “Should I give you my name in case someone cancels for Friday at 7?”

  “Sure, sweetheart. What is it?”

  “Foley. For two.”

  The hostess started writing.

  “No, wait.”

  The hostess looked up, expectantly.

  “Make that Farnesworth,” Farrah corrected herself. “F-A-R-N-E-S, then WORTH.”

  “As in, how much is it worth?” The hostess joked, glancing in the direction of Farrah’s unadorned ring finger.

  “Right.”

  “Okay. All set.” The hostess stashed the black reservation book under the podium.

  Farrah walked out into the night. Then, she remembered the couple seated in front. She looked around for the parking valet. He was nowhere in sight. She’d take one more peek to see how things were progressing.

  Gazing in the window once again, she saw that the man now had the woman’s hand in his. He was playing with her fingers. Whoa. Two desserts had been served and sat untouched on the table. The woman looked to one side, most likely at whatever was on her plate that the man was preventing her from enjoying.

  Go for it, girl. Get that chocolate where it belongs. Don’t let him stop you, Farrah silently encouraged her. Why shouldn’t women occasionally have all their desires sated at the same time? Such opportunities didn’t arise frequently, from what Farrah had already experienced in life. She gestured with her hand, imitating the motion of grabbing a fork and spearing whatever it was that lay on the plate.

  Suddenly, she sensed a physical presence next to her. The parking valet was back.

  “You are rooting for someone inside?” he asked.

  “Uh. Yes.” She was mortified, but it was true. Why shouldn’t a woman have her cake and eat it, too?

  “She is your friend?”

  “No.”

  The valet pressed his nose up against the window, studying the situation.

  “She will get to eat her dessert.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have three sisters. They like boys, and they like sweets.”

  “Which do you think they like more?” Why was she having this conversation with a total stranger?

  “I think the sweets. But the boys know this, so they offer both.”

  “Well, this guy seems to be preventing her from using her fork.”

  “She will find a way. They always do.”

  Both of them turned back to study the action inside.

  After another moment of hand holding, the woman smiled into the man’s face, then moved her head suddenly in the direction of the wall, opposite where Farrah and the valet stood. The man’s face followed hers. He was probably wondering what had caught her attention. Quickly, the woman removed her hand and speared a large piece of dessert into her mouth.

  “Brava!” the parking valet applauded.

  “Smooth move,” Farrah agreed.

  “The man wins for the moment. The woman wins in the end,” the valet observed.

  “Huh,” Farrah said. It was time to get home. Waving goodbye to the parking valet, she prayed he wouldn’t be on duty Friday evening.

  On her way up the hill, Farrah thought about what the valet had said. The man wins for the moment. The woman wins in the end.

  In some respects, that thought corresponded to the different ways men and women ran. In short races, it frequently happened that a guy overtook her on a final stretch, putting on a burst of speed that she couldn’t summon in herself. But in half marathons or even longer races, there were times when men who had been ahead of her the entire race began to crash and burn somewhere around the ten-mile mark. Had the Hispanic valet just shared with her a profound insight into the human race? Laughing out loud, Farrah jogged lightly up the hill to sleeping Riverdale, leaving Broadway’s twinkling lights behind.

  SHE HADN’T GIVEN him her address. But she’d said yes. Jude tapped his foot in a seated jig. It wasn’t unusual for a woman living in New York City to be somewhat cautious. She’d be strange if she wasn’t. Humming, he filled his printer with paper and ran off the rough outline for How to Marry Money. In two hours, he was meeting Jim to drop off his proposal and outline and pick up the signed agreement that spelled out terms of the new project. Then, he’d be on his way to Riverdale to see Farrah.

  He was already having more fun writing the new book than he’d had with any of the three previous ones. If it didn’t sell, positioned in the self-help/self-improvement aisle, he’d bet it would fly off the shelf in the humor section.

  Leaning back in his office desk chair he skimmed his chapter headings: First Impressions; How to Dress for Success; What to Say, and When to Say It; followed by What to Leave Out, with a sub-section called Less is More. There was Following the Benefits Circuit, a subset of which was When It Pays to Pay, and When It Doesn’t. Several chapters were devoted to how to talk about subjects you know nothing about, such as How to Handle Horsey Talk; Polo, Cricket, and Other Obscure Sports; A Quick Overview of Top Places to Golf; and Sailing for the Non-Sailor. Then, there were Lifestyles of the Quietly Rich and Not Interested in Being Famous, and Why You Should Leave Something on Your Plate Even When You’re Still Hungry. The final chapter was called How to Close. There would be more, but the Marry Money muse hadn’t hit him in all the right places yet. Once he’d attended a few benefits, he would be fully up and running with his subject.

  Glancing at the Memorable Quotes calendar on his wall, he searched for Ginny Slade’s event. It was the next day—the last Saturday in September. He’d give her a heads up on his project and enlist her help. Finding her number in his phone, he called.

  “Jude?”

  “Yup. It’s me.”

  “Oh. How nice to hear from you.” Her voice practically oozed with delight. “Everything lined up for our benefit this weekend?”

  What did she mean by “our” benefit? She wasn’t turning this into a date, was she? “I wanted to tell you about my new book project,” he said, hoping he could nip in the bud whatever misconception she might have about his acceptance of her invitation.

  “Oh really?” Her voice sounded less enthused.

  “I’m working on a project on how to marry money.”

  “How to marry what?” Larchmont lockjaw had set in again. He imagined William F. Buckley’s children might talk like Ginny.

  “Money.”

  “Oh.” Nervous laughter ensued. Had she been working on a similar project? He didn’t doubt it. “That’s a hot topic. Maybe you need to come up with another name for it.”

  “You mean I shouldn’t call a spade a spade?”

  “Not if you want to continue the conversation with whomever you’re talking to.”

  “Ginny, you’re a genius.” She was right. It would be too crass to refer to his project by its actual title. People in Fairfield County didn’t operate that way. It might be only twenty-eight miles up the coast from New York City, but this was New England. No one ever discussed money in front of others. That was done in the car on the way home from an eve
nt.

  “Why, thank you, Jude.” The laugh was genuine this time. And girlish. Her intonation sounded almost Southern.

  “I need your help,” he continued.

  “How so?” she asked.

  “Can you point out anyone at your benefit who might be a good candidate for me to talk to for my project?” He’d reworked the ‘our benefit’ comment to ‘your benefit.’ Ginny was a doll, and most likely a goldmine of information for his project. He just didn’t want to date her. Too horsey.

  “I’ll have to think about that one.” Her laugh bubbled into a giggle. “Are you planning on interviewing people on the subject?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “It won’t fly,” she said firmly.

  “No?”

  “No one wants to be perceived as marrying for money. Or even thinking about it.”

  “Sort of like no one wanting to be thought of as a social climber?”

  “Right. You need to recast your topic.”

  “How should I put it?”

  “Say you’re writing a book on highly successful people. You’ve heard that whoever you’re addressing is one of those people, and you’d like a few minutes of their time so they can tell you about how they got to where they are.”

  “Sounds like flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “It’ll get you a lot farther than insulting people by insinuating they’ve married for money. You’ll tick off both the monied and un-monied alike.”

  “So, am I uninvited to your benefit?”

  “No, silly. Just don’t go spitting out the actual name of your project. Put on your kid gloves, along with your tux.”

  “My best drawing room manners?”

  “You got it.”

  “See you this weekend, Ginny. And think about my request.”

  “I’ll have a guest list for you with some names highlighted. The rest is up to you.”

  “Did I already mention you’re a genius?”

  “How did you know what my nickname’s short for?”

  She was fast on the comeback trail.

  “Ginny for Genius, I owe you a big one,” he told her.

  “Yes, you do. Goodbye.” She hung up before he had a chance to respond. She’d sounded clipped and businesslike at the end. He’d succeeded in his goal of letting her know that he wasn’t interested.

  A minute later it hit him that she hadn’t used the adjective “super” a single time in the entire conversation. It was the most overused word in Fairfield County. Funny how he’d enjoyed their exchange more than the last one, now that she’d cooled off toward him. Turning to his computer keyboard, he added one more chapter heading: Playing Hard to Get, When You’re Hard Up. He had a feeling he was going to learn about a lot more than marrying money by writing this book. His real topic was human nature, with all its glorious, ignoble yearnings.

  AS HE PULLED up in front of Ryan’s Steakhouse in Riverdale, Jude was surprised to see a valet parking sign on the street directly in front. Was this a fancy place? Located in the Bronx, he hadn’t expected it to be.

  A young Hispanic man wearing a black jacket with Ryan’s inscribed on the chest pocket in green approached the driver’s side of Jude’s car.

  “Valet parking?”

  “Sure.” Why not? It was convenient, and from what he’d seen along Broadway, there hadn’t been a single free parking spot. He hopped out, the key to his car still in the ignition, flicking away the tiny worry that he might never see his Ford Taurus again. The guy was wearing a jacket with the restaurant’s insignia on it, right? He looked trustworthy, Jude thought, as the valet gave him a stub. Still, this was the Bronx.

  Jude hummed as he entered the restaurant. He was a few minutes early. The place was buzzing. An antique ceiling fan whirred overhead, rustling potted palm plants that accented dark mahogany colored wood-paneled walls. He pushed in to claim the one remaining seat at the bar near the door. He didn’t need to sit, but he wanted to grab the seat for Farrah when she arrived.

  “What’ll it be?” The bartender asked.

  “What’ve you got on tap?”

  “I’ve got Heineken, Guinness, Stella Artois, and Bud.”

  “Huh.” Something told him he should set a more sophisticated tone. Would she prefer to see him chugging a beer when she walked in or holding a wineglass up to the light, carefully inspecting its contents? “What about your wines by the glass?”

  “Interested in reds or whites?”

  “White.” They had a selection—a good sign. This wasn’t a pub, with just one choice of red or white. He imagined she’d choose white. It had been a warm day.

  “I’ve got a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, a California Chardonnay, and an Italian Pinot Grigio.”

  “I’ll go with the New Zealand.”

  “Good choice.” The bartender moved away.

  Jude looked around, surveying the Friday night crowd. It was decidedly non-corporate, as he’d expect to see in the Bronx. The men looked cleaned up, mostly in collared shirts, none wearing sports jackets. The women looked happy to be taken out for a night on the town without children. Spotting a couple by the front windows, he saw some game action on. The woman’s hand lay on the man’s thigh under the table. A good sign.

  The bartender was back with a long-stemmed white wine glass, into which he carefully poured, until the liquid almost hit the top. It wasn’t the right way to pour a glass of wine, but Jude appreciated the overfill. Brendan the bartender, according to his nametag, appeared to possess a generous Irish spirit. He hoped Farrah would be like that, too. With a name like Foley, she should be. Then her 2 percent organic milk request flashed into his mind. High maintenance? He hoped not. He’d met enough of those types in Greenwich.

  Taking a deep swig of wine, he imagined what she’d be wearing when she walked in. Then it occurred to him he was supposed to sip the wine, not gulp it like a beer. He held up the delicate glass to the light. It looked fine. What was he supposed to be noticing anyway? The light yellow liquid swished languidly as he moved it in a slow circle. It looked as if it was saying, “Drink me, you fool.” He hoped Farrah would say something similar at the end of the evening, with a substitute verb. He had a feeling she wouldn’t.

  The entrance door jingled. At the sound, the bartender straightened up and attentively studied a point directly behind Jude. He turned to see what had caught his eye.

  Farrah stood two paces away. She wore a black and white print sleeveless dress that showed off a honey-colored tan. Or was it the natural color of her skin? Whatever it was, it looked great on her. He jumped off the barstool as if rocket-propelled.

  “Farrah. Hi. You look—very nice,” he said, feeling as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.

  “Thanks.” She walked slowly toward him, shaking out her dark hair. The silky glory of it would render him senseless if he didn’t look away.

  “Have a seat.” He held his breath as he put one hand around to the small of her back and propelled her onto the barstool. If her hair smelled as good as it looked, he’d faint dead away. Aware of the bartender still rooted to the spot, he knew his stock had just risen in his eyes.

  “Will the lady have a drink?” the bartender asked. Jude noticed the hint of an Irish brogue that hadn’t been there before. Quickly, he moved between Farrah and the bartender, blocking her from his sight.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “A glass of Chardonnay, if they’ve got a good one.”

  Jude turned to the bartender. “Glass of your best Chardonnay for the lady,” he ordered, narrowing his eyes in warning to stop staring and be about his business.

  “Right.” Brendan disappeared.

  “How are you?” Jude asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Your knees okay?”

  “They’re scraped, but nothing serious. That was decent of you to stop.”

  “I’m glad I did,” he said, stealing himself then inhaling the scent of her hair.
She had no idea how glad he was. None. Something citrus-like and fresh wafted into his nose. It was all he could do to remain standing. Had she just gotten out of the shower? Don’t go there, man. At least not yet, he warned himself, trying to focus on what fruit she smelled like.

  “How was your week?” she asked.

  Grapefruit. She smelled like grapefruit. “Grape,” he said.

  “Grape?” She looked at him, puzzled.

  “I mean—great. It was great.” Lord. He was a mound of Jell-O left out in the sun. “How was yours?” He smiled broadly, hoping to distract her from his utter senselessness.

  “It was good.”

  “Great.”

  “Do you mean great or grape?”

  “I mean—something smells like grapefruit around here.”

  “It’s my shampoo.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Drink for the lady,” the bartender interrupted. Putting a wineglass down on the counter, he carefully showed the label on the bottle to Farrah, ignoring Jude completely. He poured a thimbleful into the glass, something he hadn’t bothered to do with Jude.

  Farrah picked up the glass by its thin stem. She rolled it gently, swishing its contents, then drank. For a moment, time and space stood still as the woman evaluated and the men watched. Finally, she gave the bartender a miniscule nod. He poured until the glass was three quarters full. Jude put a bill in front of him, and motioned him away with a subtle upward jab of his chin. Clear out, buddy.

  “A toast?” Jude picked up his glass.

  “To what?” she asked.

  “To—grapefruit.”

  The tinkle of her laugh sliced through him, lighter than air. She said nothing, clinking her glass lightly against his.

  “Do you live around here?” Jude asked, hoping she wouldn’t think he was prying.

  “Yes. Up the hill a ways.”

  “What’s the neighborhood like?”

  “It’s very neighborhood-y.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s the kind of place people grow up in and think back to fondly.”

  “I like that.” Jude thought of the neighborhood he’d grown up in—acres and acres of well-manicured lawns, landscaped gardens, pools and tennis courts. It had been anything but neighborhood-y. “Do they end up coming back here?”