Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers

by Rozsa Gaston

  Jogging slowly homeward, she looked forward to finally relaxing. Her thoughts turned to Jude. He hadn’t called back. Or had he? He’d left a message Saturday evening, but hadn’t said anything about a follow-up date. Would he call again? Whatever happened, she’d already signed up for Leatherman’s Loop, and she’d stick to her training plan, so she didn’t make a fool of herself. Blanca Mills had told her the race included climbing rocks, running through mud, and wading across a river toward the end. Just thinking about it on training runs made her pick up her feet higher.

  At home, she turned on her laptop and called up her personal e-mail account. Anticipation raced through her as she scrolled through her messages. Yes! A message had come in on Sunday from farnesjud@aol.com. She clicked on it.

  “Fairfoe—Hope you got my message. Enjoyed our dinner. Want to try out some other restaurant in my area this Saturday or Sunday evening? Mexican, Thai, another steak place? Let me know soon, Captain. —Jude.”

  He’d called her “Captain” on Friday at the end of the evening. She shivered, thinking back to the context. Why did it now seem like a million years ago? Quickly she e-mailed back.

  “Jude—Thanks for your call. Just got back from business trip and got your e-mail now. Mexican sounds good. Saturday works better than Sunday. Anytime after six is good. —Farrah.”

  She hit send. It hadn’t been sentimental or particularly personal, but she distrusted e-mailing. She couldn’t get across the tone or emotional color of her words when she used it. She might have called, but she’d learned in sales-training classes it was best to match the other party’s method of communication.

  In the back of her mind, his “Captain” term for her lingered. She’d been in charge of the way the evening ended the Friday before, and it had fit. He had put her in the driver’s seat and she’d enjoyed it. In fact, she couldn’t wait to try it again.

  Humming, she waded through the rest of her e-mails. Deleting all the junk marketing ones, she hesitated at the final message at the bottom.

  Something had been sent on Monday from way@optonline.net. She’d never seen that e-mail address before.

  Another appeal from some charity outfit asking for money, most likely. About to hit the delete button, she hesitated. Better open it just to make sure it was junk.

  “Farrah—Thinking of you. Thinking of me? —Will”

  Standing up quickly, she upset the pencil jar on her desk.

  The message was classic Will. Succinct. Reaching out, but offering nothing more than the bare minimum. When they’d dated, he’d been an expert at maintaining the upper hand in just about all of their communications. If Farrah said “Yes, I’d love to,” Will would say “I guess so.” If Farrah said “What a great idea,” Will would say “Sounds okay.” He never offered more than the person he was addressing. She wondered how his communicating style worked with Alexandra Dingle, the wife who wasn’t his wife.

  She wished she had a dog to walk. Pacing back and forth the five steps it took to traverse the living room wasn’t enough. She threw on her jacket and went out.

  What in the world was she supposed to do? Run back into his arms? But his message was so cryptic, so vague. Did he really even know who she was anymore? Marriage to Alexandra Dingle hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected. She suspected that marriage to anyone for Will might not turn out the way he might expect, considering his perfectionist nature. With a few deep breaths of crisp, early fall air, a fuller revelation came to her. Perhaps marriage for and to anyone didn’t ever turn out the way one expected. But it didn’t necessarily have to turn out worse, did it? Couldn’t it possibly turn out better? What might marriage with Will be like? During their two years together, he’d shown himself to be discerning, judgmental, exacting. His taste had been impeccable, meaning he’d found fault with pretty much everything. She’d been in awe of him, as well as in love, until their final phone conversation in which he’d stopped the train they’d been riding and got off.

  She’d been stunned because she hadn’t seen it coming. Afterward, she’d vowed she would do whatever it took to ensure no man ever again caught her off guard. Yet here she was, stunned again by his words to her of the Saturday before. Was this what love was supposed to feel like? If it was, why did she feel so uncomfortable?

  After circling the block, she decided to e-mail a short message back to Will just to remind him of what she’d said the Saturday before. Unless he was no longer living with his not-quite wife, whether Farrah was thinking about him or not was not his concern. Story finished, case closed.

  Back upstairs, she carefully typed a reply to the man who had broken her heart.

  “Still living in Darien with A.D.? If so, none of your business if I’m thinking of you or not.”

  She smartly tapped send. There. It felt good to have the upper hand with Will for once. It had happened so rarely when they’d been together.

  Her computer beeped to announce an incoming message. Could he be answering so soon? Maybe he had moved out. Saying a quick prayer for guidance, she checked her in-box.

  A new message from farnesjud@aol.com had arrived. The title line said “Plans.” She smiled, her heart feeling lighter. Plans were good. Mature men made them.

  “Sunday good, now better for me than Sat. Will introduce you to my local Mexican hangout. Pick you up around 7? —Jude”

  Electric currents traveled up and down her body as she stared at the words. He’d responded quickly. The content wasn’t exactly a love sonnet, but he’d matched her terse tone. Most important, it had reminded her that she had a personal life now, and she was firmly in the middle of it.

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Jude was back from his run, feeling refreshed and invigorated. Sitting down at his computer, he scanned his in-coming messages. If Farrah didn’t get back to him soon, his weekend would be booked. After accepting Jordan Marshall’s invitation to escort her to the Saturday evening event, he’d gotten a message on his answering machine Tuesday morning from another of Anne’s friends, a Missy Henckels, who’d mentioned a Sunday evening get together at the Millbrook Club which she thought he might find interesting for research purposes and to obtain more sponsors for his race for lymphoma. He hadn’t gotten back to her yet because he was waiting to hear back from Farrah.

  Finally, there it was. A message from Fairfoe@rocketmail.com waited in his in-box. His irritation with her instantly forgotten, he opened it.

  She’d accepted his dinner invitation. Saturday was now out, but Sunday would work. Quickly he e-mailed back, firming up the plan. Then he jumped in the shower, where he slathered on the forest-scented shower gel his sister had brought back from Germany. She’d said he needed to use scent.

  “Over my dead body,” he’d protested.

  “I knew you’d say that,” she’d responded, then shoved the bottle of shower gel into his hand, commanding him to use it. It had stood neglected on the shower stall shelf for months. Tonight he’d give it a practice run, to see if he could stand the smell. If he could, maybe he should use it on Sunday before picking up Farrah. Women liked men who wore scent, right?

  He slammed the plastic bottle back down on the shelf. He didn’t know what women liked. He’d thought Farrah had liked their time together in his car last Friday evening, but her slow response to his follow-up messages told him otherwise. Maybe this Sunday he’d find out more.

  EARLY SATURDAY EVENING, Jude guided his Ford Taurus into the driveway of the Field Club of Greenwich. The grounds were discreet, tasteful. Avoiding the teenage valet parking attendant in the middle of the semi-circle at the front entrance, he turned into the parking lot, passing several Mercedes Benz’s and BMWs, an Audi, and a convertible Jaguar roadster, circa 1970, next to which he parked.

  The inside of the Jaguar made him salivate. A dark burl walnut steering wheel matched the dashboard and gearbox. The seats were upholstered in a deep, rich, honey beige leather. The fact that they were old made them look better. Jude knew that only happened when something w
as truly top drawer. He tore himself away from the vehicle, vowing he’d learn enough from writing books on how to get rich so he’d be able to own a similar car one day.

  Dusting off the sides of his navy blue sports jacket, he pulled down the sleeves of the pale blue Oxford button-down he wore under it. He wanted his golfing cufflinks to show, the ones he’d picked up at the Old Greenwich Presbyterian Church rummage sale he’d dropped into on his way to a track workout at Tod’s Point last May. Next, he tightened his navy blue and lime green diagonally-striped tie.

  A couple strolled ahead of him, the man wearing what looked like almost an identical jacket. Jude was confident in his sartorial selection for the evening. He had spent enough summers during teenage years as a parking valet at one of Oyster Bay’s top country clubs to know what to wear on an evening such as this one. Exhaling loudly, he relaxed. In a minute, he was at the front entrance.

  Several well-maintained older women milled about, checking off names as guests entered, then directing them to an adjoining table where name tags and magic markers lay.

  “Hi, I’m Jude Farnsworth,” he greeted one of them.

  “Let me see if you’re on the list,” the woman scanned down the sheet, a large diamond ring flashing blue and white as she use her index finger as a guide. Jude wondered what the rock looked like on her other hand.

  “I don’t see you here. Are you the guest of a member?”

  “Yes. Jordan Marshall.”

  “Ahhh,” her rock-laden finger slid down the list again. He wondered how she was able to hold it up. Finally it stopped. “There you are.” She beamed at him, revealing perfect, white telegenic teeth in a face that couldn’t have been a day under sixty-five. “She hasn’t arrived yet. Why don’t you make yourself a name tag while you wait?”

  “Thank you.” He felt as if he’d just become visible at the mention of Jordan Marshall. At the next table, he wrote his name on a tag and stuck it firmly to his breast pocket. He was now Someone, or at least someone with Someone. Before he’d dropped Jordan Marshall’s name, he’d been a complete nobody, about as visible as the parking valet. Greenwich’s upper circles were so polite, a person wouldn’t even know they were being cut dead until they were out in the parking lot being pleasantly escorted off the premises. But when the magic password of the right name was dropped, suddenly you came into focus. If you didn’t, you were just some sort of background blur to be ignored until you went away.

  He took in the crowd. The average age in the room looked to be somewhere around sixty. The older men and women around him had aged well, like the leather seats of the Jaguar in the parking lot. The scent of prosperity mingled with that of early autumn floral arrangements. A woman standing next to the mantelpiece of a huge marble fireplace in the main room reminded him of a large cruise ship. Her carriage erect, her upper body stood out like a prow. The upward and outward thrust of her chin made him think of an ice-cutter. As she regally surveyed the room, her head swiveled, jaw first.

  The people in this room hadn’t gotten here for nothing. They’d arrived in the full sense of the word. And they now enjoyed letting others around them know they’d arrived—quietly, but decidedly.

  As usual, Jude played his game. He’d made it up in childhood. It was called Find the Feather. At social events where he’d helped out his father, he’d scanned the crowd carefully for a person who looked as if they’d enjoy a feather tickling their face. When he’d been about five, he’d actually brought a feather and tickled a pretty lady talking to his father, who was bartending at the time. When she noticed what he was up to, at about knee level, she’d bent down to face him eyeball-to-eyeball and told him she thought he looked very handsome in his navy blue jacket. He’d blushed, wildly pleased. She’d smelled like a roomful of flowers, and he’d felt dizzy when she stood up again.

  It hadn’t been until he was older and had read an article about two rival authors, neither of whose books he’d read, that he understood what his feather game had been all about. Norman Mailer had scoffed at his fellow writer Gore Vidal, saying ‘Vidal lacks the wound.’ Immediately, Jude knew exactly what he’d meant.

  A large percentage of the people he’d met at various social events where he’d worked or attended, first as a child, then an adult, had seemed to lack the wound. Yet he was always looking for someone in the crowd who had it and wasn’t afraid to show it. He wasn’t so naive as to think that most people didn’t have it—everyone did. But he liked the ones better who let it show. Not too evidently, but in a poignant smile here, an unguarded gesture there. He didn’t know why he’d chosen to tickle the pretty lady, but when she’d crouched down to speak to him, he’d seen sadness and sweetness mingled together in her face. It had reminded him of someone, he didn’t know who.

  From that moment on, it was that combination of attributes he looked for in a woman. It had been hard to find in Oyster Bay and even harder in Fairfield County. He might as well try threading a camel through the eye of a needle.

  Playing Find the Feather, he wasn’t having much luck. A well put together mid-forties-ish brunette looked like a candidate, but when he caught her eye, her expression became knowing and sophisticated. She lacked the wound.

  “Jude Farnsworth?” The voice was clipped, patrician.

  He turned to face a woman of about his own age looking him up and down, as if he were a racehorse. She was gorgeous. Definitely lacking the wound. Would she ask to look at his ankles?

  “Yes. Jordan Marshall?”

  “Yes. Have you been here long?” Her large, brown eyes were rimmed with brown or black eyeliner, giving her an exotic appearance.

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Any luck yet?” She didn’t waste time getting to the point.

  “Thought I’d stay off-duty until you arrived.”

  “Tut-tut. You should have been working the room. There’s several goldmines in here.” She looked around, swinging long, dark hair that reminded him of Farrah’s. Jude’s heart panged as if he’d been unfaithful. Ridiculous. Needed to get that under control if he was going to finish How to Marry Money by years’ end. It was clear he was going to get a lot more mileage out of female research subjects than male ones.

  Jordan Marshall was not of the demographic to which most of the guests belonged. To begin with, she wasn’t blonde. Secondly, she was vibrant, sparkling, full of sass and vinegar; most likely, the alpha girl throughout her school years.

  “I’m just warming up. Shall I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “Yes. Let’s go.” Cheekily she walked ahead of him, straight to the bar where she pivoted to face him, her red, pink, and orange skirt flaring out as she moved.

  “Let me guess. Gin and tonic?” she asked.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Not a stretch in this crowd.”

  He laughed, nodding in agreement. It was a choice along the lines of his navy blue jacket with gold buttons—practically a uniform at Greenwich country clubs.

  “And you’re having a white wine,” he guessed.

  “Afraid not.” Her eyes sparkled. He could see them snapping if she were riled.

  “Something with a bit more zing?” he tried again.

  “Correct.”

  He turned to the bartender.

  “Have you got champagne?”

  “No sir.”

  “Pardon me. I meant, have you got a glass of champagne for Mrs. Marshall?”

  “Mrs. Marshall?” The bartender’s eyes widened. “I—uh—could you please wait one moment while I see what we have in stock?”

  “Thank you, Ernie,” Jordan sang out. “You are such a darling.” She leaned over the bar and kissed the air near the bartender’s face. Blushing, he smiled stupidly at her. Then quickly, he turned to his colleague, whispering something into his ear.

  “Mrs. Marshall, please take a seat. Your drink will be right out,” he told her.

  Jordan more or less purred at the bartender, then turned to Jude, giving him a wicked look.r />
  “You’re a woman of great influence, I see,” he whispered as he steered her to a corner table, out of earshot of other guests.

  “That’s why you’re researching me for your book, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes.” He plunged right in, following her cue. “Now, tell me everything—the before, the now and the after.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t venture a guess as to the after.” She looked at him quizzically. “The now is fairly confidential, too. But we can go over some points of getting from before to right before now.”

  She lacked the wound, yet Jude couldn’t help liking her. He’d guess she was a tiger. No wonder she’d wound up the wife of someone on the Forbes Top 400 Richest People in America list.

  “Why don’t we start with before?” he suggested.

  “Before I married Charlie, I worked as a sales associate at Lilly’s on the Avenue.” She referred to Greenwich Avenue, the town’s main shopping street.

  “You mean the pink and green store?” Lilly Pulitzer via Palm Beach was a signature clothing line beloved by denizens of communities such as Greenwich, Palm Beach, and Oyster Bay.

  “Yes. I look good in pink and green.”

  He nodded silently, not doubting her. “But guys don’t shop at Lilly’s, do they?”

  “You’re right. Most of its customers are women.”

  “So how’d you meet Charlie?”

  “I was hired by Lilly’s corporate office to model their new spring/summer line at events around town.”

  “Did you have modeling experience?”

  “I told them I did, and they bought it.”

  “I’d buy it, too.” The way she moved was easy, graceful. She was lithe and elastic—a poster child for the athletic, natural look Greenwich women favored.

  “Right. I actually did do a little modeling in high school. Along with all the other girls in my class who participated in our annual prom preview shows.”

  “Where’d you go to high school?”

  “Maryland. College Park.”

  “Private school?”

  She gave him a look. “What do you think?”