by Rozsa Gaston
Furious, she sprinted to catch up with her. After a minute, her breathing became ragged and hoarse. The formerly fallen Flyer had caused her to lose at least two minutes off her time. No one knew, and no one cared. That was what she got for trying to do a good deed. Maybe if she’d tried a little harder and stopped the first time, she’d be ahead of her now. Then again, maybe not. Mad at herself, she groaned, picking up her pace. She cleared the final bend to see the feline Flyer about twenty-five yards ahead, equidistant between her and the finish line. It was now or never to catch her.
“Argh,” Farrah groaned, kicking up her feet behind her in a full out sprint. She’d beat her competition if it was the last thing she did in this race.
She heard the crowd roar as she came up fast behind Orange and White. People liked a good finish, especially when one runner came out of nowhere and overtook another who didn’t realize they were being chased.
Orange and White was now five yards from the finish. Farrah grit her teeth, straining to catch her.
“Go, Farrah. Take her!” she heard John Boyleston roar. Someone else was yelling something, too. Jude?
She pumped her arms wildly.
But Orange and White ahead had caught on that she was being pursued. The lithe runner sprinted a final five paces to the finish line, crossing it just ahead of Farrah.
Just barely missing smashing into her, Farrah careened wildly into the finishers corral, her heart thumping wildly. All that effort for nothing. Fallen Flyer had prevailed.
It was Farrah’s turn to fall. She crumpled in a heap to the ground then lay flat out on her back. Puffy cumulus clouds in the brilliant blue October sky accused her while she struggled to control her breathing. We saw what you did back there. Next time you play hero, try being one all the way. No one would believe her story about going back to help the fallen Flyer. It didn’t even sound that good, since she hadn’t stopped the first time she’d passed her, when she’d been lying on the ground.
She stared at the sky as the insight came to her. It didn’t matter what other people thought. What mattered was what she had done.
She had gone back to help the fallen runner. Two months earlier Jude had stopped to help her after she’d tried to pass him and tripped. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how his compassion had seemed so much finer than her competitiveness. Because of him, today it had felt natural to turn back to help a fallen runner, losing seconds off her time. Then another thought hit her. She’d flown down the hill after spotting the snake. And she hadn’t tripped. Something had changed for her back in the woods. And it didn’t matter whether anyone else knew it or not. She did and that was what counted.
Getting up, she dusted herself off, praying Jude wouldn’t turn up until her face became a bit less red.
“LET’S GET A shot in front of the banner,” the photographer suggested, gesturing to the large Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Fairfield County sign Anne Alexander had arranged to have put up behind the platform in the race staging tent.
Jude looked toward the finish line wistfully. He’d wanted to cheer in Farrah, but he’d missed her. Anne had been at the finish line when he’d crossed it about twenty minutes earlier. He’d never expected her to drive down from Greenwich to actually see the race. But there she’d been, along with a couple of girlfriends, kitted out in puffy quilted vests with fur-trimmed collars. Anne was wearing riding boots and some sort of camel-colored jodhpurs that fit her like a second skin. She looked like she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to a Bedford Hills horse farm.
“Okay, so let’s get the ladies grouped around number sixty-seven like you’re congratulating him on his big win for the cause,” the photographer directed them, referring to the number on Jude’s race bib.
Jude felt himself propelled by the firm grip of Anne’s hand on his arm. How could anyone so petite be so commanding? Napoleon came to mind.
“I’ve got another candidate for you to meet,” she whispered as she pushed him up onto the stage.
“A candidate?”
“For your book.” She narrowed her eyes at him then winked. With a slight nod to the right she indicated the woman next to her now speaking to the race director. “That’s Missy Henckels. She’ll talk to you as part of the exchange.”
“What exchange?” Jude asked, peering beyond Missy to see if he could catch sight of Farrah. He noticed Otis Matthews blush at whatever the woman was saying. She looked like a miniature version of Julia Roberts with huge brown eyes and a wide, red mouth that was now moving in a dramatically mobile fashion. These Gold Coast ladies didn’t lack for confidence. They just lacked the wound.
“You know. The one-hour personal training session you’ll do in exchange for an interview.”
“The what?” Was he up for this?
“Ginny Slade told me that was the deal.” She pulled a face as if to say ‘don’t disappoint me.’ “Isn’t it, Jude?”
“Uh—sure.” Now, he remembered. He had to hand it to Ginny. If his book succeeded, he owed her at least an agent’s commission for leading him to his sources.
“Cluster round the champ, ladies. Get closer. I can’t get you all in unless you squeeze in together. Now, everyone smile. Come on ladies, don’t be shy,” the photographer directed, entirely unnecessarily in Jude’s mind. “Let the big guy know he’s your hero.”
Jude felt a small, firm hand clamp down on his shoulder. Nervously he looked down to see four perfectly manicured fingers curl into his clavicle, as if testing the musculature. What was he, a race horse? These ladies were way too self-assured for his taste. He needed to get away from them before he began to feel like a male concubine.
“Great race,” a musical voice whispered into his ear. He looked up behind him to see the owner of the hand staring into his eyes, an impish smile splashed across her face, practically from jawbone to jawbone. Missy Henckels didn’t just resemble Julia Roberts. A dash of Eva Longoria was in there, too. He willed his right knee to stop shaking.
“Thanks,” he said, wondering how he could get the hand off his shoulder before Farrah walked into the staging tent.
The photographer’s flash went off half a dozen times. Finally, the group trooped off the stage so the awards ceremony could get started.
“Jude, I’d like you to meet someone who sponsored you even though you didn’t know. I took the liberty of signing her up myself,” Anne said, directing him to Missy, who was attempting to step off the stage.
He’d never seen high-heeled riding boots before. As the woman teetered at the top of the step, he put out a hand to help her down.
“Thank you,” she purred, slithering down the steps like Cleopatra descending from Mark Anthony’s chariot.
“Missy Henckels, Jude Farnsworth. Jude, this is Missy Henckels from Belle Haven.” Anne said, referring to Greenwich’s most exclusive shorefront neighborhood, where the likes of Diana Ross and hedge fund manager Paul Tudor Jones lived.
“Nice to meet you,” Missy said. She slipped a tiny feline paw into Jude’s hand. It was as smooth as wax.
“Anne told me about your book. Do you want some help with it?”
“Umm, well I’m now in the interview process. Are you interested?”
“I might be,” she replied. Her voice was like a kitten’s tail brushing against his face.
“It’s all arranged then. Jude—you take Missy back with you. We were squeezed in like sardines on the trip down, and I’ve got an errand to run on the way back—so why don’t you two drive back together and talk?”
“I—uh—I’ve got someone coming back with me, actually,” Jude said, frantically searching for Farrah in the crowd. Where was she? He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to see him now, surrounded by women. But he’d been thinking about their drive back to Greenwich together all week long.
Finally, he spotted her. She had just come into the tent and was looking around.
“Farr—”
Anne cut him off.
“Jude, this might be you
r only opportunity. Missy’s off to Europe next week,” She gave him a hard look as if to say “I arranged this, now don’t blow it.”
“I—uh—Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve already made plans,” he managed to get out.
“Then change them,” Anne whispered firmly, leaning her head toward Jude so Missy couldn’t hear. Missy had resumed chatting with Otis Matthews, who looked like a limpet trying to glue itself to her side.
Who the hell did Anne think she was? Director of his social life? Still, this wasn’t social, this was business. He needed to flesh out How to Marry Money in less than ten weeks. Thus far he’d only done two interviews, with no more lined up.
“Missy Henckels, Jude. Ever heard of Zwilling knives?”
“Umm—maybe?”
“Best knives in the world. Made by a German group called Zwilling J.A. Henckels. Huge. Her husband is Johannes Henckels,” she hissed as if she was referring to Arnold Schwarzenegger or someone.
“You mean Jay Henckels?” He’d heard of him from equity report editing days.
“That’s the one. He goes by Jay because no one can pronounce Johannes.”
“He lives in Greenwich?”
“It’s one of his residences. Get the interview today, while she’s still here. You won’t get another chance.”
Inside, Jude seethed. He and Farrah had plans. How could he just break them? And what if Farrah found out for whom? Or why? He didn’t want her knowing about the actual topic of the book, especially not after seeing her face crumple when she’d told him her ex had dumped her to marry a rich woman. He’d told her he was writing a book on personal finance, not gold digging. But he didn’t want to lose this interview. Nervously, he looked over in Farrah’s direction again.
She was no longer there. Clenching his teeth, he turned back to Mrs. Johannes Henckels. As she laughed in response to something Otis Matthews said, she caught Jude’s eye, narrowing her own. She hadn’t winked at him, had she? Was she flirting with both of them at once? What else would she be able to do with two men at the same time?
He willed himself to just say no, as Nancy Reagan advised. Mrs. Henckels, I’m so sorry I won’t be able to drive you back to Greenwich today. I’ve already got plans with my girlfriend. Do you think you could catch a ride with Otis here? I’d bet he would be happy to take you anywhere you would like to go.
“Sure, I’d be happy to drive you home. Would you excuse me a moment? I’ll be right back.” Jude turned from Missy’s perfectly heart-shaped face, beaming up at him. He felt like Judas Iscariot betraying Christ. Was there any way he could explain to Farrah that a work-related situation had come up, and he was no longer able to spend the afternoon with her? Maybe he could suggest picking her up in Riverdale to take her to dinner that evening instead. That’s it. That’s what he’d do.
Quickly, he walked toward where he’d last spotted her. With every step, he felt relieved to distance himself from the girl gaggle behind. They were all so slick. But now he’d let their slick style rub off on him. He’d just allowed himself to be manipulated, throwing time with Farrah to the wind like some sort of sacrifice. He felt sick to his stomach. Hopefully, Farrah would buy whatever nonsense he gave for the plan change, and then he could get this interview with Missy Henckels over with as soon as possible. He hoped Farrah and he would be able to connect that evening. She was so different from the self-satisfied uber-chicks behind him. What a pleasure it would be to see her genuine reactions instead of feeling like everything happening to him had been rehearsed and pre-ordained by a bunch of highly-skilled female puppeteers with him as their doll.
SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE it. Jude was up on stage being photographed with a bunch of society women who all looked as if they’d stepped off the pages of Town & Country Magazine. The one on the left appeared to be the same one who’d come up to them in the Mexican restaurant the other night. Her camel-colored pants fit perfectly, no creases or seams anywhere. She looked down at her own mud-splashed legs, now red with the cold and covered in goose bumps.
As she glanced back at Jude squatting in the middle of the group, a woman standing behind him put her hand on his shoulder. Why wasn’t he pushing it off? When she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face she saw why not. Gorgeous. An Eva Longoria lookalike.
Jude’s fan club was ravishing. There was no way she was going over there to be upstaged by a bunch of Fairfield County foxes. She was competitive, but in the self-possession sweepstakes, women like the one touching Jude’s shoulder had advantages with which she couldn’t compete. She watched as the woman leaned down, whispering something in Jude’s ear. He smiled stupidly, clearly enchanted with whatever she’d said. Were these women from the Lymphoma Society or the Nymphoma Society? Whichever it was, they were society types alright.
Back in Jackson Heights, Queens they hadn’t had too many societies. The Ladies Sewing Circle had sponsored occasional bingo nights at the Catholic church. Her mother’s social circle at the hair salon had consisted of women with big hair, makeup just over the border from tasteful, and colorful nails. She’d bet the females flocking around Jude all had nude manicures to match their expensive makeup-that-looks-like-no-makeup look.
She ducked down and slunk out of the tent. This just wasn’t the moment to greet Jude. She’d screwed up her time, finishing an unimpressive minute and a half off her last 10K race, her face was makeup-free and covered in sweat and dirt, and her interest in connecting up with Jude in front of a bunch of flawlessly groomed Greenwich women was nil. It wasn’t just that they were all so attractive: She could handle that.
It was the smug quality they exuded with which she didn’t know how to compete. They all had that private club, private school, private world aura about them. Like they knew something other people didn’t. She wanted to claw their eyes out. Or at least smack Eva Longoria’s hand off Jude’s shoulder. She wasn’t happy about the way he hadn’t already lifted it off him.
Out of your league, girl. She didn’t want to be in their club anyway. She didn’t know where she wanted to be at the moment, but anywhere away from Jude and his bevy of beauties would be better than where she was now. Breaking into a slow jog, she headed for the parking lot.
“Hey Farrah, where you going?” John Boyleston called out on his way to the tent.
“I’ll be over at the van,” she said, glad she hadn’t yet told John she wasn’t planning to ride back with him and the rest of the Van Cortlandt runners. She hadn’t wanted to mention it on the way up, knowing Blanca or Ana would immediately squeeze out of her what her plans were for getting home.
“Come watch the awards ceremony. I saw your friend Jude finish. He’s probably going to medal.”
“No thanks. But could you give him a message from me?”
“Sure. But why not give it to him yourself?”
“It’s one of those—girl things.”
“Ohhh—So, what do I tell him?”
“Tell him congratulations from me, and that I wasn’t feeling well, so I had to go home.”
“You sure you can’t tell him yourself?”
Farrah gave John a look.
“Okay, I’ll let him know.”
“And don’t let him know I’m still here.”
“Sure, boss. Anything else?”
“Don’t say anything to Ana or Blanca.”
“I’ll leave that up to you,” he said, returning her significant glance.
Dejected, she jogged to the parking lot. She just couldn’t face an afternoon alone with Jude Farnsworth. Not after seeing all those polished prep school–types fawn all over him. As soon as he found out just how unpolished she was, he’d be through with her. He was probably just dating her because he liked to slum it every once in awhile—take a walk on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. When he’d had his fun, he’d hightail it back to Greenwich where one day he’d marry some smug beauty with a trust fund, just as Will had done.
She winced. Best to stick with your own type her father had always said. She’
d ignored his advice when she took up with Will, and where had it gotten her? Three years of confusion and heartbreak later, she knew what he’d meant. Her father hadn’t meant just Irish day laborers or working class men, but people whose measure she could take. She’d never fully understand what was behind the smug smiles of the kind of women who now surrounded Jude. Who was she kidding? Even if she could fake an attitude like that, she wouldn’t know how to maintain it for more than a date or two. It had been two dates already with Jude. That was enough. Time to pull the plug before he did.
She stretched against the side of John’s dirty, gray van. Touching it made her feel safe. It was old, beat up, and unpretentious—perfect for the Bronx and for the way she felt at that moment.
After another ten minutes of stretching, her cell phone rang. Jude. Summoning up her story, she answered.
“Farrah, where are you?” Jude asked, sounding concerned.
She could hardly hear him for all the background noise on his end.
“I—uh—did John tell you?”
“He said you weren’t feeling well. I didn’t see you at the end of the race. Are you okay?”
“I—Yes, I just need to go home and rest. Do you think we could postpone our drive to some other day?” She hoped he wouldn’t think she was flighty. Then she asked herself why she cared. Hadn’t she just resolved to stick to her own type? Her heart sank as she remembered her 2 percent fat, organic milk inquiry the day they had met. Her own type of man didn’t exist, from what she could tell. If they did, they were playing for the other team.
“Are you still here? Let me come find you.”
“Uh—no. I caught a ride back to Riverdale with a friend,” she lied, hoping she sounded convincing.
“You did? Oh, that’s too bad.” Was she imagining things or did he sound more relieved than disappointed? With all the noise on his end, it was difficult to tell. “How about if I call you later, and maybe we can do something this evening? I mean, if you’re feeling better.”
“I’ve got work tomorrow. But sure, let’s talk.”