by Cate Cameron
“So what is it?” Ashley asked. She pulled a couple occasional chairs over to nestle in on either side of Mrs. Grey; apparently Ashley had abandoned her knitting lessons, at least temporarily.
Zara sighed, and looked at Mrs. Grey. “Josh is one thing. But Cal Montgomery? I do not have a good history with that family. No way. I’m not looking to spend time with any of them.”
“Except Cal,” Ashley prompted.
“I don’t know, maybe not even him. The more we talk about this, the less I like the sound of it.”
They were silent for a while, and then Mrs. Grey held the hook out to Zara. “You control the yarn with one hand, the hook with the other.” She ran the yarn around as it should be and took a few moments to show Zara the basic stitches. Mrs. Ryerson wandered over with what were apparently knitting needles and busied herself with Ashley, and everything was peaceful for a while. Zara focused on what she was doing, trying to make the yarn behave, and listened with half an ear to the conversation going on around her, updates on families and careers, triumphs and frustrations.
When the next pause came in the conversation, Mrs. Grey caught Zara’s eye and said, “What’s your bad history like? With the Montgomerys?”
Zara had known the conversation hadn’t shifted for good. And there was something about the crocheting, the simple rhythm of it, the feel of the yarn sliding through her fingers . . . something soothing. It made her feel safe, and ready to talk. “It’s nothing serious, really. But Zane—my brother—and Cal have always been friends, so I was always a bit . . . a bit aware of the family, I guess. I mean, like it would be possible not to be, around here. You guys know that. In the summer there are lots of rich people, but in the winter? The Montgomerys run this town. And I was a pretty bratty kid. So when I got in trouble, a lot of the time it seemed to involve them.”
“I don’t get it,” Ashley said. “What kind of trouble?”
Zara sighed. Was this stuff funny or sad? She wasn’t sure. “Well, I was stubborn. And stupid. So one year on the night before Halloween some friends and I egged their cars. We couldn’t reach the house from the street and we were too chicken to get closer, so we stuck to the cars. And they made a really big deal out of it. The Montgomerys could have just, you know, hosed the cars off and carried on, but they called the cops, and if it was anyone else, the cops would have just told them to get over it, but it was the Montgomerys so of course there was a big investigation. And they questioned a bunch of kids at school, and one of the kids I was with blamed it all on me.” He’d told her later that he’d given her name because he knew she didn’t have the sort of parents who would get her in trouble. He’d been worried that if he didn’t tell the police something, his parents would take away his new cell phone. But she didn’t think she’d share that part of the story. “And I wouldn’t give up any other names, so it all got blamed on me. So I had to apologize to all the Montgomerys, even the boys.” She’d forgotten about that, forgotten the smug look on Michael’s face and the sympathetic mortification on Cal’s as she’d stood in the foyer of their opulent home and repeated the rote words supplied by the police officer. She hadn’t wanted to do it at all, but Zane had insisted that she make the problem go away before anyone looked at the family too closely and asked them just where their father was that week. “And I had to wash their cars, and do a bunch of chores in their yard. Raking leaves or whatever.”
“That sucks,” Ashley said gently. “But I’m not really seeing the part where you were stubborn.”
“Well, that part came later,” Zara admitted. “After the first time, I got a bit better at knowing who to work with, if I was going to do pranks.” She’d learned to find other rough kids with nothing to lose; she’d learned that kids with money were weak and couldn’t be trusted. “So they never caught me again.”
“But you egged them again?”
“Hell, yeah. Almost weekly. One of the guys I was hanging around with had chickens, and he’d steal eggs before his mom collected them. We’d hit the Montgomerys’ cars, wherever they parked around town, or the house—we got better at sneaking up on it through the woods—and when Michael was running in a cross-country race one time, we put on masks and jumped out from behind trees and pelted him.”
“Wait a second.” Mrs. Grey squinted at her. “I remember that! But he was in high school when that happened. And he’s got to be six or seven years older than you? How old were you when all this was going on?”
“I don’t know, ten or eleven?” Zara thought back. “Fifth grade. How old is that?”
“I was picturing you as a teenage hoodlum,” Ashley said. “But you were just a little girl!”
Zara wasn’t sure she liked where this was going. She was okay with being seen as a crazy, stupid kid, but Ashley sounded like maybe she was going to start asking where Zara’s parents had been and why she’d been given so much freedom. “I was pretty angry when I was younger,” she said quickly. “Really stupid. Wild. I didn’t realize—” She stopped. It had been a long time since she’d thought about any of this. “I didn’t think of them as people, I guess. I was just mad that they had all this stuff that I wanted, and that they seemed so happy, and they could just run around town and do whatever they wanted and everyone just smiled at them, and no matter what I did, people thought I was bad.”
“A bit of a vicious circle?” Mrs. Grey suggested. “They thought you were bad so you did bad things so they thought you were bad.”
“Right,” Zara agreed.
“So what happened?” Ashley asked. “How did it end?”
“Zane caught me.” Zara could still remember the strong hand clamping around her thin wrist as she’d had her arm pulled back, ready to the throw the egg. “Cal had told him I was doing it, but I denied it. So Zane followed me from home and tracked me through the forest and caught me.”
“And did what?” Ashley’s eyes were wide.
“I think it must have been the first time I’d ever lied to him,” Zara said. “I’d told him I wasn’t doing it, and then he caught me in the act, and he was hurt. And mad, too. He cracked the egg over my head and made me walk home all covered in yolk and told me I’d better not ever do it again. That was the him-being-mad part. But I might have ignored that, if that had been all there was. It was the him-being-hurt part that made me stop.” She frowned. What the hell was she doing, telling something like that to these people? They were practically strangers, and she was yipping away like they were family. Time to get story time wrapped up. “So that was it for the eggs. But, you know, it kind of set a tone. There may have been a few other incidents over the years.”
“And Cal was still friends with Zane through all this?”
“Yeah. Cal thought I was a brat, but he didn’t take it too seriously.” Another point Zara hadn’t really remembered.
“I’d always wondered what the full story was on all that,” one of the knitters said. Then she smiled. “Good for you! There’ve been a few times I wouldn’t have minded throwing a few eggs at Winston Montgomery through the years!”
“And Michael’s just as bad,” another woman agreed. Then she looked craftily in Zara’s direction. “Calvin has always been pleasant, though. And so handsome!”
There was some chatter then, about Cal’s physical charms and the personalities of various Montgomerys, and Zara listened to it all but didn’t seem required to speak anymore. She felt her shoulders gradually relaxing down from around her ears. This was okay. She’d done a little bitching, she was doing a little stitching. It was all working out.
Mrs. Ryerson came by to refill her glass of wine and laid a gentle hand on Zara’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you came tonight,” she said quietly. “And I’m glad you’re back in Lake Sullivan. Even if it is just for a little while.”
And sitting there in the warm room with the laughing women? At least for right then, Zara was glad she was back, too.
&n
bsp; Thirteen
CAL WAS TRYING to play it cool, and not doing a very good job. He knew he needed to be low-key. If he went too big, too much too fast, Zara would bolt. He shouldn’t borrow a yacht and take her for a moonlight cruise while caterers provided dinner and a violinist serenaded them. That would be a mistake. He’d heard the stories about Ashley’s nonsense when she and Josh were starting up, and he knew he shouldn’t repeat any of her blunders. But he should still do something special surely. Something that would stand out and show Zara he was serious.
He settled on reservations for dinner in St. Albans. He was pretty sure Zara would be happy to get out of town. But when he called her in the afternoon to work out details, he could feel the hesitation even over the phone line.
“I thought we could go for dinner,” he suggested.
“Uh . . . actually, I have to work until seven. And then I was thinking I should work out. You know, start getting back in shape.”
He felt a flare of impatience and tamped it down hard. Yeah, she was trying to back out of it, but that was her right. If she’d changed her mind, she’d changed her mind. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to change it back again. “What kind of workout were you planning?”
She sounded like he’d caught her off guard. “Uh, cardio, I think?”
“Running?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I can go with you, then. Show you some of the trails. There’s some new ones, down by the lake. They wouldn’t have been around when you lived here.”
“I go pretty hard,” she said. “This wouldn’t be, like, a chance for much chatting.”
But once they were done, once he’d worn off a bit more of her shell, maybe she’d let him take her somewhere else, somewhere they could talk. “That’s okay. I like running. I don’t need to be entertained.”
A pause, and then she said, “Yeah. Okay. I was planning to leave from the community center around seven. It’ll be dark by then—are the trails lit?”
“Not the ones I was thinking of, no. But I can find an alternate route if the moon isn’t bright.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to. But is it okay with you if I do? I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but . . . it’s just running. Pretty safe, I think.”
“Yeah, pretty safe,” she agreed, and it sounded like she was loosening up a little. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”
So he called the restaurant and cancelled the reservations, made sure he had food and wine in his fridge, and tried to keep his mind on work until just before seven. Then he went home, changed into his running clothes, and jogged the few blocks to the community center.
Zara was at the front doors waiting for him, shuffling restlessly in her grey and black running gear. He wanted to greet her with a kiss, but her body language made it pretty clear that wouldn’t be welcome. Damn it. Two steps forward, one step back. But even if he couldn’t touch her, it was still good to see her.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
She nodded, and they set off. “Do you do a lot of cardio work?” It wasn’t the best setting for conversation, but Cal was at least going to try. “For fighting, I mean? Is cardio important?”
“Some trainers push it, others don’t,” she replied. “I do a lot of sprint-based work, resistance bands, that sort of thing, more than running. Explosive power, anaerobic stuff.” She shrugged. “But I like running. I do it for myself.”
“Have you been running all along? Since you got here, I mean?”
“No.” They were at the end of the block, about to cross Main Street and head over toward the school yard, before she added, “I was taking it easy. Because of my head. But I’m back on track now.”
God, he wanted to talk about her head. Wanted to interrogate her, understand just how serious the concussions had been, what the prognosis was for the future. He wanted to know if she’d been scared, or if she still was. But her armor was up, almost full strength. If he pushed now, he wouldn’t find ways to get past the barriers; he’d just push her away. And that wasn’t what he wanted. Not at all.
“There’s a full moon,” she said. “The new trails by the water—would they get the light, or are they shaded?”
“Not much shade. Want to head down there?”
She nodded, and at the next corner they turned in that direction. The town wasn’t big. One strip of commercial development down Main Street, and an extra strip one block down by the water. The places by the shore were more touristy: a small marina and boat charter place, a few gift and novelty shops, an artists’ co-op, a specialty candy store. During the off-season they either closed up entirely or were only open a couple days a week, but they were busy during the summer when the cottagers and tourists came through. The front windows were dark now, showing Cal two reflected runners as they passed by.
“What do you do?” Zara asked, and the question was so out of the blue that Cal turned to stare at her. “I mean, with your time. I know you have a job, and you exercise, and then . . . what? You’ve got friends in town?”
“Yeah, sure. I know there’s not a lot of stuff to do here, compared to the city. One bar, one restaurant. No movies unless we drive out of town. But there’s good outdoor recreation—I sure didn’t spend much time kayaking or rock climbing when I was in New York, and I felt like every breath I took when I was running was dragging pollution into my lungs.”
“Nah. The pollution makes you stronger! It’s like training at altitude—if you get used to the bad air, when you get good air, you’re super-powered.”
“Is that your own theory, or is it backed up by some sort of expert?”
“I am an expert,” she protested, but he could hear the laughter in her voice. “I’m a professional athlete, remember?” A pause, and then she added, “I was in talks to do a fitness video. But that kind of got put on hold. Still, I’m a definite expert. Working out in dirty air is good.”
“Maybe we can stop somewhere and pick up some cigarette butts and strap them to your nose somehow. Would that be useful?”
“That would be great. Keep your eyes open.”
She was relaxing now. Whatever had gotten her tense seemed to be wearing off. So Cal wasn’t all that surprised when she sped up and darted in front of him, stretching her legs on the gravel path, pushing for more speed.
He matched her. With any other woman he’d dated, he would have been confident that he’d win any physical contest and maybe been wondering how much to pace himself in order not to make her mad about her defeat. With Zara, he figured he’d be lucky if he could keep up, and he loved it.
They flew down the pathway. A man walking a little dog appeared after they went around a bend, and the dog darted out into the path, trying to catch Zara as she ran past. She didn’t break stride, just stretched and vaulted over the creature. Cal followed suit. His lungs were starting to burn, but he felt alive.
He pushed himself just a little harder, finding a spot by Zara’s side, and they ran in tandem for a hundred yards or so. Then he tried to take the lead, and she refused to give it up. He pushed harder, and she matched him. They were in a full-out sprint now, Cal’s longer legs enough to let him match Zara’s power but not enough to actually beat her. They ran on, gasping for air, pushing, driving. . . .
And then Zara was gone. One stride she’d been right beside him, the next she seemed to stumble, and then he couldn’t see her at all. He brought himself to a stop as quickly as he could and turned to see her standing in the middle of the trail, bent over, hands braced on her knees.
For a moment he felt victorious. Then she rolled to the side, barely catching herself with her hand and a knee, and his stomach dropped. This was something more than just being winded.
He didn’t think about moving, but somehow he was just there, crouching beside her, supporting her as she shifted onto her butt, sitti
ng in the dirt with her head between her knees. She was gasping for breath, but not as hard as he was. This was something else. He remembered her dizziness in the locker room when she’d heard about Zane’s arrest. Damn it.
“Your head? Shit, Zara, are you okay? Dizzy?”
She lifted a hand, telling him she was okay, or telling him to shut up. Possibly both. He did his best to comply, feeling completely useless.
After a few agonizing moments, she said, “I’m okay. I just . . . I don’t know. But I’m fine.” She lifted her head, slow and cautious. “Just something weird. No big deal.”
“Post-concussion syndrome,” he said. He didn’t care if it was a touchy subject, he was still going to mention it. “It’s a real thing. Concussions are serious, and you’re still recov—” He broke off as she rolled away from him, struggling to her knees with the clear intention of standing up.
“Hang on!” He reached for her, then drew his hand back. “I’ll be quiet, okay? I’ll sit here quietly. Just take it easy, don’t push so hard.”
It couldn’t be easy for her to hear those words or follow that advice, he realized. She’d escaped her background and made herself a success by pushing hard, by being tough and charging through obstacles. Now she’d run into something she couldn’t just bash her way through, and it was throwing her off.
She reluctantly resettled on the ground next to him, and he had the feeling it was her dizziness rather than his words that had prompted her.
They were both still breathing hard. He remembered the glorious freedom he’d felt, the joy in being alive and healthy and letting his body move the way it was meant to, and the memory twisted into something ugly and selfish when he realized that it was his competitiveness that had pushed Zara into overexerting herself. She’d suggested they go for a run. A quiet, easy jog, not a mad sprint. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She raised her head and stared at him through eyes that suddenly seemed a little too focused and intent. “What the hell for?”