Dream Runner

by Gail McFarland

  Sharp-eyed, neither Rissa nor Mrs. Baldwin missed the interplay.

  Finishing his call, AJ dropped the phone on the counter and walked over to the table. “You’re sure?”

  Marlea looked up at him, the soft glow of her skin striking in the light. “I’m sure, and I’ll still be here when you get back.” She raised her hand, offered her little finger, and never took her eyes from his.

  AJ linked his finger to hers and brought it to his lips. “You’d better be, ’cause I promise I’ll always be there for you.”

  Marlea pulled the joined fingers to her lips and smiled. “Now where else would I go?”

  When she released his finger, AJ was slow to move away from her. “I’m just sayin’, is all.”

  “Could you two just say goodbye so we can get to the airport?” Dench leaned against the doorframe, his words breaking the spell Marlea and AJ shared.

  The phone rang as Marlea opened her mouth. “For you,” Martha Baldwin said, offering the phone to Marlea.

  Surprised, Marlea took the phone from the older woman’s hand. “Hello?” She frowned, then brightened. “Of course, I remember you, and today is fine.” She listened, looked at AJ, then nodded. “Well, I’m not sure what I have to offer…but, yes…I can do it. Two o’clock, and here is fine.”

  Hovering and curious, Martha Baldwin took the phone from Marlea’s hand, making sure to stay close enough to hear.

  “So who was it?” Rissa slid across a chair to get closer.

  “Adrian Kessler, from Atlanta Sports and Fitness magazine. He wanted to follow up on his suggestion from the reception.”

  “What was his suggestion?” Dench came close enough to grab AJ’s raincoat and laptop.

  “You’re gonna do it, right?” AJ urged.

  “All these questions; just a moment, please.” Her brows rose, but her grin matched AJ’s when she directed her attention to him. “Aren’t you the man who just promised that you would always be with me? I do this interview, and where will you be?”

  “With you in spirit, but I still have to get to New York.” He bent to kiss Marlea’s cheek, managing to catch her mouth in the process.

  Dench shifted the laptop to his other hand. “You gotta get to the airport first, dude.”

  * * *

  Sliding into the small booth at DayBreak’s, Bianca Coltrane tried to hold onto what had begun as a good day. “I had the appointment, all I had to do was get there.” She looked down at her hand. She was still clutching the broken heel of her Via Spiga pump. “Useless thing,” she muttered, tossing it onto the tabletop. Pulling her cellphone from her sidewalk-sale Prada handbag, she scrolled through the phone numbers until she found the right one.

  A server materialized and raised an eyebrow.

  “Coffee. Whatever you have in a French roast, and a paper, The Times,” Bianca snapped, turning her back on the white-shirted woman. Staring through the broad plate glass, she cursed the passing taxicabs. Where the hell were they when I needed one?

  She pressed the numbers on her phone and waited. Finally connected, Bianca tried to control her frustration, but she wasn’t used to trying and not very good at it.

  “Look,” she huffed into the ear of Guilliame du Verriers, scion of The House of du Verriers, when she ultimately got through to him, “I’ve broken the heel of my shoe, can’t find a cab, and can’t possibly get to your office in less than an hour. We’ll have to change my appointment.”

  Guilliame’s very Gaelic hum came clearly over the line, and Bianca didn’t like the sound of it. When she pressed, he hummed again. “Look, Guilliame, we had a deal and you’re going to stick to it. You’re just going to have to change my appointment; pull out your date book and pencil me in!”

  “Perhaps this is not possible—not today. Perhaps next month…”

  Bianca’s choking cough clogged the phone for a second. “No, that’s not acceptable, Guilliame. We both know how much I have invested in this line, and I’m not going to let you back me down. You’re going to do business with me, and you’re going to see me.”

  Monsieur du Verriers did not take well to pressure, especially when it came from an overdone, simplistic American bent on using her good looks and fabulous figure to compensate for a lack of talent. He drew a sonorously deep breath through his long and aristocratic nose and then passed it through his thin-lipped mouth, phrasing his answer. When he finally spoke, his accent thickened, but he enunciated clearly. He didn’t want her to miss his meaning. “We can certainly do that for you, Mademoiselle Coltrane. We will change your appointment—to next spring. You will contact me then. Au voir.”

  “Hello?” She took the phone from her ear and stared at it. Oh, no, he did not hang up on me! She clamped the phone to her ear—nothing. And told me to call back next year?

  Stunned, Bianca flapped a hand at the server. She barely saw the olive-skinned, sloe-eyed, sometime actress, sometime model as the young woman set coffee, cream, and the day’s New York Times in front of her.

  Folding her phone, her mind raced. I should have listened to Roy. He warned me about mortgaging the condo. But I had so much faith in my line and du Verriers’s promise. So why hadn’t she had more companies interested in it? People loved it in Atlanta. But none of them called her office in New York. She pushed a hand through the thickness of her hair. The House of du Verriers had been the only one she had to pin her hope on—now a broken heel had toppled that hope. Well, a broken heel and a funky French attitude. Guilliame probably found somebody else’s chest to drool down.

  Thinking of the first time that the vainglorious, smarmy, over-perfumed man kissed her didn’t help. Wrapped his arms around me, pressed his lips to mine, and came all over himself. Yeah, that was funny and I didn’t even laugh out loud. And to think of how many dinners I let him buy, just so he could hope that I would crawl up in a bed with him and let him press his fat hairy belly on me—ugh!

  But this is not over—I won’t let it be. She thought hard. I know powerful men, men with money, and they are only men. One of them will come through for me. She opened the paper, habit taking her to the sports pages. Someone I know must be flush enough to bail me out.

  Seeking a familiar face, Bianca looked down and there he was, like the answer to a prayer. The Times photo was in color, and it was a good one. Tight, toned, brown eyes gleaming with intelligence and health, he looked perfect, and it was almost more than she could take. Eyes flying over the story, her keen toed heel-less pump spanked the tile at her feet. Giving the paper a snap to straighten it, she reread the article.

  “Unbelievable. All this money for a man who is out of the game.” Bianca folded the paper so that her finger could trace the line of zeros following the one-two-five. “Retired, with all this money, and they still call him ‘the nicest man in football’.”

  She read further, finding the other line she wanted. “He’s in New York to finalize contracts on his book and an upcoming movie. Impressive. All that money is just the down payment.” She reread the paragraph and thought of those dollars again. One hundred twenty-five thousand dollars would pay for a lot of shoes.

  “No mention of an accompanying woman,” she smiled. “AJ Yarborough is all alone in the big city.”

  Closing the paper, Bianca tucked it away for future reference. She lifted her cup and sipped. “All alone—but not for long.”

  * * *

  “So how did it go?”

  “It was amazing, AJ. I never knew I had so much to say, and it felt good to say it. Man, I had a chance to clear the air on some highly misunderstood conceptions of female athletes. Oh, AJ, not only that, but I talked about my accident. I had a chance to talk about what it’s like to be an amputee.”

  “Marlea…”

  “Wait, AJ, let me tell you. I know that it could have been worse, that I could have lost my whole foot or a leg, but I talked about everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “AJ…okay, I didn’t talk about that, but I talked about everythin
g else. Oh, and I didn’t talk about how much I care for you. I’m saving that for when you get back to Atlanta. We can have a private conversation, just the two of us.”

  He heard a smile in her voice and felt his chest tighten. “That’s great, Marlea. How are you going to celebrate?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” she said slowly. “He’s going to fax an advanced copy of the story, and I could share it here at the house with Rissa and Mrs. Baldwin.”

  “No, baby. You need to really celebrate.”

  “I could wait for you,” Marlea offered.

  “That’s generous, but until I get back, you should be with friends.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Marlea gave his suggestion a little thought. She had never really had girlfriends the way other women did. So who did that leave? She let her mind ramble. “Libby’s back in town for a few days, and I can get Rissa and Jeanette and Connie—we could do something fun. Maybe go out for dinner and drinks…And then I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Friday it is; oh, and I’m going to bring you something special.”

  “Oh, a gift. I like that, but I love you, AJ.” Her gasp was swift over the phone line as she realized what she had said. “I didn’t mean to tell you like that, but I do, AJ—love you.”

  He cupped the phone in both hands. “Me, you, too.”

  “I’m glad,” she whispered. “Bye.” The single word was soft but final, almost as though she had run out of things to say. AJ set the phone aside reluctantly.

  Sitting on the sofa and watching AJ as he talked to Marlea, Bianca plucked at the pearl buttons on her shirt. Wondering if it would have made a difference if she had entered the room naked, she waited for AJ to end his call.

  “You didn’t tell her about me. Should I guess why?”

  His back stiffened. “No need to guess. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Really. I guess I’ll have to see what I can do to change that.” The pearl buttons moved easily as the blouse fell away. She let her skirt slide over sleek skin and smiled. She had always liked the look of a man perched on the edge of Purgatory.

  Chapter 25

  Sounds of the televised game bounced off the walls, and the rocking music floating on the air was almost as loud as the conversation from the next booth. The waitress in the green Jocks ‘N Jill’s tee shirt leaned close, swiping at the table with a cloth before setting the tray of drinks down.

  “So what are you ladies celebrating?” she asked, rubbing hard at a slick-looking spot.

  Jeanette and Libby licked sauce from their fingers, trying to speak. Connie forked cole slaw into her mouth, content to let them try.

  “Her,” Rissa volunteered, pointing at Marlea and pulling copied sheets from under Connie’s elbow. “She was just interviewed for this marvelous article. Take a look.” Then she went back to her fries.

  “Cool. What did she do?”

  “I ran a race,” Marlea used her fork to push food around on her plate, “and that’s only a draft of the article.”

  Rissa put the tender rib aside and came up for air. “But read the article—the draft of the article.”

  “Sure.” The waitress, whose nametag read ‘Cassie’, set the tray down and wiped her damp hands against her short apron. Taking the stapled sheets from Rissa’s hand, she ignored Connie who passed out the drinks from her tray. “Aw, man,” Cassie breathed, surveying the pages. “They had to cut off your toes? Damn!” She drew the final word out in amazement when Marlea nodded.

  Cassie’s smoky gray eyes met Marlea’s and fell back to the pages. “Dang, you almost made it to the Olympics. And now?” She turned the page, read the last few words, and looked up with a smile. “He says you’re still running? That you did a race a week ago?”

  “Something like that,” Marlea nodded.

  “The article says you use a special shoe. Are you going to keep running?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if I’ll ever do the 400 again. Besides, I’m over thirty, that’s kind of long in the tooth for a runner.”

  “Will you listen to grandma, over there?” Libby plucked a lime wedge from the white china saucer in the center of the table and pinched it into the mouth of her Corona, watching the pale juice run into the golden beer before taking a long drink from the long-necked bottle.

  Cassie shyly turned the pages back to the beginning. “It says you’re a teacher, too. Bet your kids are proud of you.”

  “Are they ever. You should have seen the cards and letters, the videos and stuff that she received in the hospital. Those kids love her.” Jeanette reached for a handful of napkins and shared them with Rissa and Connie. “Now ask her when she’s going back.”

  Marlea wished she had the nerve to stuff Jeanette’s mouth with the damned napkins, but with her luck, the woman would eat them. “I’ll be back in the classroom at the beginning of the year. I’ve already talked to the administrators at Runyon.”

  “I didn’t know, you didn’t tell us.” Jeanette plucked paper tissue from her sticky fingers, frowning at a particularly stubborn clump when it fell into the lap of her denim skirt. When Cassie handed her a premoistened towelette, she smiled her thanks.

  “I’ll bet AJ knows,” Connie mumbled.

  “AJ is your man, huh?” Cassie read the look on Marlea’s face and knew that she was right. “Ohh, that’s so sweet, so noble. He stood by you through all of this. You mind if I take this with me? I want to share it with some friends.”

  “No, feel free. That’s a draft,” Marlea said. “We have other copies, take it if you want it.”

  “Thanks.” Cassie hurried away with her tray and her copies. Ten minutes later, she was back with a tray of fresh drinks. “Hope y’all are thirsty. You have an admirer over there and he sent these over to you.”

  “Who?”

  Unloading the drinks, Cassie tossed her head toward the bar. “Him. Over there.”

  “Jeanette, please,” Rissa’s lips rippled with suppressed laughter. “Sitting over here trying to act like you don’t take drinks from strange men. However, as cute as I am,” she straightened her cotton sweater, “ I’m not surprised.”

  “Not you, hon.” Cassie tapped Marlea’s denim jacket. “Her.”

  “Me?” Marlea almost slid out of her seat when Jeanette snickered. “You have got to be mistaken.” She chanced a glance around Cassie, catching the eye of a long-legged, chocolate-skinned man. “Oh, no. He did not wink at me.”

  “He probably did,” Cassie grinned, taking her tray. “I left your article on the counter while I was filling orders and he read it, then he told me to bring you whatever you all were drinking and to pick up your dinner tab, too.”

  “I like him already,” Libby offered brightly, waggling the Corona.

  “You’re married, remember? You can’t go around liking strange men just because they buy you drinks.”

  “I can if I want to; you’re not the boss of me.” Pretending to sulk, Libby sucked at her beer.

  “Then you can talk to him when he gets here,” Marlea whispered, sprouting a sudden and passionate interest in her quesadilla. “He’s on his way over here now.” Using her fork and her fingers, Marlea took a bite. She was still chewing when the man reached the table.

  “Ladies.” He planted a hand on his chest and parted his lips in a full smile—as if he had practiced. “I’m Vincent Welles, and I would truly enjoy the chance to sit and get to know you all better.” He said all, but his eyes locked on Marlea.

  Vincent Welles stood there looking as though he was used to women drooling over him—and in spite of herself, Marlea—and every other woman in the restaurant—could see why. He was tall and solid, packed with muscle, and had a butt you could bounce quarters off, if you had a mind to. Broad-shouldered, with a narrow waist, he flexed and stood poised for the inevitable invitation—it came from Connie.

  Accepting, he slid into the booth, seating himself next to Marlea. Looking down at her as if she had just stepped off the menu, he leaned
his elbows on the table and folded his hands.

  He nodded toward the bar. “I was sitting over there, all by my lonesome, and I couldn’t help noticing this table full of good-looking women. Then I saw the article Cassie left laying on the bar.” He smiled and Marlea knew what Little Red Riding Hood must have felt like when she met the Big Bad Wolf. “So you’re the one who had the surgery.”

  “Yes, that was me.” Suddenly cold and greasy, the quesadilla didn’t taste quite so good anymore. Marlea set her fork aside and tossed her napkin onto the tabletop.

  “So what was it like? They took about half your foot, right?” Eyes eager, he leaned forward.

  Rissa, Libby, and Connie were teasing Jeanette about whatever old song was playing over the stereo system. None of them heard Vincent Welles when he said, “Wonder what that’s like? To feel that nub? Rubbin’ up on it an’ stuff.” He licked his lips. “I heard where sometimes, after you lose a body part, the nerves get confused and all it takes is just a little touch…”

  This can’t be happening. Marlea’s breath came in short little gasps and she couldn’t stop it. If I let this vulgar clown go on bullying and trying to intimidate me, how do I get through the rest of my life?

  “Look, Mr. Welles, you’re out of order. I’m out tonight with friends and I…”

  “I heard you could get your freak on like that,” he continued. “Ever happen to you? Touch your foot and turn you on?”

  How do I tell my children that they have to accept boundaries, but not limits, when I can’t make this man understand that he’s abusing mine? Refusing to look at him, Marlea couldn’t find the difference between anger and embarrassment—and she didn’t care. Drawing her own line, she realized the truth: I do it by admitting that I’m mad as hell at Dr. Reynolds, and then I make a lie out of disability. I take myself back. Nobody can make a fool out of you if you don’t let him. She looked at Vincent Welles and reached another decision. “Mr. Welles, you need to leave. Now.”

  “Why?” He licked his lips and leaned far enough back in the booth to bring his mouth close enough to whisper, “You let me, and I’ll suck that nub and make you scream my name like I was the second comin’.”