by Ilsa J. Bick
Page 24
Okay, too much information. After a sec, Mom came back: Anyway, hope everything’s okay and you’re keeping busy. How’s that report coming? Love you. Bye.
Click.
The ID for the other four calls was blocked. No messages at all.
b
It was still early, only a little past eight. I picked up Alexis‘s book but couldn‘t concentrate, my thoughts winging back to Mr. Anderson‘s run-in with that shark. I could never be that brave. The only person I knew who came close was Matt the night he rescued me from the fire.
Oh, Matt. I hadn‘t written for the longest time and wondered what was wrong with me. Writing to Matt had always been a priority. It didn‘t matter that Matt‘s letters never changed. What mattered was the lifeline my e-mails provided. Maybe Matt could treat himself as if he was already dead, but I couldn‘t allow myself to think that. One of us had to believe he was still alive. I just couldn‘t face the alternative.
So I was sitting there, staring at the list of Matt‘s e-mails in their special folder. My e-mail account was open, my laptop softly humming to itself—and I couldn‘t think of a thing to say. There was no way I could really talk about Mr. Anderson and I‘d already written the same boring stuff to Matt a million times before. I was suddenly so tired of playing this stupid game. . . .
The phone rang, making me jump. The caller ID said no data sent. Normally, I wouldn‘t have picked up, but this time I grabbed the handset, thinking: Maybe he’s . . .
?Hello??
?Emily?? A man, not Mr. Anderson, and he sounded pissed. ?Emily, damn it, why the hell haven‘t you picked up??
?My mom‘s not here. ? (Idiot. What was the first thing they taught little kids? Never admit you‘re alone in the house?) ?May I take a message??
?Oh. ? Pause. ?This isn‘t a cell? Is this Jenna??
?Who‘s calling, please??
?It‘s Nate Bartholomew. We met a few nights ago at your mom‘s . . . your parents‘
party. ?
?Yes, I remember,? I said, thinking: yes, I remember Mom touched your hand, and I remember how you whispered in her ear and the way she looked at you. ?My mom‘s away and won‘t be back for another couple of days. ?
?Oh. ? Another pause. ?I thought this was her cell. Well, uh, look, do you have that number??
?Sure. ? I gave him the number and then put in, ?My dad‘s with her. ? (I know: mean. ) ?I can take a message and have her call if she‘s got a minute. ?
Bartholomew hemmed and hawed over that one, and then gave me some bogus story about how Mom was supposed to arrange a signing only his publicist didn‘t think the date would work . . . something stupid like that. He was lying; Evan always arranged signings. But I let him tell his story and said I‘d have Mom call. ?Or you can try her cell. ?
?No, no, that‘s okay. Just the message, thanks. ? He hung up fast, probably worried I‘d make another suggestion.
Replacing the handset, I toyed with the idea of saying something to my mother and gauging her reaction. Then, I thought, you know, mind your own business. What did they say about sleeping dogs?
c
In the end, I called Evan. The store was closed, so I helpfully left a voice mail all about poor Nate Bartholomew.
And try explaining that, Mom.
Really, Bob, I never could take my own advice.
30: a
Tuesday dawned colder but still cloudless. We ran on Mr. Anderson‘s property, a counterclockwise loop from his house skirting the lake and then west into the woods and toward Faring Park. As Mr. Anderson promised, we did a tempo run: fifteen minutes of an easy pace, then twenty of pushing to peak, and then a fifteen minute cooldown. We didn‘t talk. Mr. Anderson said that distracted me from paying attention to how my body felt close to peak, something he said I needed to recognize: ?You have to understand when you still have more to give. Winning is a combination of ability, determination, and strategy. You won‘t win unless you know when to pull the trigger. ?
Whatever. I was just happy being outside. The run was better than the day before; the stinging air smelled of juniper and fir. My body felt sleek and powerful. I was a panther gliding over the earth, racing through the forest.
Our return route had us going southeast and then north around the top hump of his lake. By then it was past nine and I could see the lake through the trees, the surface of the water mica-bright now that the morning mist had burned away. That‘s when I noticed a meandering side trail, hemmed with balsam and tamarack, leading down to the lake. Bolts of sunlight speared through gaps in the trees, and I thought I saw a sparkle of glass. I remembered the images I‘d pulled up on Google Earth, that small cabin nestled in the woods.
Back at the house, there were fresh towels in the guest bathroom and orange juice in the kitchen. Afterward, we went to a farmhouse ten minutes past Faring Park that had been converted into a bistro, with a tinkly little bell above the door, a display case of homemade bread and buns, and a small kitchen. The lady behind the counter looked up as we came in.
?Mitch,? she said, and then her gray eyes slid to me. ?One of your girls??
The way she said girls made me squirm. Mr. Anderson only chuckled and put a proprietary hand on my shoulder, just like a coach. ?What‘s the matter, Adelaide? Jealous??
Adelaide snorted. ?Twenty years too late for that. Isn‘t this a little late in the season??
?Never too late to add a great runner to the team. Adelaide, Jenna. Jenna, this is Adelaide, best short-order cook in the county and a notorious gossip. ?
?Hello,? I said. ?Nice to meet you. ?
?I doubt that very much. On the other hand, Mitch is right. I am the best short-order cook in the county. ? Adelaide showed Mr. Anderson a thin smile. ?And how‘s Kathy??
?She‘s fine. Visiting her dad in Minneapolis again,? said Mr. Anderson and then that got Adelaide talking about the time her father got the cancer and how long he‘d taken to die. Then we ordered, filled thick white mugs with coffee and wandered into a small dining room. A cheery fire snapped and popped in a stone fireplace. Other than two older guys in coveralls at a far table near the window, we were the only customers. We took our coffee to a table right in front of the fireplace.
For a few awkward moments, we didn‘t say anything and I think it struck me then how strange this was, like I‘d slipped into an alternative universe or something, a place where people called Mr. Anderson by his first name and knew what he liked to eat (pancakes with strawberries and link sausage) without having to ask. I bet there was a bartender somewhere who knew just exactly how Mr. Anderson liked his martinis, if he drank them. As I thought about that—about the sly way Adelaide had brought up Mrs.
Anderson—a tiny nip of jealousy bit the back of my neck. One of Mr. Anderson‘s girls?
That made me sound like a, well, a prostitute or something.
?I‘m sorry about that. ?
I blinked away from my thoughts. Mr. Anderson was watching me. ?I‘m okay,? I said and then took a sip of my coffee. It wasn‘t as good as Mr. Anderson‘s.
?Yes, but it bugs you. ?
?A little. ?
He sighed. ?I should‘ve known Adelaide couldn‘t keep it buttoned. Summers especially, I sometimes get the team together for a run and then bring them here for breakfast. ?
?You don‘t need to tell me this,? I lied.
?Yes, I do. I don‘t like the way Adelaide treated you. I don‘t like what she implied and when I come back, alone, I think she and I will have a little talk. ?
?I don‘t want to get her into trouble. ?
?Adelaide makes her own—? He broke off as another woman brought our food. We thanked her, waited until she‘d refilled our mugs and gone, and then Mr. Anderson began buttering his pancakes. ?Kathy‘s been gone an awful lot. At this point, you might say she‘s moved back to Minneapolis for the duration. Her dad‘s pretty bad, and her mom‘s dead and she‘s the only kid, so . . . ?
He doused his pancakes with syrup, forked out a bite, and chewed. He smiled and said, ?Adelaide may be a bit tough to take, but she does make one helluva pancake. ? He thumbed his plate toward me. ?Want a bite??
Yes. The pancakes smelled warm and strawberry-sweet. Saliva puddled under my tongue. ?No, thanks. ?
?Don‘t know what you‘re missing. Besides, a runner needs her carbs. ?
?About that . . . ? I salted my eggs, over easy, wishing they were pancakes. ?I haven‘t decided to join the team. ?
?Look, I think you‘d be an asset, but I‘m not going to pressure you. There are five races left. If you don‘t run for me this fall, maybe you will in the spring. Spring comes and you don‘t want to join up, it‘s fine. That won‘t change anything. I‘ll be running for most of the winter and if you‘d like to keep running together, that would be great. If not, that‘s okay, too. ?
?I‘d like to keep running. It‘s nice to run with—? I chickened out at the last second.
?Someone else,? I said, and hated how lame I sounded.
Mr. Anderson‘s smile seemed genuine. ?I like running with you, too. Now, eat before your food gets cold. ?
Adelaide was a jerk, but her food was terrific and I vacuumed up my eggs, sausage, and hash browns in record time. Mr. Anderson watched as I cut a slice of buttered whole-wheat toast into long strips. ?Soldiers,? I said, sopping up egg yolk with one. ?Meryl says that‘s how they eat runny yolk in England. ?
?Yeah?? and then Mr. Anderson reached across, fingered up a soldier, swirled it in yellow goo, popped the drippy bread into his mouth, gave a meditative chew. ?Not bad,? he said around bread. He swallowed, then licked a dribble from his right pinky. ?Trade you a couple soldiers for some pancake. ?
?That would be nice,? I said.
b
Over a third mug of coffee:
Mr. Anderson asked about my parents, Meryl, Meryl‘s farm, what it was like to paddle around Lake Superior. ?I‘ve always wanted to do that,? he said, toying with a sugar packet. ?When I moved out here, I meant to make the drive, but things always got in the way. ?
