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Authors: Barbara Delinsky
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anything more.”
“I can relax,” she stated, having already begun.
“Yes.” He chose not to enlighten her on the man’s personal situation. As it was, he’d said enough on the matter of Carly’s social life earlier that night.
“Thanks, Sam.”
“No sweat, Carly. I’ll be in touch at the first of the week. You’ll remember to call me if there’s any problem between now and then?”
“Sure. Take care.”
She hung up the phone with a smile on her face, feeling buoyant despite the hour. There was, then, nothing to worry about. She’d needlessly gotten herself in a stew.
Setting her needlepoint aside, she ran a hot bath, which she proceeded to lace with a double dose of scented oil. Her clothes fell quickly to the floor. She piled her hair atop her head. Then she stepped in, sank down and stretched out in the luxurious liquid heat, breathing a long, lingering sigh of delight as she laid her head back and closed her eyes.
Security. Relaxation. What precious things they were. She’d been her own worst enemy today. She owed herself a treat tomorrow. A movie? She could take in a matinee. Or she could drive down to the waterfront and take a cruise around the harbor. Would it be too cold? The museum. That was it! If she did everything she had to by noon, she would take her life in her hands and go to the museum.
Four
s ATURDAY MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND SEASONABLY warm, the kind of rich autumn day when anyone old enough to remember pined for the smell of burning leaves. Ryan Cornell remembered. He’d been raised in the verdant Berkshires and knew well the joy of the leaf pile on the lawn, the delight of running and jumping and vanishing in its midst, then sitting back to breathe in that incomparable smell when the pile had been raked to the curb and lit.
At times like these, he missed that simple life, so pure, so straightforward, so filled with love. Sighing, he opened the window farther and leaned out, inhaling the fresh air; its scent was a poignant reminder of all he’d lost. Before long would come winter, with its snow and slush and mess. How he hated that time, coming in tired and cold at the end of the day to a dark and empty house. It was just as well Tom was back. It had been a year, about time he got a place of his own. Perhaps he’d enjoy city life. More action, more diversion, less time to brood on all he couldn’t change.
A movement beneath him caught his eye, the bob of a thick auburn ponytail as a slender figure in a sweat shirt, shorts and running shoes moved down the front walk to the street then looked to either side before breaking into an easy jog and crossing to the river path.
Ryan whipped his head in, remembering to duck only after he’d hit the window with a thud. Blindly rubbing the injured spot, he ran to the bedroom and began to rummage madly through an open suitcase. Several knit shirts were tossed aside, as was a hapless pair of jeans. Fishing out his running shorts at last, he tugged them on, hopping precariously first on one foot then the other, then grabbed for his sneakers and laced them in record time. The sweat shirt he’d discarded the night before hung on the doorknob. He swept it up as he ran past and was halfway down the stairs before he’d managed to wriggle into it.
By the time he hit the fresh air he was well warmed up. Breaking into a run, he bolted down the walk, dodged his way across Memorial Drive, and lit into the river path with an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in months. He looked ahead, scanning the path in vain. He glanced down at his watch, only to remember that it was back on the bedside table. At a guess, she had no more than two or three minutes on him.
He quickened his pace, grateful that he’d managed to stay in good shape. But then, running had kept him sane. It was his outlet. Aggression, frustration, helplessness—he regularly battered them into the ground only to find, with each new day, a rerun. Perhaps today would be
“I can relax,” she stated, having already begun.
“Yes.” He chose not to enlighten her on the man’s personal situation. As it was, he’d said enough on the matter of Carly’s social life earlier that night.
“Thanks, Sam.”
“No sweat, Carly. I’ll be in touch at the first of the week. You’ll remember to call me if there’s any problem between now and then?”
“Sure. Take care.”
She hung up the phone with a smile on her face, feeling buoyant despite the hour. There was, then, nothing to worry about. She’d needlessly gotten herself in a stew.
Setting her needlepoint aside, she ran a hot bath, which she proceeded to lace with a double dose of scented oil. Her clothes fell quickly to the floor. She piled her hair atop her head. Then she stepped in, sank down and stretched out in the luxurious liquid heat, breathing a long, lingering sigh of delight as she laid her head back and closed her eyes.
Security. Relaxation. What precious things they were. She’d been her own worst enemy today. She owed herself a treat tomorrow. A movie? She could take in a matinee. Or she could drive down to the waterfront and take a cruise around the harbor. Would it be too cold? The museum. That was it! If she did everything she had to by noon, she would take her life in her hands and go to the museum.
Four
s ATURDAY MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND SEASONABLY warm, the kind of rich autumn day when anyone old enough to remember pined for the smell of burning leaves. Ryan Cornell remembered. He’d been raised in the verdant Berkshires and knew well the joy of the leaf pile on the lawn, the delight of running and jumping and vanishing in its midst, then sitting back to breathe in that incomparable smell when the pile had been raked to the curb and lit.
At times like these, he missed that simple life, so pure, so straightforward, so filled with love. Sighing, he opened the window farther and leaned out, inhaling the fresh air; its scent was a poignant reminder of all he’d lost. Before long would come winter, with its snow and slush and mess. How he hated that time, coming in tired and cold at the end of the day to a dark and empty house. It was just as well Tom was back. It had been a year, about time he got a place of his own. Perhaps he’d enjoy city life. More action, more diversion, less time to brood on all he couldn’t change.
A movement beneath him caught his eye, the bob of a thick auburn ponytail as a slender figure in a sweat shirt, shorts and running shoes moved down the front walk to the street then looked to either side before breaking into an easy jog and crossing to the river path.
Ryan whipped his head in, remembering to duck only after he’d hit the window with a thud. Blindly rubbing the injured spot, he ran to the bedroom and began to rummage madly through an open suitcase. Several knit shirts were tossed aside, as was a hapless pair of jeans. Fishing out his running shorts at last, he tugged them on, hopping precariously first on one foot then the other, then grabbed for his sneakers and laced them in record time. The sweat shirt he’d discarded the night before hung on the doorknob. He swept it up as he ran past and was halfway down the stairs before he’d managed to wriggle into it.
By the time he hit the fresh air he was well warmed up. Breaking into a run, he bolted down the walk, dodged his way across Memorial Drive, and lit into the river path with an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in months. He looked ahead, scanning the path in vain. He glanced down at his watch, only to remember that it was back on the bedside table. At a guess, she had no more than two or three minutes on him.
He quickened his pace, grateful that he’d managed to stay in good shape. But then, running had kept him sane. It was his outlet. Aggression, frustration, helplessness—he regularly battered them into the ground only to find, with each new day, a rerun. Perhaps today would be
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