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Authors: Barbara Delinsky
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different.
His eyes studied the path ahead as it gently rounded the river. To either side the Saturday-morning traffic had begun to pick up. Where was she? Had she possibly turned off and headed toward Harvard Square? But why would someone in her right mind do that, when the river run was straight and clear and, with its own path, far less hazardous than the side streets?
Then he saw her, a small figure ahead on the bridge crossing to the other side of the Charles. He ran faster, wondering whether he would collapse when he finally caught her, but pushing himself nonetheless. Her pace was steady. She seemed to be enjoying the day as much as he would have had he not been engaged in this absurd chase. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. He’d stopped chasing women years ago. This one was his neighbor. That could be good news, or bad. C. J. Quinn, said her mailbox. Carly, said one of their neighbors, who had come up the front path the evening before as Ryan had stood staring after her.
“Uh, excuse me?” he’d called out as the older gentleman passed, a briefcase in his hand, the evening edition under his arm. “Could you tell me…uh, I wondered…the woman who just ran inside…does she live here?” The outburst had been impulsive, devoid of pride or pretense.
The gentleman stopped on the single stone step before the door. He looked once at the fast-disappearing figure within, then back at Ryan. “Is there a special reason you ask?” he countered tactfully.
It was enough of a positive response for Ryan—in fact, he admired the man’s protectiveness. Casting an explanatory glance toward the carton by the door, he approached. “I’m just moving in myself. She, uh, she seemed frightened by something. I just wondered if she’ll be all right.”
“Just moving in? The Amidons’s place?”
“That’s right.”
A firm hand was extended his way. “I’m Ted Arbuckle. My wife and I live in 103.”
He met the clasp. “Ryan Cornell. And…?” He cocked his head toward the lobby.
“Carly Quinn. She’s in 304. Nice girl. Quiet.”
“Will she be all right? I mean, is there someone up there waiting for her?”
“For Carly?” He shook his head. “Nope. She’s alone. But she’ll be all right. Seems pretty self-sufficient.”
Self-sufficient, perhaps. Spry, without a doubt. He admired her stride as he slowly closed in. She ran lightly, with an athletic kind of grace. Not quite deer-like, since she was more petite than long legged, but then there had been sheer terror on her face last night, as though she were indeed facing the hunter with the bow.
Carly heard the rhythmic slap of his step as he approached and shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. He felt a moment’s remorse that he’d been the one to frighten her again. Then he moved forward, passed her, glanced back and slowed.
“Hi,” he offered, relieved to be able to match her saner pace.
She stared at him for a minute, as though trying to control some inner urge to race onto Storrow Drive, arms waving wildly, to stop the nearest driver and seek help. He hadn’t quite decided whether she was afraid of him, or of men in general when, with the faintest tilt of her head, she slowly smiled.
His day was made. “You do well,” he said, dropping his gaze momentarily to the slender legs that hadn’t broken pace.
Her smile lingered to soften her gibe. “For a woman?”
“Now, now, I didn’t say that,” he chided with the gentleness she seemed to inspire. “There’s many a man who would have been sitting back there on the edge of the bridge trying to catch his breath after having come half the distance you have.” He paused, then took the plunge. “I’ve been trying to catch you for a mile.”
Her smile faded slowly as wariness returned. “You have? Do you run often?”
“Every day. But never here before. And never with someone else. Two firsts,” he declared on a triumphant note.
She couldn’t resist looking up at him
His eyes studied the path ahead as it gently rounded the river. To either side the Saturday-morning traffic had begun to pick up. Where was she? Had she possibly turned off and headed toward Harvard Square? But why would someone in her right mind do that, when the river run was straight and clear and, with its own path, far less hazardous than the side streets?
Then he saw her, a small figure ahead on the bridge crossing to the other side of the Charles. He ran faster, wondering whether he would collapse when he finally caught her, but pushing himself nonetheless. Her pace was steady. She seemed to be enjoying the day as much as he would have had he not been engaged in this absurd chase. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. He’d stopped chasing women years ago. This one was his neighbor. That could be good news, or bad. C. J. Quinn, said her mailbox. Carly, said one of their neighbors, who had come up the front path the evening before as Ryan had stood staring after her.
“Uh, excuse me?” he’d called out as the older gentleman passed, a briefcase in his hand, the evening edition under his arm. “Could you tell me…uh, I wondered…the woman who just ran inside…does she live here?” The outburst had been impulsive, devoid of pride or pretense.
The gentleman stopped on the single stone step before the door. He looked once at the fast-disappearing figure within, then back at Ryan. “Is there a special reason you ask?” he countered tactfully.
It was enough of a positive response for Ryan—in fact, he admired the man’s protectiveness. Casting an explanatory glance toward the carton by the door, he approached. “I’m just moving in myself. She, uh, she seemed frightened by something. I just wondered if she’ll be all right.”
“Just moving in? The Amidons’s place?”
“That’s right.”
A firm hand was extended his way. “I’m Ted Arbuckle. My wife and I live in 103.”
He met the clasp. “Ryan Cornell. And…?” He cocked his head toward the lobby.
“Carly Quinn. She’s in 304. Nice girl. Quiet.”
“Will she be all right? I mean, is there someone up there waiting for her?”
“For Carly?” He shook his head. “Nope. She’s alone. But she’ll be all right. Seems pretty self-sufficient.”
Self-sufficient, perhaps. Spry, without a doubt. He admired her stride as he slowly closed in. She ran lightly, with an athletic kind of grace. Not quite deer-like, since she was more petite than long legged, but then there had been sheer terror on her face last night, as though she were indeed facing the hunter with the bow.
Carly heard the rhythmic slap of his step as he approached and shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. He felt a moment’s remorse that he’d been the one to frighten her again. Then he moved forward, passed her, glanced back and slowed.
“Hi,” he offered, relieved to be able to match her saner pace.
She stared at him for a minute, as though trying to control some inner urge to race onto Storrow Drive, arms waving wildly, to stop the nearest driver and seek help. He hadn’t quite decided whether she was afraid of him, or of men in general when, with the faintest tilt of her head, she slowly smiled.
His day was made. “You do well,” he said, dropping his gaze momentarily to the slender legs that hadn’t broken pace.
Her smile lingered to soften her gibe. “For a woman?”
“Now, now, I didn’t say that,” he chided with the gentleness she seemed to inspire. “There’s many a man who would have been sitting back there on the edge of the bridge trying to catch his breath after having come half the distance you have.” He paused, then took the plunge. “I’ve been trying to catch you for a mile.”
Her smile faded slowly as wariness returned. “You have? Do you run often?”
“Every day. But never here before. And never with someone else. Two firsts,” he declared on a triumphant note.
She couldn’t resist looking up at him
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