Chapter FIVE
Nick Warrington slowed. He wanted to be careful. He was surprised—“amazed” might be a better word—that he was with this woman.
“Keep going?” he asked.
Peggy Gallagher looked up at him, a shiny line of perspiration clinging to her upper lip.
“What are you, a machine?” she asked. She waved her hand in front of her face, soap opera style. “What will people say when I’m walking funny tomorrow?”
Nick blushed. Less than an hour together and she felt comfortable enough for a double entendre. But maybe that wasn’t her intent at all. He told himself not to make assumptions.
The Woodlake High School track was filling up with walkers, some carrying pink banners. Many wore casual street clothes and sneakers, but most were dressed in running outfits. A lot of the women sported matching nylon pants and jackets. As far as Nick was concerned, none looked as athletically slim as Peggy did.
“As cochair, it might look bad if I sit down now,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t take a break.”
Peggy nodded. “Tell me again—how many laps are in a set?”
“Four. Each set confirms a pledge.”
“And how many have we done?”
“Sets? Or laps?”
“Sets, silly.”
Nick wished he didn’t blush so easily. Her “silly” was an endearment, a caress.
“Well, together, we’ve done three-quarters of one. But I walked three sets before you got here.” He hoped that didn’t sound like he was annoyed. She had been more than an hour late, but he hadn’t been irritated so much as . . . expectant? “I committed to five, so I had to get here early,” he said quickly. “I got someone to handle cleanup so we can leave when I finish.” Nick bit his lip. My god, I’m acting like I run Exxon. “We could grab a bite somewhere. Maybe the Filling Station.”
“You like the Filling Station?” Peggy asked.
Had his choice of diners said something about him? He and Marilyn used to go to the Filling Station frequently. They switched to the Parthenon when the Filling Station’s Greek omelets started getting too runny and too stingy with the black olives. Marilyn had to have her Greek omelets. Nick hadn’t been to the Parthenon since the last time he and Marilyn ate there. He had no plans to return and wasn’t about to suggest it as an alternative.
“Anywhere works for me,” he said. “I just figured that since we’d be wearing our running stuff, we probably wouldn’t want any place too fancy.”
“Then the Filling Station is perfect.”
Peggy waved at someone on the side of the track. Nick saw Peter Jackson, standing next to the “Walk for a Cure” banner, wave back.
“You know him?” Nick asked, immediately regretting the question. Obviously, she knew him.
“My ex and I were friends with him and his ex,” Peggy answered. “She moved away with her new husband. Pete’s still a friend.”
A friend, she had said, as in No big deal. And it wasn’t, as far as Nick was concerned. After all, he had plenty of friends who were women. Well, he could have plenty of female friends, if he put his mind to it.
“Why don’t we do one more lap together before I take a break,” Peggy suggested.
Something about the way she said “together” made the other walkers disappear for a moment. A cool breeze ruffled through his T-shirt.
“Sure,” he said.
Peggy removed a pair of sunglasses from her pocket. “Getting too bright out here.” She adjusted her baseball cap and tugged gently on the blond ponytail that stuck out of the opening in back. Nick wondered how such simple actions could look so . . . feminine.
She unzipped her running jacket. Underneath, she was wearing a pink tennis shirt. Marilyn had not been a tennis player. Her sports were running and swimming. They had, in fact, met at a Bowling Green State University swim meet. Nick was covering it for the BG News, the campus newspaper. The women had just won a division title and Nick needed a quote from the team’s captain. Marilyn answered all his questions without making him feel like a nerd, and Nick would forever remember being distracted by the smell of chlorine in her hair, her slightly bloodshot eyes, the closeness of her near-naked body, and most of all the reddish brown freckles that, sprinkled lightly across her forehead and cheekbones, formed a snowy pattern that forced your eyes down her neck to the rounded smoothness of her shoulders and the soft valley formed by the ridges of her collarbone. He ended the interview by asking her out. She declined. But he had been a persistent nerd, and eventually he would spend countless hours running his fingers over her skin, over the freckles he was not allowed to call “cute,” marveling at the patterns, exploring the places they led him.
“So, how did you get involved in the charity? Son or daughter?” Peggy asked.
Nick frowned. Was she asking if he’d lost a son or daughter?
“My son picked this charity for his community project,” Peggy continued before he could respond. “Bobby Gallagher? On the lacrosse team? Maybe your son or daughter knows him.”
“Oh, I see. Actually, I don’t have any kids. We just never . . .” Answer the question, idiot. “I actually got involved in this through my wife.”
“You mean your ex-wife, unless you were at the Suddenly Single meeting under false pretenses, naughty boy.” She chuckled.
Nick felt a drop of sweat run down his back.
“Actually, not my ex-wife. My wife. She, um . . . Well, we got involved in this when she was diagnosed.”
“Oh my god.” Peggy leaned forward and placed her hand just below her throat, as if the surprise had knocked the breath out of her. “I am so sorry! Here I assumed you were like everyone else around here—divorced, and glad of it.”
Nick laughed. “No, no,” he said. “We’d been married for fifteen years. Hardly ever fought. But when we did, we made up quickly. Always followed that saying about never going to bed—”
Nick stopped. He was speaking about Marilyn to another woman. He had said the word “bed.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk like this.”
“No, no. That’s all right. How long has it been since she died?”
“Three years.” It was, more accurately, three years and two months. He was learning to not be so specific, so absurdly aware of exactly how long he’d been without her, just as he was learning not to cringe every time someone said “died” when talking about Marilyn. That morning, while lacing up his running shoes, he stared at Marilyn’s Reeboks, which he hadn’t yet donated. He had vowed not to even think about Marilyn for at least the rest of the day.
“Three years,” Peggy said. “You must be getting sick of the dating scene by now.”
“I don’t exactly—”
“I’ve only been divorced nine months and, frankly, the whole thing is worse than high school,” Peggy continued. She pointed an accusatory finger at Nick. “You guys never change. You want one thing and one thing only, and you just can’t take no for an answer.”
Next to the small brick concession stand, a young couple was stretching. The woman sat with her legs straight in front of her, holding on to her toes. The man was bent over at the waist, fingers grasping at his feet. He looked at her and said something. Nick saw her laugh. He smiled.
“Actually,” he said, “you’re my first.”
Peggy stopped. She was nearly rear-ended by the walker behind her, a hefty woman wearing a dozen or so pink ribbons on her chest. The woman scowled, stepped to her right, and lumbered past.
“No way! This is your first date in three years?”
Nick nodded, the shame weakening his knees. He knew the picture he was painting: the dead wife, the long grieving period, the continued involvement in the charity for the disease that killed her. Upbeat, man, he told himself. Don’t be a drag.
“C’mon,” he said, forcing energy into this voice and his step. “Just a half lap to go.” He strained to think of a different subject.
“Wow, three years,” Peggy said. “That’s admirable, I guess.” She picked up the pace slightly. “So what made you finally decide to get back in the game?”
Was that what this was, a game? Nick didn’t like to think of it that way, but he supposed Peggy was right. After all, convincing Marilyn to go out with him had been a game of sorts, with all its feints and dodges, its timing of certain maneuvers, the planning for the move after the next move, the constant pursuit. Peggy was right to call it a game. She was being straightforward. An admirable characteristic. One to be emulated.
“I saw you at the Suddenly Single meeting, and then the next night at the steering committee meeting for this. Sorry how this might sound, but I took it as kind of a sign. You’re . . . very attractive.” Nick waited. Had she heard him?
“Steering committee? Oh, yeah. I had to drag Bobby there. I keep telling him that he has to show up at more than just one event if he wants to put this charity on his application. What if an admissions officer asks about involvement? But he was too busy, of course, with his new girlfriend. So I helped him out a little by going, you know, as kind of his proxy or whatever.” She shook her head. “Like I said—one thing on the brain.”
“Well, not mine,” Nick said. “I mean, that’s not why I asked you out.” He didn’t bother trying to stop. He’d just told a woman not his wife that he found her attractive. There was nothing left to lose. “I mean, you’re extremely attractive, like I said. But that’s not why I asked you out. I mean, not the main reason. The main reason is I figured you were the kind of person who gets involved, who believes in giving back. I admire that. That’s the main reason I asked.”
“So, you would have asked me out even if I looked like a line-backer?” Peggy smiled.
“Well, no, of course not.” Nick paused. “I don’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just . . .” He forced a laugh. “Marilyn used to say that my mouth sometimes runs faster than my brain. She had me pegged pretty well. Fortunately, we could be together for hours and not say anything, and it was all right. Anyway, I guess I’m a little out of practice. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry so much,” Peggy said.
Nick appreciated that. He was beginning to think that Peggy Gallagher, in addition to being pretty, was someone who didn’t care a lot about small talk or choosing words carefully. She seemed nice. And he wondered if, all things considered, Marilyn would like her.
“But as a woman and a friend,” she said, “let me offer some advice. You might want to watch how much you talk about your wife. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s sweet. But other women might not want to hear about this perfect woman. Which no woman is, by the way.”
Nick felt his face redden yet again. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”
“So here’s a question.”
“Okay.” Nick liked Peggy’s breezy way of moving on to a new topic.
“When you asked me out, of course I had to check you out. So I asked Peter about you. Maybe he’s the one that told me you’re divorced. Anyway, he said you’re an editor of some kind? That you work for one of the major magazines?”
Not exactly correct, but not entirely wrong, either, now that he was doing more freelance editorial work for the magazine that used to employ him full-time. But now was not the time to get into the differences between freelance and full-time. There would be opportunities later, he hoped, to correct the perception about his work that she apparently held—and admired.
“Right,” he said. “I do a bit of writing, too.”
“That must be so interesting.”
Nick attempted what he hoped was a modest shrug of the shoulders. “It’s not as glamorous as a lot of people think,” he said. “But, yeah. I’ve enjoyed it. And thank god for that. I kind of threw myself into it after Marilyn died.” His stomach dropped. Enough about your dead wife.
“I have an idea . . . a kind of favor, actually, for our next date,” Peggy said.
He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d said, “How about letting your wife rest in peace,” but instead she had said “next date,” an indication that he hadn’t completely turned her off yet. And was it his imagination, or had she moved closer to him?
“When you come over to pick me up, maybe you could spend a few minutes with Bobby?”
“Bobby?”
“My son—remember, silly?” Now she definitely moved closer. “He’s getting nowhere with his college essay. Maybe you could help him? He won’t listen to any of my suggestions, of course. What do I know? I’m just the woman who made sure he did his homework and drove him all over the blasted state for his lacrosse games.”
Nick tried to picture him. The name conjured up a little boy. But Bobby was a jock applying for college. He had to be seventeen or eighteen and probably bigger than Nick himself.
“Of course, I’m not asking you to write the essay for him,” Peggy continued. “I would never do that. Just give him a few ideas, from your perspective as a professional, on what a good essay looks like. Maybe an outline or something. He’s a smart kid. Once you give him an idea—maybe even a really, really rough draft—he can take it from there. Although it would be wonderful if you wouldn’t mind taking a look at it when he’s done. Then we’ll go on our date.”
Our date, Marilyn used to say that to him. What shall we do on our date? Dinner? Movie? Stay home and . . . relax?
“That sounds good, Marilyn.”
Peggy looked at him sharply, then—with what he could see was a conscious effort—softened her expression. Nick wondered if a jump from the top of the nearby grandstands would be enough to kill him.
“Great,” Peggy said. “It’s a date.”
They walked the rest of the lap in silence. Nick kept his mouth shut for fear that he’d mention Marilyn again, or perhaps even entertain her with a little story about his dead mother and how she got that way. Or how his father hardly ever acknowledged the fact that Marilyn had died, as if the death of his own wife were somehow a more significant loss than Nick’s. Not that Nick had given his father a chance lately. It must have been a year since he even spoke with him. But he just couldn’t take his father’s impatience whenever he tried to talk about Marilyn to the one person who might be able to empathize. “You’re a young man,” his father would say. “Get out there and find someone else.”
Someone else. As if Marilyn were something replaceable.
“Well, that’s a lap,” Peggy said when they reached the starting line. “I think I’ll sit for a while. You go on without me.”
Nick tried not to watch her as she walked to the sideline. A date. She had said it at least twice. The word sounded different coming from her than it had from Marilyn, but it still sounded wonderful. Nick picked up the pace. One more set.
His cell phone rang. When he read the caller ID, he almost decided against answering.
“We have to talk. Where can we meet?”
“Hello, little sister. Nice to hear the dulcet tones.”
“Sorry. I’m a little scattered at the moment. But we really do have to talk.”
Nick glanced over to the side of the track. Peter handed Peggy a bottle of water. It seemed to Nick that he was standing closer to her than necessary for that particular task.
“What is it now, Marcy?”
“What is that supposed to mean—what is it now?”
“Sorry,” Nick said quickly, hoping to cut Marcy off before she really got going. “I didn’t mean how that sounded. It’s just that I’m a little busy right now.”
One of the things he had promised her whenever he helped—especially with money—was that she’d never have to worry about his acting like their father had whenever he granted them a favor: the great man stooping down to help some unworthy.
“I’ll kick your ass later,” Marcy said. “But we have to talk.”
“About?”
“I was at Dad’s yesterday.”
“And?”
“And we have to talk, damn it. I’m not going to tell you this stuff over the phone. Where do you want to meet?”
“When?”
“Are you on some sort of one-word diet? Today! Now, if you can.”
“I told you I’m busy.”
“I hear wind. What are you doing, raking leaves?”
“I’m at the track.”
“You always carry your cell phone when you jog?”
“I’m at the walkathon. I think I sent you a flyer about it.”
Marcy took a moment before replying. “Was that supposed to make me feel guilty?”
“You asked.” Nick looked to the sidelines. He didn’t see Peggy.
“When’s it end?” Marcy asked.
“Well, I’m almost done here. But I have plans. Kind of a date.”
Nick cringed. He hadn’t had time to suppress the urge to tell someone, and it was too late for the undo button.
“Hey, Nick, that is so great.” Her entire tone had changed, as he knew it would. “I think that’s really great. If you don’t mind my saying so, it’s about time. Really. I’m sure Marilyn would want—”
“Enough.”
“Sorry. Who’s the lucky woman? Anyone I know?”
“No. Her name’s Peggy Gallagher.”
Marcy hmm’d. “Blond, right? About five-five. Thin. Probably hasn’t eaten a doughnut in, like, ten years?”
“How do you know her?”
“You’ve got your track shoes on, right? Run like hell, Nick.”
Here she goes, he thought. Knows what’s best for everyone else. “She’s nice,” he said.
“Listen—this is me talking to you. Wasn’t I the one who warned you about Betsy Haffner—Betsy Blue Balls? I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Jesus, Marcy. Can we please graduate from high school?”
“I’m not saying you’re going to have that particular problem. But I know Peggy Gallagher from one of the school committees. Her kid’s a couple years older than April. Anyway, she ran the committee like she was secretary of state. She got all Stalin if people argued with her. I learned real quick not to mess.”
“She’s nothing like that.”
“Wait a minute! I think her kid is on one of the sports teams. People said she was messing around with the—”
Nick turned his cell off entirely. Once Marcy felt threatened in any way, she lied. And in this case Marcy felt threatened for Marilyn. Marcy had loved Marilyn. Who didn’t?
But it was time for him to move on with his life.
At the far turn of the track, he could check out the sidelines without being obvious. Peggy was sitting next to Peter Jackson. They were laughing. Nick imagined that Peter was planning his strategy. Go ahead, Big Pete. Fantasize. But she’s leaving with me.
A flock of ravens from the field inside the track rose suddenly, wings flapping as they zigzagged overhead before diving back down to earth.