Mean Streak

She’d had Jeff’s remains cremated and forewent a service of any kind. An outpouring of grief would have been hypocritical. She received only a handful of condolence cards. Her polite acknowledgments were as obligatory as the cards themselves. His belongings were sealed into boxes and delivered to a refuge for the homeless. The only sadness she felt was for Jeff himself. He had lived—and died—joylessly and lovelessly.

She sold their house quickly and moved into a townhouse in a charming gated community in Buckhead.

She and Dr. Neal James had invited a married couple, he an OB-GYN, she an infertility specialist, to join their partnership. They had been excellent additions; the clinic was thriving.

Norman and Will were charged, tried, and convicted of statutory rape. They received the maximum sentence, due in large part to Lisa’s courageous courtroom testimony. She and Pauline had moved into an apartment in Drakeland, paid for by Emory. Too proud to take charity without “chippin’ in,” as Pauline put it, she worked mornings at a nursing home, helping to prepare and serve the noon meal.

Lisa kept her weekend job at Subway. Her sessions with a counselor who specialized in sexual abuse victims were also underwritten by Emory, who considered the payments an investment in the woman Lisa would become.

She remained near the finish line a while longer, extending congratulations to runners as they came in. She promised an interview to the host of a local TV morning talk show. “I’ll have my people call your people,” he said, and she laughed.

And then, “Good race, Doc.”

She turned, and there he was, standing directly behind her.

The carnival atmosphere at the finish line receded, leaving nothing in the spectrum of her senses except his voice, his face, and the remarkable eyes, that were, as always, steady on her.

He was dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a plain white shirt with the cuffs of the sleeves rolled back. He looked wonderfully, ruggedly beautiful, and she wanted to strike him and climb him in equal measure.

They stared at each other for so long, she became aware of attracting the curiosity of onlookers. “Thank you. It was nice of you to stop and say so.” Although her heart was breaking, she turned and started walking away.

He fell into step beside her. “Where’s your car parked?”

“A few blocks from here.”

“My

truck’s closer.”

Without argument, she let him guide her, still not quite believing that this wasn’t a dream.

“Quite a turnout,” he remarked as they threaded their way through one of the designated parking areas.

“Since this is the first race benefitting this particular charity, I’m amazed by the support and the numbers of runners we had sign up. We raised seven hundred fifty thousand dollars in pledges.”

“Seven hundred fifty-two.” She looked up at him. He said, “I didn’t get my pledge in until this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Here we are.”

“You’re back to driving your pickup, I see.”

“Nobody’s after me.”

He helped her up into the passenger seat, then went around and got in.

She said, “As you leave the lot, take a left.”

But he didn’t turn on the ignition. He just sat there, staring through the windshield. She would turn to stone before she asked where he’d been, what he’d been doing, so she waited him out, and after a time he turned his head toward her.

“Rebecca told me she’d written to you.”

“She got my address from Jack Connell. She wanted to thank me for ‘knocking sense into you.’”

He snuffled. “Sounds like her.” He arched his eyebrow. “She reached you through Connell, huh? She mention him in her letter?”

“Several times.”