Drowning Instinct(37)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

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.‖

―Where did you live before?‖

―Kenosha. I wasn‘t supposed to be a teacher. My dad‘s company was down there.

They manufactured electroless nickel, the stuff they use to coat hard drives, automotive differentials. I was supposed to take over right out of grad school. I did, for about three years. As soon as my old man retired from the board of directors, I sold the damn thing and made more money than God.‖ He chuckled. ―I thought my father was going to have a stroke, but I got the last laugh: money and my freedom. Well, most of it. I would never be young again, but . . . I guess you could say I got back at him for yanking me out of Stanford.‖

No adult had ever talked to me so frankly before. ―You couldn‘t have stayed? At Stanford, I mean?‖

―Sure, but I didn‘t think I could at the time.‖ He tossed the sugar packet back into its little wicker basket. ―That‘s one thing you learn as you get older. Parents expect they‘ll have the same influence when you‘re thirty as when you‘re ten. Some parents, the good ones, are able to let go. Others don‘t like becoming obsolete and do their best to convince you that you can‘t get along without them. That‘s where I made my mistake. I was afraid, pure and simple. I bought into my dad‘s idea that I couldn‘t make it without his help. True, things have worked out okay. Anyone looking would think I have this perfect, fairy-tale life: money, land, a lovely house, a great wife. But all that‘s surface stuff. It‘s like watching someone on the water who you think is fine because there‘s no fuss, no screaming, when, really, the guy‘s about twenty seconds away from drowning.‖