Climbing Heartbreak Hill Page 9

  “I haven’t rented a move in so long. What’d you get?” Tara rubbed her hand over her forehead.

  “Nothing. If I wanted something crappy, I’d have chosen one of my mom’s exercise videos.”

  “I hear ya. Not that I’ve had time, but I haven’t seen a good movie in forever. Why don’t we take these to the break room?” She threw herself onto her feet and snatched the bags from the chair. “I don’t want to spill anything on my desk.”

  Ryan followed her down the hall, appreciating the way her skirt slipped across her behind. She deposited the bags on the table and pulled a container of french fries out of one. She kicked off her shoes and prepared to sit on the futon, but she hopped up a moment later.

  “I should lock the front door. I don’t want anyone else stumbling in.” She hurried down the hall in her stocking feet. He swallowed. Suddenly, the office seemed a whole lot more intimate. Her pumps lay on their sides under the table. The high heels made his ankles and other parts ache, but they did wonderful things for her calves.

  Tara returned and curled up in the corner of the futon. “I turned down the lights too. Wouldn’t want any more wayward clients banging on the doors.” She extracted a few more fries. “Thanks for this. I’ve been missing too many meals lately.”

  Barefoot, low light, all they needed was some Barry White and the mood would be complete. Just the distraction he needed. “People desperate to have their taxes this late at night?”

  “In April, yes. As the fifteenth gets closer, people start panicking.”

  “I bet that’s fun.” Nothing related to taxes sounded fun to Ryan, unless it had to do with Tara. Anything with Tara sounded interesting. His mouth watered and it had nothing to do with the smell of hamburgers.

  “You’re telling me. Leslie and I have talked about installing a video camera for the last week. People waving their hands in front of the door. It’s hilarious.” She laughed to herself. “It could be we are so tired by then, we’re slap happy.”

  “Do you normally work so many hours during tax season?” Ryan asked, plopping down on the futon, leaving space between himself and Tara to spread out the food. She needed sustenance before he attempted any other stress relief.

  “This year I’m obviously working a lot more, but it’s always crazy busy. In January we start with forty-five to fifty hour weeks and it escalates from there. There’s usually a week or two in March when it slows down in comparison, but it jumps right back up. I don’t know how Leslie kept up this year,” Tara said between bites of fries. “The baby was supposed to come a little before Leslie takes her long summer vacation.”

  “At least you have Charles to help out.”

  Tara rolled her eyes. “I almost think I’d be better off without him. He’s got me doing so much other stuff, it’s taking me twice as long to do my own work.”

  Ryan reached for a cheeseburger.

  “Is there only one of those?” Tara asked, waving her bitten-in-half fries.

  “There’s a regular hamburger and a salad.” He held the wrapped sandwich toward her. “You want this one?”

  Tara nodded. Ryan passed her the sandwich, fished out the extra ketchup and mustard packets, then took the salad for himself.

  “I’m so tempted to put a laxative in Charles’s coffee, so he’ll be in the bathroom for a while and I can get something done without him calling me every two minutes.” She crumpled the wrapper and tossed it toward the garbage can. It bumped the rim and tumbled in.

  “He might still call for you.”

  Tara grimaced. “Good point.” After another bite of her sandwich, she said, “I don’t get why Leslie would recommend him. I’ve met several of her other accounting associates, and they seem like nice, professional people. People who would get their own coffee, especially if they wanted it with twelve drops of Bavarian cream.”

  “Have you had a chance to ask Leslie about him?” Ryan polished off the salad and snapped the dressing packet and spork inside the plastic container. He tossed it onto the table, not willing to be shown up by Tara’s previous three-pointer.

  “No. I haven’t even had a chance to call her. Mark’s been leaving updates on my voice mail. I hate to bother her when she’s supposed to resting. Her blood pressure is already too high.”

  “You should talk to her. Be casual about it. Something like ‘boy, Charles is sure particular about his coffee’ and see what she says. You could find out if he’s always like this or just with you.” Ryan collected the remains of their meal and dumped it in the trash. He settled back on the futon. This time closer to Tara. He slung his arm behind her shoulder, no longer able to resist the curl trailing along her neck.

  “That’s a good idea. It shouldn’t stress her out.” Tara reclined on the futon and propped her feet on a chair.

  “And if she says he’s kind of needy, you’ll know he isn’t picking on you.” He twirled his finger in her hair, grazing the silky smoothness of her skin. She leaned into his touch.

  “And if he is?”

  “Give it back. He’s not helping you out if he’s creating more work.” He trailed his fingers down her neck. Her skin was as silky as he imagined.

  “What if he leaves? We need to have someone who can handle the complicated tax returns. After the tax season, Leslie had someone else arranged as backup.”

  “So Charles is supposed to leave in a little over a week anyway? You only have to make his life miserable for a few days. It could be your subtle revenge.”

  “Now there’s an option. You’ve turned me off the laxative thing though.” She sipped her chocolate shake, then chewed thoughtfully on the straw.

  “Probably for the best. There are other options. Pepper in his coffee grounds. Junky ink pens in his desk drawer. Pencils with lead that always breaks. A tangled phone cord. A mouse cord just a little too short. A flat spot on the wheel of his chair.”

  “Those are good. Have you been thinking about this for a while?”

  “They’re things that would annoy me if I worked here.”

  “I do have a bunch of barely working pens. I’ve been meaning to throw them out.”

  “So where’s he staying? There aren’t many hotels in Carterville.” Ryan shifted his knee and found himself pressed closer to Tara, a situation he didn’t mind at all.

  “There aren’t any. The closest one is in Glendale. There are a few bed and breakfasts.”

  “My mom’s friend, Minnie, owns one, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah. The Lilac Bower, but if he was staying there I would have heard. Minnie wouldn’t put up with his picky behavior, even if she does try to cater to her guests.”

  “Is he commuting?”

  “Maybe that’s his problem. He’s tired from driving so much.”

  “You could suggest a place in town. So he could get more sleep and be less crabby. Although you should probably phrase it a bit more diplomatically.”

  “'You’re a crab, get some sleep!' doesn’t work for you?” She swatted his leg playfully.

  “Only from my mother.” He grabbed her hand and clasped it in his, absently smoothing his thumb over her knuckles.

  “Did she get her basement cleaned out? I heard she’s on the exercise kick with the rest of the Ladies.”

  “She’s working on it. Made me go through a bunch of boxes. I’ve got to cart all the junk over to the thrift store tomorrow.”

  “Did you find anything worth keeping?” Tara asked.

  “A few things. A lot of it was my high school running stuff. I didn’t remember how much stuff I had collected. T-shirts, ribbons, medals. There was even a pair of shoes. I don’t know what the store will do with all that junk.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to keep that stuff? It’s kind of sentimental.”

  Ryan shrugged his shoulders. “I could barely look at it. It reminds me of the person I can’t be anymore. It’s like a knife twisting in my back.”

  “But you shouldn’t throw it all away. In a few years, you might wish you had it.�
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  “You sound like a self-help book.” The romantic feeling disappeared as the grouch reared its head. He wanted to snap that he couldn’t think about it now, but she kept talking.

  “I went through something similar about four years ago. I was cut from the cheerleading squad and didn’t know what to do. I bounced between a couple telemarketing jobs, but I ended up back home, still looking for a full-time job. I ran into Mark, and he recommended me for the job here.”

  “And you like this? The numbers, the details, the required perfection?”

  “Seems like a stretch for me, huh?”

  “Not a career choice I would have picked from my first impression. For you or for me.” If he kept her talking about herself, he wouldn’t have to contemplate his future for a while. He could listen to her voice and let his imagination go. His gaze traced the curve of her leg. “But it suits you.”

  “Me either, actually. But I started off answering the phones. Then as we got busier Leslie showed me some stuff and I enjoyed it. The numbers and organization made sense.”

  “What made you decide to get your degree?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “But the applications?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “Leslie thinks I can pull it off. I’m not so sure. She needs the help though. I’ve been doing a few little things. She offered to help me with tuition if I would continue to work here after graduation. I shouldn’t turn it down.” She shifted to face him. Her legs pressed his and he blinked. There was no concentrating on anything she said now. “I was voted ‘most likely to pose for a magazine spread’ in high school.” She laughed to herself. “Not going to happen now.” She looked him over. “What were you voted in the mock elections?”

  “Most likely to win on Jeopardy. Hasn’t happened either.” He absently rubbed his knee. “We certainly didn’t turn out how everyone expected.” He met her gaze and got lost in her blue eyes. Did anything else matter, but memorizing every gray fleck in them?

  “There’s still time for Jeopardy. I don’t think I’ll be in any magazines though.”

  “Maybe not the ones everyone thought back then. You could be in Fortune or Money magazine instead.”

  “Now there’s a thought. It’d be a story for the class reunion.” She tapped her finger against his chest, leaving burning imprints.

  Her gaze slid over his face, resting finally on his lips. Ryan couldn’t hold back anymore. He inched closer until he felt her sweet breath on his face. She licked her lips, and his last vestige of resistance melted. The space between them disappeared as his lips touched hers. At first tentatively, waiting for permission, then demanding because he needed her. Her hands slid over his shoulders and around his neck, revealing she was a more-than-willing participant. She pulled him toward her and he lost himself in the bliss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ryan loaded the records of his entire life into the back of his SUV. He was going to the Glendale thrift store to drop off all the medals and trophies as well as the junk his mother decided she could part with. If they didn’t want the box of memorabilia and about a million T-shirts, his next stop would be the dump.

  His mom had tried to talk him out of disposing of all the dust collectors, but he didn’t want reminders of the life he couldn’t have anymore. The dreams he had unfulfilled. He couldn’t display them and didn’t want to stumble across them in the basement.

  His route took him past the Glendale athletic fields, circling past the tennis courts, the baseball field, and finally, the football stadium with the red ring around it where he’d logged his first miles. He swung his vehicle into the dirt parking lot and stared out the windshield.

  He barely registered the radio playing his high school amp-up song. He must have tuned it to the local classic rock station by habit. The edgy singing egged him on. He’d worn out his cassette tape playing it over and over on his portable tape player to get his head in the zone.

  A lone runner circled the track. A blond ponytail bouncing in the breeze from the lake beyond the field. He’d spent many a morning before school on the same route, hoping the extra mile or two would give him an edge in the next race. Old Coach Chambers had focused on the sprinters and throwers, because he knew how to condition them for football in the fall.

  But Ryan, someone who wanted to run miles rather than meters, Coach didn’t know what to do with. He’d throw out random mile numbers for Ryan to attain and no matter how bizarre, Ryan had pounded them out. Then he’d found a book on long distance running and made adjustments to his regimen, his diet, and his lifestyle. And one by one he’d collected the medals and trophies that filled the boxes in the back of his SUV.

  The girl out there. What was her plan? She’d stopped at the fifty yard line and walked a tight circle, hands on her hips. Ryan glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Practice should be done by now. What was she still doing here? She circled around, then stopped at the starting line. She bent forward, then sprinted into the first curve.

  He could feel the rush, the pump of adrenaline surging from nausea to speed, the moment when his lungs realized they needed to pace themselves and settle into a rhythm.

  She came down the back stretch and hit the wall. Her stride broke apart. The smoothness of her movement jerked and tightened, but she dug harder. Her strides were stiffer instead of fluid, but her pace stayed steady through the finish. As her pace slowed, she turned back toward the high school, jogging. He expected to see her angle for the road for a cool down after a hard workout. She bee-lined straight for the building and disappeared inside.

  Ryan rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. Coach Chambers hadn’t imparted anything new about distance running and the necessity of cooling down after a workout.

  Ryan better get over to the thrift shop before they closed. He threw the vehicle into reverse and backed out of his parking spot. The box of trophies clinked together from the movement of the SUV.

  Maybe he didn’t have to throw them away. Maybe the high school would want them. He didn’t earn them all when he was a student, and those yellowed ribbons were hardly worth anything. But the medals for his marathons and the world championships, those might inspire someone — like the girl out there on the track — to train smarter, not harder.

  Ryan drove across the lot to the front of the school. He lifted the gate on the back of the SUV and found the medals that might be inspiring to a young runner. Remind them Glendale wasn’t too small for any dream. He stuffed them in his pocket and made for the stairs. The wide, flat steps had only acquired more layers of paint in the years since he’d graduated. He still remembered the rhythm needed to negotiate them without an awkward half-step, a gliding bound ascending from one surface to the next. He couldn’t do it with a cane. He yanked open the heavy doors, getting the same buzz of adrenaline as the first day of ninth grade. A whole wide world had been open for him then. What options did he have now?

  He signed in at the office, then headed into the hallway. The trophy cases were still inside the front door and brightly colored team pictures of impossibly young athletes filled the frames. Had he looked so young and bright? As he made his way toward the athletic director’s office, he got his answer. The state championship trophy for track his senior year was still gathering cobwebs in the recesses of one of the glass cases. The picture had yellowed and his hair was too long, but the pure joy of his victory was plastered all over his face.

  The locker room door burst open, broadcasting the pungent odor of sweat, socks, and teenage boys. The smell was probably etched into the tiles of the shower. The three boys jostled each other with baseball duffels hanging off their shoulders. Their jokes and jabs washed over him, and he was transported back to high school. He’d come so close to the dreams he’d seeded then.

  He gripped his cane and hiked down the hallway. Those thoughts were better left unvisited.

  As he continued to the athletic director’s office, which was inexplicably on the other side of the build
ing, he wondered if he would change anything knowing how quickly his body would succumb to the punishment. He would have kept running, probably leaving more on the track or the road than he had. Not taking any race as a step to another, but enjoying every footfall for its pure spirit.

  He rapped his knuckles against the open office door, and the squat man who had wrangled the sports teams since there was a high school waved him in. His face shifted into a wide grin as soon as he recognized Ryan.

  “Ryan Grant!” Mr. Tubbs boomed. “I heard you were back in the area.” He stood and grabbed Ryan’s hand in his two meaty ones. “Take a load off.” He gestured to the gold vinyl chair beside the door.

  Ryan sat, his knee screaming at him. He’d have to start planning his parking more strategically. Park next to the entrance nearest what you need instead of by any door with a parking spot.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Tubbs.” Ryan let his gaze wander around the crammed office. Dusty red and gray pennants were tacked against team photos that hadn’t been moved in fifteen years. The same carpet, the same paint scheme. The familiarity was oddly comforting. It helped him forget his life was upside down.

  His eyes rested on a picture of himself, a black and white newspaper clipping as he crossed the tape where he earned one of the medals in his pocket. Mr. Tubbs had framed it.

  “That was some moment, huh?” Mr. Tubbs tapped the photo.

  The exhaustion, the exhilaration, the unbelievableness of that split-second flooded back to him. If he hadn’t been sitting down, the memory would have knocked him over.

  “Unbelievable.” He shook his head to wave away the image. “I’m doing some cleaning, and I wondered if the school might be interested in these.” He pulled the medals out of his pocket and passed them to Mr. Tubbs. “For the display cases.” Ryan pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the miles he had traversed to get there.

  Mr. Tubbs pushed his glasses onto his nose and picked up the red-and-green striped ribbon attached to the medal from the photo and rubbed his thumb over the inscription. “We watched these races on the big screen at Kelly’s Bar. Bought the whole place a round when you broke the tape. Almost gave the missus a stroke when she saw the dent it made in our checking account, but she’d have done the same thing. Someone from little old Glendale at the World Championships.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “You want to give these up?”