Heartache and Hope (7 page)

“One day, when she's a little older, I'm sure Aubree will understand what a special dad she has.”

“I think it's the other way around. She's a special little girl.”

“Well, I think it's true on both counts.” Daylin pressed her lips to Aubree's crown. The scent of apple shampoo filled her nose as she breathed deeply, her gaze connecting with Patrick's. The air seemed to sizzle and, for a short string of breaths, Daylin's pulse skittered. A wave of warmth skimmed her spine as Patrick's gaze danced with hers. Then, just as quickly, Patrick broke the connection. He refocused and reached for Aubree.

“Here, you must be tired of holding her. She feels heavy after a while. Let me take her.”

“I'm fine. She's not heavy at all, but light as a bag of popcorn.”

“Not quite.” Patrick's fingers, warm and callused, brushed Daylin's as he carefully lifted Aubree from her embrace and into his arms.

“I guess it's past her bedtime.” Cool air rushed in to chill Daylin where her dampened sweater clung to skin. She glanced at her watch, frowned. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah,
way
past her bedtime.” Patrick splayed a hand over Aubree's back as he glanced at the analog clock on the wall behind the check-out counter. The second-hand inched toward eight-thirty. “This is unusually late, but I hate to rush people who've taken time out of their busy day to come out and learn how they can help. All the enthusiasm is a blessing. I'm pumped about this year's race and the events surrounding it. I'm glad to share it with you.”

“I am, too….with you, I mean.” Daylin felt mesmerized by the very idea. For the first time in months—nearly a year—she felt a kind of lightness deep in her bones that was hard to describe. Her heart sprinted in a quickened, steady beat. She felt…hopeful. “But have you ever had someone so inexperienced attempt to do this?”

“You're not inexperienced. Remember, I ran cross-country with you in high school. I know what you're capable of.” Patrick did the same slight hip-sway thing that Daylin had employed as he spoke with Aubree nestled against his shoulder. “Running through fields, over grass and rutted road is a challenge within itself. But yes, I've worked with people who've never run at all and they've finished a half-marathon—even a marathon.”

“I'll bet
that
wasn't pretty.”

“I'd beg to differ. Crossing any finish line is a beautiful thing, even if one has to crawl to get there.”

“Depends on the perspective, I suppose.” Daylin shrugged and chastised herself for this sudden wave of insecurity just when she thought she was past it.
Get over yourself,
she shouted from the inside. “I mean, a half-marathon—thirteen miles—is a long way.”

“Thirteen
point one
miles,” Patrick emphasized. “It's all about the point one. That's the most meaningful part.”

“Yes, right.” She reached over to splay a hand on Aubree's back. The rhythmic rise and fall of the child's breathing calmed her nerves. “And it will probably be the
point one
that does me in, as well.”

“That's always a possibility.” His laughter tumbled rich and soft. “Then again, you might surprise yourself.”

“I'm whining when I have no right to.” Daylin sighed and smoothed the front of her sweater. “I really am excited about this, but a little scared, too. I imagine people who skydive feel the same way as they approach the drop zone.”

“Well, that's a nice analogy, but I'm assuming we'll keep our feet on the ground.”

“Even so, I guess jogging a few—OK, more than a few—miles is nothing compared to what you and Aubree have been through.”

Patrick sobered. “It
has
been a journey of a different sort, kind of like boarding a plane expecting a quick jaunt to Nashville and ending up on a remote island, instead. But the truth is we are blessed beyond measure. Aubree has responded well to medication and therapy. By all accounts her future, unlike so many others, appears to be very bright.”

“Well, she certainly seems to be wealthy in the spunk department, that's for sure.” Daylin couldn't help but reach out to pat the child's sleep-matted hair. “
And
, she plays a mean game of tic-tac-toe, too.”

“I saw that she roped you in. I taught her to play the game last month while she was in the hospital. It took her mind off lying in the bed while the doctors worked to regulate her medication.”

“Does that happen a lot—trips to the hospital?”

“At first, following Aubree's birth, yes. But not so much now, except for last month's bout of flu. That was a tiny bump in the road, and one that most kids encounter at some point during their childhood, simply exacerbated by the CF. And there are quarterly check-ups Aubree has to endure. It's a learning curve and I think—I hope—we've rounded the far side of that curve.”

“I hope so, too.”

“Anyway, the tic-tac-toe seemed to work. It filled the time, took Aubree's mind off the doctors and tests, and she kicked my hind end her fair share of times.”

“I suppose that's what happens when you learn from the best.”

“Or when you play with the abandon of a five-year-old.”

“Yes, then there's that, as well.” Daylin's laughter bubbled up. “I love this training shirt you handed out, the one with the Dash for the Dream logo. I didn't expect to receive one. How do you manage to operate cost-free and still provide all these hand-outs and T-shirts?”

“I have a partnership with a screen-print company. I provide the shirts, they do the screen-printing, and I advertise their work in the Dash for the Dream brochures and offer them space in my store.”

“Your store?”

“Yes, I own The Runner's Source on Market Square.”

“Wow.
You
own that?”

“Uh huh.” He chuckled as her face scrunched in disbelief. “You seem surprised.”

“It's just…so
that's
where I've seen you lately…in the commercials. I'm not sure why I didn't put two-and-two together.” How could she have overlooked those deep, gray eyes, the smooth-as-molasses voice? She considered the very fact a testament to how out-of-touch she'd allowed herself to become. “They usually air on the local channels during the six and eleven o'clock newscasts.”

“That's right. You noticed.” His smile flashed. “So my marketing plan appears to be working.”

“I've passed by the store a hundred times but have never been inside.”

“In that case, I suppose the marketing plan might require a bit of an overhaul, then.”

“Oh, no, don't do that. You look good in the commercials. I mean,
they
look good.” Daylin stumbled over the words. “Allow me to rephrase…you do a good job with them…the commercials. I'm sure plenty of people—plenty of
runners
—make their way inside.”

“Well, you're a runner again now, so I'll expect to see you there soon.”

I'm a runner again now.

“Wow.” The thought shed a blazing beacon on what she'd committed to. Daylin swallowed hard and smoothed a lock of hair from her eyes. “That sounds really weird to me, after all this time. But I guess I'll be stopping by now that I need running equipment. What do you recommend?”

“Shoes…socks…singlets…that sort of thing.”

“Singlets? In the winter? That was definitely
not
one of the words I was looking for.”

“Why not? You know that's what runners generally wear.”

“Because…” Daylin couldn't imagine herself in one of the skimpy, sleeveless shirts. Sure, she'd raced in them way back when. But that was years—and pounds—ago. Heat fanned across her cheeks as she considered that another good snow might be just the ticket to keep her in baggy sweats and hoodies. Suddenly, she felt desperate to alter the line of conversation. “I edited an article on CF a few years ago, and I thought I'd learned a lot from it. But I'm floored by the statistics you shared tonight. One in thirty-six hundred babies is born with CF? Is that right?”

“Yes.” Patrick's smile faded as he nodded grimly. His arms tightened around Aubree. “By the most recent accounts.”

“And it's a genetic thing, passed down by a child's parents?”

“Right again. I'm a carrier and Sandra—Aubree's mother—well, she was.” He paused to scrub a hand over his cheek, his gaze darkening with veil of guilt as he eyed his ring finger. “We had no idea either one of us carried the gene until Aubree was diagnosed shortly after her birth. The pediatrician caught it early, so that was fortunate as far as Aubree's prognosis is concerned. But it was tough…the not knowing there in the beginning as to what, exactly, was happening.”

“My goodness. There are no words. I'm…so sorry.” Daylin noticed once again that he wasn't wearing a wedding band. His words echoed through her ears.

Sandra…well, she was…

Was what?

A rustling along the tile behind them signaled Frannie's return from the restroom. Daylin shifted feet and turned toward the amiable woman. As if reading her mind, Frannie answered. “Patrick married a classmate, Sandra Brevard. She passed away in a car accident two years ago.”

“Oh, my.” The breath whooshed out of Daylin. She vaguely remembered Sandra from high school. She was a few years ahead of Daylin, same as Patrick. So, she was Aubree's mother. Her death two years ago meant she couldn't have made it to her thirtieth birthday. So sad…devastating, really. Daylin's heart squeezed with the sharp stab of pain. “I'm so very sorry.”

“I am too, dear.” Frannie quickly reached across the table to gather her coat and purse from the booth's bench seat. She stood and faced Daylin, smoothing her slacks with one hand as she murmured, “We miss her, truly we do, but the reality is she's not coming back—ever.” As if to drive the point home, Frannie's gaze shifted toward Patrick and Aubree, sleeping soundly in his arms. She shrugged into her long wool coat. “Do you have a training partner, Daylin—someone with whom to share the running load?”

“I haven't thought…um, no.” Daylin lifted a finger to her mouth and nibbled the nail. A shadow had crossed Patrick's face, further deepening the gray of his eyes to heat-burnished coal. He was handsome, there was no denying it. But there was more that lurked just beneath the surface, rippling like the gentle lap of a wave. “I don't know how I overlooked that.”

“Might have been this little one that had you distracted.” Frannie patted Aubree's back. “She has a way of doing that.”

“Oh, no. It's not her fault. I'm just a little scatterbrained tonight. I suppose I should have mentioned that I'd need a partner before everyone left. Maybe someone would have offered to let me join them—Noah and Janine or perhaps that tattooed guy near the window, the one who shared he has a new baby niece just diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis. I think his name was Jared….or Jason. Yes, Jason.”

“No worries. Patrick can use a training partner this go 'round, and I think you'd fit the bill just perfectly, Daylin.” Frannie lifted her gaze to spear her son's. “What do you think, Patrick?”

“Now, hold on just a minute. There's a lot to consider when it comes to training, and I don't think that Daylin and I would work very well.” Patrick shifted Aubree so her head lolled onto his shoulder as he turned to address Daylin. “Not because of you, Daylin, of course. It's just that I'm not sure when I'll squeeze in the time to train, and I don't want to leave you hanging. And if Aubree needs—”

“You know good and well that if Aubree needs anything you can call on me to help. And I've never known you not to somehow find the time to train as hard as the next person.” Frannie adjusted the collar of her coat as she winked at Daylin. “I think he's just afraid you'll outrun him, dear. You used to run like a gazelle—most likely will again—and you know the male ego can be so finicky.”

“I don't want to impose.” Daylin slipped her arm into her coat sleeve. “I know you've got a full plate, Patrick, and I'd never dream of muddling things.”

“I didn't mean it that way.” Patrick's gaze held tight to hers. “You're not—”

“No explanation needed.” Daylin shrugged into the second sleeve and reached back to grab her purse. Beyond the diner window, patches of frost clung to the pavement, glistening beneath the glow of streetlights. Tree limbs, naked and wispy, embraced the darkness. “I should go. I'll check over the information list you handed out and try to get in touch with one of the others, or perhaps someone at my office would be interested in pairing up with me. Or, maybe this is just a sign that I'm making a huge mistake here. Anyway, I'll figure it out.” She gathered the collar of her coat and, turned toward the door. “It was nice to see you again, Frannie. Please tell Aubree I said thanks for the tic-tac-toe match. I had…fun.”

5

Tears burned Daylin's eyes as she continued toward the door. Of course Patrick didn't want to run with her. So what if they'd been teammates…even friends of a sort…in high school. He didn't owe her anything, and sharing his training time with her was like asking a panther to run with an elephant. She didn't even own a decent pair of running shoes, and the shorts, well, just forget about squeezing into them.

“Wait.” Patrick's shoes tapped against the tile as he came after her. He touched her elbow, drawing her back to face him. Captivating eyes, framed by fluorescent lighting, resonated with a measure of sincerity. “I was harsh, and I didn't mean to be. I'm sure you remember that sometimes my tongue races ahead of my brain. Mom's right. I'm supposed to be captaining this group and how would it look if I shirked training? Besides, I can use someone to run with since my go-to guy is elbow deep in a new business venture across the county.”