False Start Page 5

  She worked her way to a less populated area of the store and dialed her number. As soon as her sister picked up, Mattie regretted her decision.

  "What? I can barely hear you. Why in the world are you shopping for running clothes?"

  "I got a new assignment, Claud."

  "Uh-huh. And what about a raise? Did you ask about that?"

  Mattie let out an exasperated sigh before responding, "Yes, I did. I'll get it when I complete the assignment."

  "Which is…?" Claudia pried.

  Standing up straight, Mattie took another deep breath and announced louder than she intended so as to be heard over the store's booming stereo system, "I'm going to run the Chicago Marathon."

  She held the phone away from her ear and waited for her sister to stop laughing.

  "Are you finished?" she asked as she began accosting a stack of running tights.

  Ignoring her question, Claudia instead asked one of her own. "This is a joke, right? Do you remember when you tried out for track in high school?"

  Mattie turned to a display of running shoes. Inspecting a purple pair, she looked at the price tag and dropped them like they were hot coals.

  "Vaguely," she lied. She had no intention of indulging Claudia who, on occasion, could be somewhat sadistic to her only sibling.

  This prompted another bout of giggles from the other end of the line. Firing out phrases between gasps for air, Claudia did her best to recapture the pivotal moment in Mattie's brief affair with sustained aerobic activity.

  "You barely finished the workout. Next day, you couldn't move, couldn't climb stairs, and couldn't get out of your chair."

  Mattie's hamstrings ached at the memory.

  "Oh, Claud," she growled into the phone. "Be serious. What choice do I have? I royally screwed over my career. If this is my only shot at redemption, I have to go through with it, and I don't think I can if you're not in my corner."

  Not wanting to add gasoline to the fire, she carefully avoided any mention of her coach's name. Instead, she listened as her sister took in several deep breaths.

  "All right, Mat, but are you really sure this is a good idea?"

  "Claud, please. I need advice, not doubt. I need proper running clothes and haven't a clue what to get."

  "Okay, okay," Claudia relented. Then, with resignation, added, "Don't wear black. I know everyone says it's slimming, but with your coloring, it'll just wash you out."

  Not finding even a simple sweatband in her price range, Mattie left the store two hours later, empty-handed and beyond discouraged. Her train ride home did little to lift her spirits.

  She watched as a young family boarded—a husband and wife with a little boy whose snowflake-patterned mittens were so big they looked like oven mitts. His mother snuggled him close, and his father sat with his arm protectively around them both. She pulled her eyes away from the familial cocoon and looked out the window.

  It used to be enough that she was the favorite aunt to her sister's kids. It used to be enough to dole out parenting advice to entitled parents who took their blessings completely for granted. Looking at her reflection in the frost-edged glass, she realized that, at the tender age of twenty-eight, it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

  When she got home, she made a box of macaroni and cheese, ate it all in one sitting, and washed it down with the remnants of a room temperature bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  She had just started diving into her mess of a closet, looking for anything that would pass for workout clothes, when her phone rang.

  Holding it to her ear with one hand, she rifled through her clothes with the other. "I still can't believe it, Dianne. I went in for a raise and I came out with a," she contorted her face before spewing, "coach."

  She stopped accosting the hangers and put her hand on her forehead. "And it's Nick DeRosa, of all people," she moaned. "How did this happen?"

  "Nick DeRosa? Why does that name sound familiar?"

  Not wanting to go into too much detail, Mattie replied, "I may have mentioned his name. He's the identical twin of a guy I was engaged to. A long time ago."

  Dianne was quiet for an unnerving moment. "No, that's not it."

  Mattie pulled a sweatshirt down from her closet shelf. "Oh, then you might know him as the Comeback Kid. Remember? About two or three years ago?"

  "Yep. That's it. Whatever happened to him? Didn't he go to jail for something?"

  Inspecting the sweatshirt, Mattie tossed it on her bed and lied, "I don't remember what it was for, but he was cleared of all charges." Her Aunt Vivienne, who still lived down the street from the DeRosas, actually went to the party they threw for Nick when he got out. Mattie never opened her invitation.

  "Well, they say the world just keeps getting smaller, don't they?" Dianne replied, sounding rather distracted.

  Mattie inspected a pair of sweat pants she found that were tucked between two old pairs of jeans that no longer fit and asked, "Is everything OK? You sound funny."

  "Me? No. It's just—well, never mind."

  "It's just what?" Mattie pressed.

  "Well, I know it won't be easy having to look at a clone of your 'ex' everyday for the next ten months, but you need to think this through. There's a lot at stake. Like our jobs."

  "I have to do a lot more than just look at him, Dianne. I have to submit to his will," Mattie exclaimed, "and that's so much worse."

  "Calm down," Dianne sang out. "Just look at it as a business partnership. Nothing more."

  Regaining her composure, Mattie continued. "I just wish they weren't so damn good-looking."

  Dianne paused before coaxing, "Well, good thing you're a quote-unquote married woman, right?"

  "Yes, I am, and quite happily, too. Thanks for reminding me."

  "Anytime, doll," Dianne replied. "Now is not the time to blow your cover. The paper is treading water, and this would be just the kind of ammo the Gazette could use to fire us both."

  God forbid you lose funding for your shoe fetish.

  Mattie held her hand up to admire her ring, sparkling under the closet light bulb. If push came to shove, she could pawn it for one month's rent, tops.

  "Just focus on that fat bonus Lester promised, and this assignment will be behind you in no time."

  Goosebumps spread across Mattie's forearms—a sure sign that her internalized radar system had intercepted an unidentified lying object.

  She held the phone away from her ear and stared at it a moment. "Did I tell you he promised me a fat bonus? Because I'm pretty sure I would've used a better word to describe it."

  Not skipping a beat, Dianne answered her question with another. "Why else would you do it, sweetie? Now, tell me. When do you start?"

  Appeased for the moment, Mattie's goose bumps subsided. "We officially start tomorrow. I'm meeting him at six so he can assess me. Whatever that means."

  "In the morning? Good lord. Are you even out of bed at that hour?"

  "No, never." Feeling panic rise up and grip her by the throat, Mattie gurgled, "Do you think this is a bad idea?"

  Dianne shot back, "Remember when Oprah went on her fitness binge?"

  "Which one?"

  "Don't diss Oprah," Dianne scolded. "She ran the Marine Corps Marathon, for God's sake. You can do this."

  In a somber tone, Mattie replied, "I suppose. But what if I can't? What if I just end up making a fool of myself again? Except this time it will be at the hands of a different DeRosa and in front of the entire subscription base of the Chicago Gazette." She shuddered at the thought.

  Dianne laughed. "You'll be fine. Just remember, what doesn't destroy us makes us smarter."

  "Stronger," Mattie corrected. "It makes us stronger."

  "Same difference," Dianne chuckled.

  Mattie stepped out of her closet dressed in a pair of too-tight sweat pants and an old sports bra that had lost it supportive properties several wash loads back.

  As she assessed herself in the mirror, she gripped her phone like it held the last supply of o
xygen on the planet. "Dianne. There's no way I can run a marathon next October. I jiggle like Jell-O."

  "So don't jiggle."

  Mattie watched herself as she hopped up and down. "Right. I don't think you can run without at least jiggling a little. Or, in my case, a lot."

  "As I told you this afternoon, go get some running tights and a compression jacket. I see women jogging along the lakefront all the time in those. Not a jiggle in sight. Now get to bed. You'll want to be well rested for your assessment. And make sure you have something better for breakfast than a Twinkie. Good night and good luck, doll."

  The phone clicked, and Dianne was gone.

  Mattie went to the kitchen and dug into a tub of premium, slow-churned chocolate ice cream, searching for the empathy her editor did not provide.

  * * *

  Nick turned the key in the dead bolt on the door of his parents' bungalow. He could smell his mother's legendary pasta sauce as soon as he reached the top step on their back porch.

  "Hey, Ma. How ya doing?"

  Lucy DeRosa waved at him from across the warm, cozy kitchen, then pointed to the phone receiver and mouthed, "Your father."

  Nick nodded his acknowledgement, hung up his coat in the foyer closet, and sauntered over to the refrigerator as he loosened his tie. He flung open the door and stood staring at its contents.

  "If you're hot, go outside," his mother scolded after she hung up the phone. "But if you're hungry," she continued, "sit down. Dinner's ready. Your pop should be home in about an hour, but he said not to wait for him."

  Nick, still guilt-ridden after his parents drained their retirement fund to cover his legal expenses, did as instructed.

  "Aren't you eating?" he asked.

  "Nah, I'll wait." Instead, Lucy joined him at the table.

  On the day Nick was exonerated, she threw a party for him, inviting no less than fifty friends and family from their Ravenswood neighborhood. She forbade all of them to speak Eddie's name from that day forward, declaring, "He is dead to me."

  It was Nick, of all people, who counseled her to forgive and forget.

  Still, when his parents insisted that he move back in with them, he did so reluctantly. With no job, no car, no income, and no prospects, he knew he didn't have a choice. It wasn't long afterwards that he remembered the healing powers of his mother's manicotti. That they didn't charge him a dime in rent helped, too.

  "Just 'til you get back on your feet," they cooed as he unpacked his belongings in his old room.

  It took him a year to find a place of his own that he could afford, but it didn't stop him from accepting his mother's invitations to dinner.

  She waited until he shoveled a forkful of hot spaghetti into his mouth before asking, "So how did it go at the Gazette?"

  Nick looked at her, incredulous. Chewing quickly, he tried to manage, "Fine," without spewing food.

  "Don't talk with your mouth full. Did they offer you a job? I'd be leery. Make sure you get everything in writing. Newspapers are going under just like everything else these days."

  Nick finished chewing and responded. "Yeah, they sort of offered me a job. And yeah, they'll put it all in writing."

  His mother arched her penciled-in eyebrows. "What do you mean 'sort of'?"

  "Well, it's not a regular nine-to-five job. I'm going to be a consultant."

  This did not appease Mrs. DeRosa. "What kind of consultant?"

  Nick, with his fork in mid-air, gave up all hope of being able to finish his food. "I'll be coaching someone on their staff to run for the Chicago Marathon."

  "Oh yeah? Who? That doesn't sound like much of a job, training just one person. And what does that have to do with the newspaper business anyway?"

  "You wouldn't know her, Ma."

  "Her? Is she a reporter? Hey, it's not that gal that writes that column, is it? What is her name? The one who gives those snooty working mothers their what-for."

  Lucy stood and started rifling through a stack of papers destined for the recycling bin. Pointing a finger at Nick, she added, "But she definitely knows her way around a kitchen."

  Nick thought of Mattie. Stubborn. Impulsive. Undisciplined. "No, Ma. I can safely say it's not her."

  At this, he stood and set his plate on the counter, hoping to stop her line of questioning.

  It didn't work.

  "Aw, that's too bad. I'd like to meet her someday. So who is she, huh? This one you'll be coaching? Does she have a name?"

  Nick narrowed his eyes, mulling whether to respond. His mother, a top-notch seamstress, never missed a chance to remind anyone willing to listen that, after she tailored her off-the-rack Mother-of-the-Groom dress, as well as the gowns of all her sisters, none could be returned when Eddie's wedding fell through.

  Divulging Mattie's name would most certainly dredge it all up again, and, after the day he had, Nick just wasn't up for it. Not on a partially empty stomach.

  Stepping toward his mother, he took her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her upturned cheek. "Mind if I spend the night? I've got to be at the track pretty early tomorrow."

  Even after being away at college and running in races all over the world, Nick still relished the comfort and security of his childhood bedroom. As sparsely furnished as it was, it seemed luxurious compared to the minimum-security jail cell in which he was housed for one very long month.

  His mother maintained it like a museum exhibit. The light-up globe that fascinated him as a kid still sat on his desk. The room didn't have a phone or television. Just a simple clock radio and a reading lamp on his night stand. On the walls hung posters of his heroes—running greats Steve Prefontaine and Frank Shorter.

  His mother had already converted Eddie's into her sewing room that was, for all intents and purposes, a monument to Nick. The shelves were lined with his trophies, and the bookcase was stuffed with scrapbooks and newspaper clippings.

  Pulling a pair of neatly folded pajama bottoms from his duffle bag, Nick tossed them on his bed and looped his tie on a hook in his closet. Slipping the brown leather belt out of the loops on his khakis with one yank, he slung it over the back of the plain wooden desk chair. Easing his pants off, he slid them carefully onto a hanger, careful not to wrinkle the creases. On top of that he draped the same pale blue button-down dress shirt he was wearing when the federal judge threw out the case against him a year earlier.

  What should have been a day of great celebration was tempered only by the solemn resignation that his own brother had indeed framed him for embezzling millions of dollars from investors before vanishing without a trace.

  * * *

  Sleep didn't come easily to Mattie that night. When it finally did, she tossed and turned through a bad dream. In it, she was struggling to run as fast as she could through the marathon course, but her legs seemed to be filled with wet sand. Fit runners blew past her on either side. The route was lined with onlookers who all seemed to be yelling at her to hurry up. When the finish line finally appeared, Nick and Eddie were there, waiting side-by-side, pointing at her, laughing so hard they were wiping tears from their eyes. Mattie woke up shaking.

  Tucked into a fetal position while her comforter sat in a pile at the foot of her bed, she was cold, groggy, and disoriented. She reached over, clutched her cell phone and squinted at it for several seconds before making out the time—4:55.

  Throwing back her flannel sheets, she felt around under her bed for her flashlight, always at the ready and always right next to her trusty baseball bat. There was no time to shower and, worse, no coffee to drink. She yanked on the faded black too-tight sweat pants she had found the night before and an oversized sweatshirt bearing the logo of her alma mater. Taming her curls into a haphazard ponytail, she swiped on some mascara, inhaled a cold Pop Tart, slipped her ring on her finger, yanked her down coat around her shoulders, and headed for the train that would take her north to Nick. Doing her best to dodge the puddles in the dark, her shoes still managed to become waterlogged by the time she made it
to the platform at the station.

  The entire way there, she tried to imagine how he would assess her level of fitness. Would he count the number of jumping jacks she could do in a minute, or would his weapon of choice be push-ups? Crunches?

  I swear to God, if he pulls out a measuring tape, I'm outta there.

  She looked at her reflection in the window as the train flew past dark, wet building facades. Couldn't he tell just by looking at her that she hadn't intentionally broken a sweat before? Ever?

  As hard as it was for her to discern Nick's methods, she couldn't even begin to fathom his motives. What a former Olympian was doing as a personal running coach payrolled by the Gazette, she had no idea. At the moment, all she cared about was getting this assessment over with as quickly as possible.

  Mattie arrived at her old high school's field house with five minutes to spare. As soon as she stepped onto the property, she felt her face start to break out and her hair begin to frizz. The all-too-familiar urge to duck into the nearest bathroom and hide threatened to overtake her.

  Standing at the entrance of the indoor track, the same debilitating unease that accompanied her every day before gym class began to wash over her. She scanned the cavernous space for any sign of Nick, but didn't see him. Instead, she spied a dozen or so senior citizens shuffling along on the inside lanes of the track and women wearing nothing but sport bras and matching shorts jogging past them in the outer lanes. Not a jiggle in sight.

  The Pop Tart Mattie had for breakfast sat like a hard, indigestible lump in her stomach. She was cold, wet, and ready to sell her soul for a cup of hot coffee.

  Before long, she heard footsteps approach behind her.

  "Did you bring the forms?"

  Startled by the sound of Nick's voice, Mattie turned to face him.

  Like his brother, he had a commanding presence. He looked sharp, dressed in a charcoal gray workout suit and a slightly frayed, royal blue Cubs hat. And, like his brother, he had the annoying ability to look as drop-dead gorgeous first thing in the morning as he did when he was dressed to the nines for dinner at a five-star restaurant.