Angel Fire - Lisa Unger [37]
“You are. I just think Morrow will cooperate more readily without you there at this stage.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a bad history with him. And … you have a way of putting people on the defensive.”
“The only people who are defensive with me are people who have something to hide.”
“Come on, Lydia. Charm isn’t going to work on me,” he said, a sarcastic smile on his face. He reached out for her hand, which she pulled away. She wanted to kick him in the shin. But she knew he was right.
She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. “Fine. But you have to swear to tell me everything. Every last detail.”
“I promise. Did you pitch this story to someone already?”
“No.”
“Then why are you so worked up? I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I just need to know what happened to these people.” She turned her gaze away from him and looked out the window.
He kept his hand outstretched on the table for hers.
“I won’t do another thing without you. Just let me go there alone first, okay?”
“All right,” she said, and gave him her hand, grudgingly.
He squeezed it and then stood up from the table and started clearing the dishes he had set out for the breakfast they were not going to eat now.
“Leave them. I’ll take care of it. You just go talk to Morrow,” she said.
He placed the dishes in the sink and walked from the kitchen. “Don’t be angry,” he said over his shoulder, without waiting to hear her response.
She took a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. It missed its mark by a few feet and lay soft and harmless on the Italian-tile kitchen floor.
She sighed. The thought of sitting and waiting for him to come back was unbearable for her; the hours stretching before her were heavy with boredom and anticipation. She needed to do something.
She walked into her bedroom, pulled her hair back in a ponytail, put on a pair of running shorts and an old T-shirt, and slid three quarters into her jog bra. She put on her Nikes at the door and was gone, running down the driveway toward the road.
From the window on the second floor, Jeffrey watched her go. He hated it when she left without saying good-bye. She seemed so ephemeral at the best of times. Watching her run away, he wanted to throw the window open and call her back. But he couldn’t—not now, not ever. He just had to hope she’d come on her own. He watched her until he lost sight of her.
She counted her breathing in time with her footfalls on the dirt road. Running was painful because she had bad knees and she was smoking more now than she had in months, but still it set her free. Her form was perfect, shoulders straight but relaxed, abs tight, heels landing firmly on the ground with each stride. Here, it was enough to think of nothing. She could focus on nothing but driving herself to go one more foot, one more mile, before she could go no farther. Soon her worries would seem imaginary and far away. Soon she would be submerged in her effort and in enduring the pain of her joints and in her lungs. She took a masochistic pleasure in it. But today she didn’t seem to be able to run far enough or fast enough to silence the thoughts inside her head, or to quiet the emotions that simmered inside her chest.
She was angry at Jeffrey for wanting to see Morrow alone. On an intellectual level, she recognized that he was right. Jeffrey had a bad history with Morrow, too; but Jeffrey hadn’t created a national scandal by writing an article in Vanity Fair that had exposed Morrow as the alcoholic, chauvinistic incompetent that he was. Jeffrey going alone was probably the best bet they had to get Morrow to let them in. He probably wouldn’t even see Lydia if she were to show up there. But she had called Jeffrey for his help and for his support, not so that he could take over. Sometimes she felt like he was Superman and she was just Lois Lane. He was leaping tall buildings and deflecting bullets and she was just hanging on for the ride, then writing up the story when it was done. She knew