“Are you all right?”
I didn’t notice the man approaching at a jog from along the other pathway until he spoke. He was thirty something, tall and broad, his dark hair short and tousled. His honey-brown eyes sparkled with amusement as he slowed to a walk, then stopped in front of me. He leaned forward, hands pressed against the tanned muscles of his thighs, his pleasant face flushed with effort.
“Are you running away from something?” he asked.
His voice was deep, with the slightest Scottish burr.
I slithered upright and returned to the everyday world, my face as crimson as my suit.
“No…no…thank you. I’m just—”
“Enjoying the morning?” he said for me.
I couldn’t help but smile. “Something like that.”
“Not the best footwear to go for a run in,” he commented.
“They match my suit,” I offered lamely, glancing down at my damp feet.
He laughed, a great bellow that echoed in the treetops.
“And a very nice suit it is, too,” he remarked, his eyebrows raised in appreciation.
“Aren’t you supposed to be running?” I ventured.
He shrugged, pulling a face. “Well, as I’m not actually running anywhere in particular, I don’t suppose it matters.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “I see. You must be one of those sad fitness freaks who get up at the crack of dawn to put in fifteen miles before breakfast.”
For a moment he caught my eyes again, and something stirred inside me, some distant memory of that exact expression.
“Have we met before?”
We said it in unison, then giggled like two old friends.
“Seriously, though…” he began.
“Have we met before?” I finished for him.
He smiled at me and I smiled back, mesmerized by the golden glints in his brown eyes. A peculiar warmth spread through my body, right to the ends of my fingertips.
“We can’t have,” he told me. “Because I would definitely have remembered.”
An awkward moment followed, and then I set off again along the pathway. What was I doing anyway, talking to strangers in the park?
“Decided not to run anymore?” he inquired, falling into step beside me.
I walked sedately toward the busy hum of the city to reenter my life, focusing on the snowy carpet beneath my feet and trying to ignore him.
“You know, you shouldn’t really talk to strangers in parks,” he told me, uncannily echoing my thoughts as we approached the gates.
Ahead of us I could see the traffic flowing by, hear angry horns honking with impatience. I hesitated, taking in the moment, my whole body bursting with awareness.
“Today is special, though,” I said.
“How? How is it special?”
His eyes met mine like those of a friend, and I was acutely reminded yet again of Daniel Brown. After months of keeping his memory at bay, today for some reason he was flooding my soul.
“I just feel…”
There in the gateway to the park, suspended between the glowing autumn beauty of the woodland and the harsh gray concrete of the city, I stared at the familiar stranger, wanting to share my odd, explosive emotions. But there are no words to explain what you don’t understand.
“Special,” I told him. “Today everything feels special.”
“Well, I hope it will always stay special for you,” he murmured, touching my cheek in a gesture of farewell. And then he just turned and walked away from me, back toward the park, while I stood alone and confused in the busy street as the town hall clock began to chime.
Nine times its booming echo shattered the air, uncomfortably reminding me of just how late I was. I perched on the corner of the curb, waiting for a gap in the traffic while frantically searching the crowded pavement for one last glimpse of the familiar stranger. The clock went silent all of a sudden and responsibility clawed, drawing my reluctant gaze toward the tall, austere office building on the other side of the street.
Fawcett and Medley. The gold-and-black sign loomed. The sign I had read almost every weekday morning since Daniel Brown had…Since I gave up my job at the kennels and changed my life.
A gap appeared in the endless traffic. I stepped off the curb to run across the street, and an image flashed into my mind, of honey-brown eyes and a wide, lopsided grin. I hesitated, looking one last time at the undulating river of anonymous faces. And then suddenly there he was, looking back at me.
For an endless moment time seemed to stop. I heard someone shout, and then the stranger was shouting, too. Yelling at me, eyes wide with alarm. My heart contracted as I spotted with horror the big black car that was almost upon me. Confusion overwhelmed my brain. I wanted to run, but which way? My hands reached out toward the safety of the pavement, clawing at the air, and in the instant before the car struck, my eyes found his again—too late.
I heard the thud with a vague sense of astonishment, and my body went limp as it lurched to the side. I knew horror and confusion, but no pain, just a clinical awareness of what was going on and, ridiculously, disappointment. Disappointment at never being able to see those honey-brown eyes again.
Like a broken doll, my body was flung into the street. The sound of tires squealed inside my head—or was it my own screams I heard? Pavement grated against my flesh. Something white filled my fading vision, and with the second impact came such pressure that the air was sucked from my lungs. And yet somehow everything seemed to be happening through a mist, as if to someone else. Pale, terrified faces…the cold gray street rising up to meet me…crimson blood blinding my eyes.
I felt the crack of breaking bones, but still there was no pain, just a roaring inside my head and a swirling fear, as my body crumpled, broken and bleeding, to the hard, wet street.
CHAPTER 2
Ben stood on the pavement, feeling suddenly conspicuous, wishing he had worn his usual long jogging pants instead of the stupid shorts that appeared so out of place on the busy street.
He hadn’t intended to run farther than Fletcher Park. Whenever he came to London, he always stayed at the same select guesthouse, right next to the park. The massive treetops were the first thing he saw when he woke in the morning and he loved to get up and go for a run through the small oasis of countryside in the midst of the sprawling, heaving city, taking delight in the fact that at last he could. Two years ago he would hardly have even been able to walk that distance.
He hated the city, but there was something about the park. Oak and ash and sycamore trees, tall and stately, overlooked the passers-by today, as they must have for well over a century. Nannies pushing large black baby carriages, ladies dressed in rustling silks—he liked to think that the trees had towered majestically over them all, and it gave him a sense of stability somehow to pass beneath their imposing canopy, imagining the changes they had seen, and would still see no doubt.
Ill health had made him conscious of the fragility of his own mortality, and his single-minded fight back to fitness had made him self-aware and independent. A lonely figure in a bustling