Free Flash and Fire by Marie Ferrarella Page B

shorts and a baggy sweatshirt. She’d cut off the sleeves when the weather had turned sultry. It was a purely functional outfit, meant to be serviceable, not to impress. She ran for her health, not to be fashionable. There was a tear under the right armhole that she had been meaning to sew. She had just never found the time.
    Throwing off her nightshirt, she tugged on the shorts and then the shirt. There were a lot of things lately, she thought, that she never found the time to do. She wondered if life was ever going to slow down to the sort of pace where she could finally catch up to it—and catch her breath as well.
    Probably not. If it did, she’d probably be complaining that she was bored. Amanda laughed to herself.
    Once dressed, she got down on her hands and knees to search for her running shoes. They were lost somewhere amid the chaotic mess that existed at the bottom of her closet. She chewed on her lip, annoyed. Another tiling she meant to get to.
    She flung a rubber bone out as she went on parting shoes and clothes that had been pulled down from their hangers. Her closet was obviously Christopher and Muffin’s new play area.
    She was rewarded several trying minutes later with two running shoes. The laces were partially undone and tangled together at the ends. More of her son’s handiwork. How could one little boy be in so many different places in such a short space of time?
    It took her another five minutes to untangle the laces and get ready. Time was ticking by quickly and there were a hundred things she had to do. Amanda tried not to think about it.
    “I’m going out for a run,” she called out to Carla as she came down the stairs.
    She heard the sound of dishes coming from the kitchen. Christopher was having breakfast. Almost at the front door, Amanda stopped. For a moment, she was tempted to go in and say good morning.
    But she knew that if she went in to say hello, her chances of getting out to run would be instantly cut in half. Christopher would insist on going out the front door with her, then down the driveway, and probably down the block as well. Then he’d wail because she wouldn’t let him come out onto the greenbelt with her. A fast getaway was the only sensible move.
    “Sorry, sweetie,” she said under her breath as she pulled her hair through a rubber band, “but this is about preserving your mommy’s sanity.”
    Glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen, Amanda made her escape.
    She pulled open the front door and tripped as she crossed the threshold. “What the—?’
    On the doorstep was a magnum of champagne in a silver bucket. Attached to it was a single red rose.

Chapter Eight

    There was a note attached to the neck of the champagne bottle. Amanda carefully pulled it off, folded the tape under it, and looked slowly around to see if anyone was watching her. The greenbelt was deserted and there was no one out on the cul-de-sac. But she couldn’t shake the eerie sensation that she was being observed.
    Still holding the rose, Amanda fingered the folded note. Maybe Whitney had sent this. But she doubted it. She looked down at the flower. This was a romantic gesture, and Whitney had a lot more important things on his mind at the moment.
    Shifting the flower to her other hand, Amanda unfolded the note. It was written in an easy, wide hand. It wasn’t from Whitney. And it wasn’t anonymous.
    The note was from Pierce.
    She wouldn’t have thought this was his style. He seemed like someone who was inclined to reach out and take what he wanted, or who sat back and waited till the woman fell into his lap. This gesture was far too romantic for someone like Alexander. He certainly didn’t strike her as the type who would write poetry for a woman. Dirty limericks, maybe, but not poetry.
    This was a poem.
    Nothing fancy, yet it was eloquent in its understatement. Eight short lines in iambic pentameter comparing her to the wild rose she held in her hand. The gist of it was that wild roses