3

Daylin considered turning back to the car and making a quick getaway but fought against the urge as she plodded through melting snow, crossing the street to weave her way to Dusty’s Diner. Traffic was light, the rush hour comfortably past its prime as the holidays faded and the work-week eased back into a normal routine. Cracks peeked through crystals of slush beneath her feet. The New Year had ushered in more than good wishes—moderate temperatures had thinned the snowy-white quilt to a threadbare blanket.

Streetlamps flickered on, casting the car-lined boulevard in milky shadows. One glance through the diner’s picture window told her most of the vehicles’ occupants were gathered inside along the Formica-topped booths. Coffee mugs littered the tables, punctuated here and there by platters of cheeseburgers and fries or slices of pumpkin pie resting merrily beneath dollops of whipped cream.

Daylin’s belly growled. She’d come straight from work and hadn’t had time to eat. The pie looked good. Maybe she’d indulge in just one piece…and a burger…and fries drizzled in cheese. After all, it wasn’t like she was going to run today. This was simply an informational meeting—no tennis shoes required.

She dismissed the thought. She’d been good yesterday, spending a chunk of the day culling junk food from the cabinets and restocking the shelves with healthy stuff—fruits and vegetables and oatmeal with raisins—while she cleaned off the closetful of clothes tossed over the treadmill she’d purchased from a resale shop last winter. She’d had big plans during that shopping day to run—or at least walk—herself back into shape but those plans had gone right out the window almost as soon as the piece of equipment was delivered to her apartment. Disgusted by her lack of drive, she’d set the alarm an hour early that morning and forced herself crank up the beast. Though her thighs wailed in a temper tantrum of protest, she walked a full thirty minutes, capping things off with a short—make that a very short and embarrassingly awkward—sprint before heading to the shower and then off to work.

She hadn’t really craved her usual assortment of donuts and chocolate bars until now, when the aroma of grilled onions and yeasty bread whispered on the air, waking her belly with a ferocious growl. Yet, despite the hunger, nerves tangled her insides. Perhaps after the meeting—and seeing Patrick again—she’d feel better about indulging in something to eat. For now, she needed to get settled inside the warmth of the building before the festivities began and she disrupted the flow with her late entrance.

Chatter through the glass entryway mingled like a horde of crickets along with the tinny melody of country music. A peal of laughter punctuated the chaos and the sudden realization struck that everyone seemed to know one another. Had they been there for a while, exchanging pleasantries? Had she gotten the time wrong? She checked her watch as panic gripped her.

Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I’m just walking into a hornet’s nest…about to make a fool of myself. What if I can’t finish the race? What if I garner donations for this cause, attesting to finish what I’ve started, and fail at following through with my promise?

Daylin paused at the entrance, drawing a long, cleansing breath as she considered the voice that had seemed to echo to her from the mountains New Year’s Eve. The words rang more loud and clear than any coming from the diner and she clung to them once again.

Trust me…

She tugged at the entrance door and warmth welcomed her in. The rich aroma of coffee danced around a cacophonous backdrop of conversation. Immediately, her gaze traveled to the glass-enclosed dessert case which must have been recently restocked. In addition to the seasonal pie staples of pumpkin and cinnamon-apple, she drank in pecan, blueberry, French silk, key lime, cherry, and a double-decker creation with a layer of drizzled filling that mimicked rich, dark velvet.

That one…I’ll have the velvet concoction with an extra shot of whipped cream. Sprinkle it with milk-chocolate chips, if you don’t mind.

Resolve did battle with nervous energy and desire. Daylin stumbled into the familiar game of justifying her craving. After all, a slice of pie would calm her nerves and ease the sharp wiggle of doubt in her belly. Others in attendance here had indulged in the treat—the evidence was strewn across the tabletops. Why not she, as well?

“Daylin, wow.” A male voice drew attention from behind. “Is that really you?”

The inner food battle disrupted, Daylin turned toward the voice and nearly stumbled into Patrick. She splayed a hand over his chest to steady herself and felt an array of corded muscles beneath the button-down dress shirt and silk tie. A quick glance up into his face and there was no mistaking the shock of black hair and striking gray-blue eyes that carried the intensity of a feral animal.

Wolf. The nickname returned and suddenly she was sixteen again, sharing a Gatorade with him after practice.

He’d always been take-charge, focused, a confident leader. The scent of aftershave, something clean and woodsy, drifted her way. He’d put on a few pounds—all muscle for sure—and a couple inches in height, as well. Her pulse skittered as he drank her in.

“Yes. No…” Daylin hesitated, considering the fact that she could still walk away from the craziness of the rash decision to come here this evening. She could sprint for the door and no one would stop her. Not this man standing before her or a soul in the crowd.

Except for Vera.

The thin, kindly older woman crossed the room, closing the distance between them. As she neared, Daylin righted herself, releasing her hold on Patrick. She brushed her dampened palm on the front of her calf-length wool skirt. This was definitely not how she’d envisioned the reunion.

“I see you made it back, honey.” Vera pressed a cup of coffee into Daylin’s stuttering hands. “I knew you would, gaugin’ from the sparkle in those honey-brown eyes of yours last time I saw ya. Good for you.”

“Yes, well…” Trembling, Daylin wrapped her palms around the restaurant-grade, cream-colored ceramic mug and let the warmth seep through her. So much for making a clean getaway. “I’m having second thoughts. I’m not so sure about this.”

“Only one remedy for that; hang around and get sure, then.” Vera winked as her gaze drifted toward Patrick, who’d turned briefly to greet another arrival, and then back to Daylin’s fingers wrapped so tightly around the mug that the blood had drained from her knuckles. “God has you where He wants you, and He doesn’t plan on letting go.” She clucked her tongue as she nodded toward Patrick. “Same for that one. No sense trying to wrestle with the Man Upstairs. He’ll win the battle every time. I suggest you both grab tight and hang on. ”

“I…we were friends once, that’s true.” Heat seeped from the nape of Daylin’s neck to the crown of her head as she followed Vera’s gaze to Patrick’s unadorned left hand. Like a wave crashing ashore, the meaning of Vera’s words registered. Daylin refuted them, wagging her head like a dog shaking off water. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not here for that…not looking for that at all, as a matter of fact. I am done with that.”

Not in a million years do I want to get mixed up with another man and leave myself open and vulnerable. I know how it plays out…how it ends.. Been there, done that, and I’m taking a break from that particular boat ride. Docked at the shore and staying there, yes ma’am I am.

“Sure you are.” Vera’s laugh was a soft cackle. “But, like it or not, the Man Upstairs, well, He has His own cruise line, and sometimes it leads to places we haven’t even begun to consider venturing. So you watch the signs, you hear, climb aboard when He tells you to, and go where He leads you.”

“I’ll…OK.” Daylin sipped from the mug, her fingers trembling as the coffee scalded a trail down her throat. Good grief. The woman is a mind reader. “If you say so.”

Daylin turned slightly to observe Patrick. His smile, vibrant and contagious, had her lips curving upward. Just as she remembered, his charm was virtually undeniable. She’d fallen beneath its spell once—as a sophomore at Lake Meade High School. Not that Patrick had any inkling. He’d been two years ahead of her, moving toward college and a successful future. Any kindness he showed her was simply his way of helping her feel like she was part of the team—not completely alone in the world. If she’d wanted more—and, truth-be-told she did, he certainly didn’t seem overly interested.

Vera flitted away once more, off to fill an order and tend to a table of customers as Patrick turned his attention back to Daylin.

“Sorry about that.” He rubbed his palm along his jawline, and Daylin noticed a smattering of stubble. He wore a magnetic-red silk tie along with his button-down shirt, but the tie’s knot had been loosened and it sat like the tail of a kite that had been displaced by the wind. “We didn’t get to finish our introductions. It’s been forever—or at least it seems that way.” He touched her elbow gently. “You look great.”

Daylin smoothed her hand over the fabric of her skirt once more, thankful she’d taken a bit of extra time with her makeup and outfit. The skirt was fashioned in a slimming cut, the blouse in a shade she knew flattered her Irish complexion. She already felt a bit lighter, perhaps from her treadmill walk that morning—or as a result of the complimentary way Patrick’s smiling gaze danced over her. “I’ve put on a few pounds, but I’m working on it.”

“Aren’t we all?” He patted his midsection beneath the navy shirt that sported a crimson Dash for the Dream emblem that matched the disheveled tie. Daylin failed to locate a single belly roll through the cotton fabric, and doubted he could—even with a magnifying glass—locate an inch to pinch. Who was he trying to kid? “I’m so glad you sent that email.”

“In all honesty, I’m not quite sure why I did. But your return correspondence was so encouraging that here I am, ready to go. I’m glad I came. It’s great to see you again.”

“Ditto.” His gaze deepened and the words resonated with sincerity that extinguished Daylin’s nerves. “I’m thrilled that you expressed interest in running the half-marathon.”

“Or I could walk it, if running is too much.” Her gaze slipped to the apple pie once again. Yes, she felt a bit lighter but her thighs still yawned with the protest of their morning workout. But, she had to admit, it was a good kind of yawn—one that told her she had a lot of living yet to do and she’d better get on with it. “Do you allow that? I’m kind of…”

“Just perfect for marathon training.” Patrick finished for her as he turned and led her toward the small crowd of attendees who’d scattered throughout the tables and booths. “I remember how you pummeled the pavement in high school. You have a daunting second wind.”

“Had. And that was merely in the five-K and once in a while in a ten-K. Both were tackled a long time ago—practically in a different lifetime.”

“OK, now you’re making me feel old. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Long enough.” Daylin simply shrugged in response. “I’m not quite in runner’s…” She let the statement fade, figuring he’d get the drift as she began to shrug from her jacket. The hem of her skirt swished around the top of leather boots.

“Let me get that for you.” Patrick eased a sleeve from her arm, folded the jacket and then returned it to Daylin to drape over her arm. “What have you been up to since I saw you last? How did you end up here, in Knoxville?”

“I was just about to ask you the same.”

“Well, we’ll definitely have to chisel out a little time to catch up.” He winked, and her insides turned to mashed potatoes same as they did in high school when those gray-blue eyes connected with hers. “But, lay your worries to rest, Daylin. You can do the run. I know you can. I’ve seen you in action, and it was pretty amazing.”

Amazing…he’d called her amazing. Patrick’s tone was smooth caramel.

“We have a great support network. Everyone’s in this together, as a team. On top of that, we have three full months to train. That’s plenty of time if the desire to tackle the mountain, so to speak, is in place and we’re consistent in our work-outs.”

“What sort of work-outs?”

Would she have to join a gym, lift weights and—oh my goodness—wear tiny cotton running shorts? Memories of the skimpy cross-country shorts and singlet that were customary high school race attire heated her cheeks. Dressed in such an outfit today, she’d surely resemble a muffin top spilling over its cup.

“We’ll ease you in slowly. I promise not to break you.” Patrick laughed as her lips pursed into a mortified frown. “Come on over and have a seat with the group. Drink that coffee while it’s hot, and we’ll go over all the details. Everything here is informal, so don’t sweat a thing. I’ve got your back and so does the rest of this crew. Most are veterans to the program, but several—like you—are new to Dash for the Dream.”

Daylin turned toward the small crowd as they offered a flurry of welcoming waves coupled with hearty hellos. With that kind of enthusiasm, it was easy to feel as if she belonged. A smile tickled her lips as nerves rested.

“See?” Patrick handed her a navy T-shirt, the same hue of his dress shirt, emblazoned with the trademark crimson Dash for the Dream logo. “It’s official. Everyone’s happy to see you and anxious to meet you. Here’s your team shirt.”

“But, I haven’t—” She took a step, stumbled and bobbled the coffee, splattering warm liquid over her fingers and onto Patrick’s shirt. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She grabbed a handful of napkins from the nearest dispenser and began to dab at his shirtfront. No, there was definitely no inch waiting to be pinched there, just a terrain of sinuous muscles. “I’m sorry to say this is typical for me. I’m a certified klutz. Did I burn you?”

“Not at all. It’s OK.” Patrick glanced down as she swiped at the mess. “A little stain remover and a trip through the wash cycle, and I’ll be good as new.”

The thought of Patrick spinning through the rinse cycle, those mesmerizing eyes lifted toward her, brought on a flurry of laughter. Daylin pursed her lips, trying her best to suppress the giggles. “I…I’m so embarrassed. Tripping over my own two feet,” she muttered. “Yes, that’s a good sign of things to come. OK, I’ll just shut up and…sit down now.”

“No need to be embarrassed.” The voice, firm and raspy, came from behind Daylin. “Here, sit with us, dear.”

Daylin turned to the booth on her right and nestled slightly behind to see a woman with a shock of shoulder-length silver hair who looked to be nearing sixty. Could it be…?

“Mrs. Litton…Frannie?”

“That’s right, Daylin.” Without hesitation, Frannie encircled Daylin in a bear-hug. The scent of Shalimar drifted, evoking memories that had lain dormant for more than a decade. “It’s been a while, and I have a few more gray shingles covering the roof. But it’s so good to see you again. How are you?”

“I’m well…busy as ever.” Daylin gave Frannie a squeeze. Her eyes had the same shape as Patrick’s, a similar intensity, but held more blue that gray. Her smile was broad and heightened the sincerity of her words.

“Oh, I remember how kind you were to drive me home from practice when I was so often without a ride. Thank you again for that.”

“It was nothing. Walking the roadside alone was dangerous. Besides, Patrick always asked me to offer.”

“He did?”

“Of course he did. He worried over you, dear.” She clucked her tongue. “And I’m not the only one who noticed how much he enjoyed your company. Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I suppose I didn’t.” Yet now, the very thought warmed her. How could she have missed Patrick’s concern…his interest? And, did he still feel an inkling of that interest? “I guess I’ve made quite an entrance. I’m sorry about the coffee—and Patrick’s shirt.”

“No harm done. He’s trained through so many rain showers he’s guaranteed not to melt. And a little stain never hurt anything.” She made a motion with her hand as if to sweep the matter away. “Let’s get you a refill of coffee. There’s still quite a chill outside. The weather’s supposed to moderate over the next few days, though, according to Channel Ten’s meteorologist. Let’s hope he’s on the mark.”

Frannie motioned for Vera as a little girl in the seat beside Frannie scooted onto her knees and splayed her palms across the tabletop while she craned for a better look at Daylin.

“Who’re you?” The child’s halo of blonde curls bobbed as sapphire-blue eyes framed an impish smile that caused the dimples at each cheek to deepen.

“I’m Daylin. And what’s your name, sweetie?”

“Aubree.”

“Hello.” Daylin offered the child her hand. “You sure are a cutie.”

“Daddy says so, too.” Curls spilled over slight shoulders as she bounced in the cushioned seat across from Daylin. She gazed over the tabletop with such a pure, sweet innocence that Daylin’s heart melted right there on the spot. “Do you know my daddy?”

“Who is your daddy?”

“Him.” She jabbed a finger toward the front of the room, indicating Patrick. “Daddy.”

Patrick had a child? How? When? Questions swam through Daylin’s mind as she addressed the child’s query. “I used to know your daddy a long time ago, before you were born. We were friends.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“This is my Gran.” The child’s finger pointed to Frannie. “Do you know her, too?”

“I do.”

“I’m gonna be six in Feb’rary.” As if to prove it, Aubree splayed a full hand of stubby fingers and added one thumb. “How ’bout you? How old are you gonna be?”

“Aubree, hush.” Frannie shushed her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. “It’s not polite to ask a grown woman her age, sweetheart.”

“Why not?” Aubree propped her chin on an upturned palm and toed the edge of the booth with a foot clad in sparkly pink tennis shoes. “Don’t she have birfdays, too?”

“Doesn’t she, and yes, I’m sure Daylin has birthdays.” Frannie handed Aubree a tissue and pointed to her nose. “Give it a swipe to clean the pipes.”

“Oh, Gran…that’s funny.” Aubree giggled while dutifully, she blew into the tissue and then dabbed at her face.

“It’s OK.” Daylin laughed at the innocent question. “Of course I have birthdays. I’m…well, let’s see if you can figure it out for yourself. Here’s a clue.” She flashed three tens slowly and then added one finger to the mix. “I’ll be this many on my next birthday.”

“Wow…that’s bunches.” Aubree’s lips curved into a little oh, deepening the dimples at her cheeks. She murmured under her breath, counting to herself. “Thirty-one, right?”

“That’s right. You’re very good at counting. Next time I blow out the candles, I’ll be thirty-one.”

“You’re lucky. I’ll bet you get to stay up ’til ten o’clock every night if you want to. Daddy says my bedtime’s eight o’clock sharp ’cept for tonight ’cause this meeting’s really ’portant. And sometimes I can watch a movie with him ’til nine, but only on Saturdays.”

“Goodness!” Frannie laughed, low and throaty. “My, but you’re a chatterbox tonight.” She glanced Daylin’s way. “I’m sorry. She’s not usually this rambunctious with people she’s just met. I think she’s taken a shine to you.”

“What’s a shine?” Aubree asked.

“That means you like Daylin.”

“Oh, yes…lots.” Aubree punctuated the matter-of-fact assertion with a single firm nod of her head as she studied Daylin. “You have pretty hair.”

“Thank you.” Daylin sipped the coffee, very carefully now, that Vera had just poured into her mug. “It’s called strawberry blonde.”

“’cause it’s made of strawberries?” Aubree leaned in to sniff the strands.

“No.” Laughter bubbled up. Daylin’s gaze drifted to Frannie, who grinned as well. Their bond was instantaneous, as if they’d never missed a day of seeing one another, and Daylin felt a sudden, deep sense that she’d made the right decision in coming here tonight. “It’s not made of strawberries.”

“Well, it smells good.” Aubree cocked an eyebrow and scrunched her nose. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure, you can.”

“Thanks.” Without missing a beat, Aubree leaned across the seat to snatch a few strands that slipped across Daylin’s forehead. Her breath was audible as she rubbed the wisps between her fingers. The scent of apple shampoo drifted, and Daylin noticed a smudge of chocolate ice cream painting Aubree’s upper lip. “Is your hair real?”

“Aubree!” Frannie’s admonishment was quick and stern. Creases formed along the edges of the older woman’s narrowed eyes as she leaned in to bring an end to the conversation. “Hush, now. That’s enough.”

Patrick turned their way, his gaze questioning the firm tone of Frannie’s voice. Obviously, it wasn’t a tone that was used with great frequency.

“It’s OK.” Daylin dismissed both Patrick’s concerned gaze and the fact that Frannie appeared positively mortified by the bold question. “You can ask me anything you want, Aubree.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned in to address the inquisitive child. Her voice held an air of invitation. “What do you mean by real, honey?”

Aubree leaned in as well, narrowing the distance between them to mere inches. She lifted her chin and inspected the crown of Daylin’s head. “Well, there’s a lady at church with hair like yours and Gran says it comes once a month in a box. Did you get your hair from a box?”

“No.” Daylin laughed heartily as she smoothed a hand over the length of the strands. “I got it from my mom and dad. I was born with it.”

“Oh, so it’s g’netic?”

“Yes, it’s genetic.”

“My CF is g’netic, too. Daddy said so. It’s like wearing the other kind of jeans, like pants, ’cept you can’t take CF off, even on Christmas or when you go swimming. It’s there all the time.”

“Oh, my…” Daylin pressed a hand to her mouth as the words sank in. Such a simple explanation for something so heart-wrenchingly complicated. Her gaze rose to connect with Frannie’s, and the woman’s slight nod confirmed what Daylin had just learned.

Aubree—Patrick’s child—was born with Cystic Fibrosis.

For the slightest moment, Daylin found it hard to breathe as her heart squeezed with the realization of all that meant. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s OK.” Aubree smiled and pushed back hair from her furrowed brow. “Daddy says I’m not wearing a label.”

“No, sweetie, you’re not.” Tears turned Daylin’s eyes to stinging coal. She swiped the moisture away just as quickly as it came so as not to frighten Aubree.

“Wanna play tic-tac-toe?” Obviously satisfied with Daylin’s answers concerning the state of her hair and her reason for joining them tonight, Aubree was ready to move on to the next adventure. She turned over the kids’ menu on the table in front of her and clutched a pair of crayons tightly in her small, chubby fist. “Daddy taught me how.”

“Sure.” Daylin struggled with the word. “I’d love to play if we can also listen to your daddy explain about what I need to do to get ready to run the race.” She picked up the orange crayon. “I want to hear all the details. It’s pretty important stuff.”

“Are you gonna run with Daddy for me and the other kids?”

“I’m going to try.”

“So the doctors can learn a cure?” Aubree swiped at her nose with the tissue once more. “Daddy says they’re gettin’ pretty close.”

“Yes, I’m going to do my best to run the race for you and your friends.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Daylin rested her chin in an upturned palm and squinted at Aubree. “Is it hard, having CF?”

“Sometimes.” Aubree scratched her nose and sniffled. “I don’t like going to all the doctors even though Daddy says they’re just tryin’ to help.” Aubree kicked the table leg with her tennis shoes as she drew a wobbly grid on the paper. “It’s prob’ly not as hard as getting hair from a box once a month.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Despite the levity of their conversation, a smile danced across Daylin’s lips. “Then again, I’ve never experienced either.”

“What about a marathon?”

“Nope.”

“I can help. Sometimes I go with Daddy when he’s training. I have a jogging stroller from his store. It has a cover so the sun don’t hurt my eyes. I hold Daddy’s water bottle and cheer for him. I can carry your water bottle and cheer for you, too, if you’d like me to.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“’kay. But you’ll have to get some running shoes.” She pointed to Daylin’s leather knee boots. “You can’t run in those—no siree. They’ll give you shin splints. I know all about those.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Uh huh. Daddy can help you find a pair of good running shoes. He’s got lots an’ lots of shoes at his store. I like the pink ones with yellow lightning bolts best.”

“Pink sounds nice. I’ll be sure to ask your daddy for help, then.” New shoes sounded like a good plan. If she continued to run in the worn out pair she owned, shin splints would be the least of her worries. And a water bottle, well…she hadn’t even considered that. What else was she missing?

“Let’s play now.” Aubree pointed to the grid on the paper. “We can be real quiet while Daddy talks—like those people with the painted white faces, the ones I saw at the circus when Daddy took me last month. They don’t talk—ever.”

“You mean mimes?”

“Yeah, mimes. Sometimes Daddy says I should be more like a mime, but I like to talk.” She slid the paper toward Daylin then pressed a single finger to her lips. “Shhhh, Daddy’s startin’ the meeting. Here you go. I’ll be X’s and you be O’s. You can go first.”

****

Patrick spoke to the moderate-sized crowd as if on auto-pilot. This was his tenth marathon training group, with smaller races and fundraisers nestled in between, and he knew the introductory spiel and high-points well enough to run on autopilot. The tight-knit network gathered here had grown over the past half-decade, which was a blessing to fundraising, yet devoured his time like an insatiable beast. That wasn’t such a bad thing, though. The lack of idle time gave him less time to think, to reminisce—to worry over what the future might bring.

One of Sandra’s favorite adages danced through his mind, “Begin the morning with a song and a prayer and the rest of the day will take care of itself.” She’d written the words on a notecard and pasted it to the fridge with a magnet, where it remained today. Always the optimist, so strong in her faith, she’d been light to his darkness and calm to his storm. Now the light was gone and the storms seemed to rage without ceasing.

Enough whining. The words were a sharp bark in Patrick’s head. Then, more gently, Be strong and of good courage. Joshua 1:9 came to him like a breath of warm air.

OK, I can do this. I need to do this. Patrick composed himself and let the thrill of this new challenge wash over him. It was like this each time…nerves and apprehension, when he managed to corral them, gave way to a sense of excitement over piloting a new team of volunteers. He scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw as he took a moment to survey the group.

Carol and Don Metzer had settled into a back corner, their son Seth in the booth seat between them. The boy, also diagnosed with CF as well as allergies to gluten and a host of other foods, was a year younger than Aubree and his journey much more difficult. Patrick had met Carol and Don two years ago while both Aubree and Seth were hospitalized at the same time. Somewhere during their initial conversation the couple had hopped aboard the Dash for a Dream train. Today, they remained ardent supporters.

Julie Tessle hadn’t made it to this meeting—her son, Jonah, had been admitted to Children’s Hospital just last night with a case of pneumonia. As it stood, things were touch-and-go. Patrick made a mental note to stop by the hospital on his way home from work tomorrow to lend his support to the young, single mother.

Many other familiar faces were scattered throughout a crowd of newcomers—about thirty-five in all. Some had been all-in with the cause since the inception of Dash for the Dream four years ago, helping out where needed and running every race that came down the pike. Others worked behind the scenes, like Lorena Dixon, who battled rheumatoid arthritis but still managed to single-handedly pilot the Dash for the Dream website and promotional pages. She’d never charged a dime for her services and always turned away Patrick’s offers of compensation. He knew she helped out of the goodness of her heart.

And, of course, there was his mom. She’d stepped in to help after Sandra passed away, caring for Aubree as needed while Patrick managed his store, and then home-schooling. They shared an easy relationship—except for the fairly-infrequent times when she tried to add matchmaker to her list of duties.

“You can’t keep hiding away, Patrick, working alone in the store most days and then spending another hour or two, alone, running.”

“I can’t help it if running is a solitary sport.”

“Yes, you can. Participate in some group runs. At least then you’ll have others to talk to while you train.”

“I like running alone.”

“And I like barbecue potato chips, but their simply empty calories.”

“I’m not talking about food, Mom.”

“Neither am I.”

“Everything’s changed now.”

“Yes, it has. But change doesn’t have to be a bad thing, son. It’s just…different.” She’s waggled a finger at him. “Will you at least consider branching out a bit?”

“Yes, Mom…I will.” Patrick sighed. “I promise I’ll add a group run or two to my training schedule.”

“And perhaps a meal out from time to time…a bit of adult conversation that doesn’t revolve around Aubree…or work?”

“If you insist. Now, please…let it go.”

Though her meddling got to him at times, Patrick could overlook the irritation since Aubree absolutely adored her gran. And she was right…Patrick knew in his heart there was some truth to his mother’s words. He was hiding out in his comfort zone. Perhaps it was time to breach the barriers.

So, he’d added some additional runs to this training session, though his schedule remained tight. As for the rest…he’d leave that to God to figure out.

Patrick was thankful to his mom and to each and every one of the generous souls who’d joined Dash for their support and selfless contributions. When the going got tough, their boundless generosity and compassion buoyed him.

Now, he focused on finishing his introduction and moving into the meat of the meeting. As he handed out training schedules filled with details concerning both large and small group activities, a round of giggles drew his attention to the table where Aubree and his mom sat with Daylin. Aubree appeared to be enthralled as she scratched a tic-tac-toe grid onto the back side of her menu and commenced to drawing Daylin into a game. Heads bowed together, they looked as if they’d known one another for a lifetime. Patrick’s lips clenched as his pulse jolted with the sensation that he’d just begun a slow, inevitable descent on a one-way coaster downhill. Where would it take him?

He kept one eye trained on Aubree and Daylin as they finished the game to a flurry of laughter before diving into a second and then a third game which he imagined amounted to a tie-breaker. He was impressed with Daylin when she didn’t, just for the heck of it, let Aubree win but went after the victory herself. He’d never allowed Aubree to win just for the sake of winning, either. He felt that learning to lose gracefully was an important and valuable life lesson.

Aubree clapped and as Patrick tied things up with the crowd he heard her congratulate Daylin with a joyful, “Good job,” just the way he’d taught her to do. It was uncanny how, since Aubree had been born, he’d learned to listen to the goings-on around him in stereo and even, sometimes, in surround-sound.

Not to mention while sleeping, driving, and even during long runs when she accompanied him.

As if remembering the purpose of coming to the diner, Daylin lifted her gaze and tilted her head to drink in the information Patrick shared with the group. Aubree seemed transfixed on him for a moment, as well, before she did something completely unexpected. She pushed the tic-tac-toe paper aside and crawled into Daylin’s lap, wrapping her arms loosely around Daylin’s neck.

Obviously shocked and delighted by the gesture, Daylin hesitated only a moment before draping her arms around Aubree in return. Aubree pressed her cheek to Daylin’s shoulder and yawned hugely, seemingly melting into Daylin as she relaxed. Daylin’s lips moved in a gentle murmur and Aubree’s eyes fluttered closed.

Daylin eased back against the cushioned booth and glanced at his mother. A look of understanding passed between them, and Patrick felt a quickening in his gut that might be the result of hunger or the knowledge that something bigger than him—a beast he wasn’t quite ready to battle—had just taken up residence.

Hair the color of sun-kissed wheat Patrick had seen growing in the fields during his long runs along the back roads outside of Knoxville spilled over Daylin’s shoulder. Straight and glossy, the strands shimmered like a luxurious waterfall beneath the diner’s fluorescent lights. Her eyes, deep brown as chocolate cream and wide-set with a sense of wonder, lifted to connect with his.

Her smile melted him.

Despite his apprehension, Patrick returned the radiant smile with a sense of warmth he hadn’t felt for a year’s worth of full moons. He could hardly blame Daylin for falling under Aubree’s spell. It happened wherever Aubree went—the hospital, swim lessons, school before he was forced to withdraw her and convert their great room into a classroom. It’s what had earned Aubree the nickname of Little Charmer. She could hold her own in a conversation, too, scoring off the charts when it came to language skills. She took after Sandra in that department—never meeting a stranger and more comfortable in her own skin than anyone he’d ever known. Patrick, on the other hand, considered himself an introvert; he preferred to keep his thoughts—and his feelings—tucked up one sleeve. It was a wonder he’d managed to grow Dash for the Dream. The very fact stood as a testament to the people who’d stood by his side through the rough and unsettling patch of the past few years.

Now, he was oddly drawn to the woman who held his daughter as if they’d been joined together since birth. It was beguiling to watch Daylin cradle Aubree as if holding his daughter, soothing her, was natural—effortless, even welcome. Other women—the few dates he’d been shoved into—seemed more than interested in him, yet treated Aubree as if she was a china doll who might shatter if touched. They lost interest quickly enough once they learned that he and Aubree were a packaged deal.

Somehow, though, Daylin seemed different…easygoing with a laugh that said she was in no hurry to get from here to there. She leaned in to bundle Aubree close, and his breath caught at the intensity of emotion he witnessed in Daylin’s gaze. It was as if she could read his mind and feel the depth of his longing while Aubree pressed a palm to her cheek and sighed.

The tenderness in Daylin’s eyes mingled with a soft vulnerability that suddenly tilted Patrick’s world on its axis. In that moment he was swept into a ferocious riptide and out of the control he’d worked so hard to build and maintain.

“Patrick.” The voice at his shoulder drew him back. It was Noah, another newcomer from the local community college who’d brought along his girlfriend, Tanya. “Sorry to interrupt but how do we set up the small groups? And where do we meet for those?”

Patrick tore his gaze from Daylin and turned to address Noah’s questions, but Daylin’s image lingered. For a fleeting moment he wondered what it would be like to share dinner with her or a walk along the waterfront near Neyland Drive. How would hair the color of sun-bleached cinnamon dance when ruffled by a gentle breeze?

He gave himself a mental slap. What was he thinking, allowing his mind to wander in such a manner? This meeting was important, professional.

Vital to Aubree’s future.

Get a grip, man. You are plunging into the churning ocean in a raft without a paddle. Focus.

Patrick bobbled the proverbial ball in the red zone for a few moments before he cleared his throat and quickly redirected his thoughts. He leveled his gaze and addressed Noah’s questions with a recitation of useful information he’d long since committed to memory.

“I encourage you to have at least one training partner. Two or three are better. If you can’t get together with them every other day or so, set up some shorter maintenance runs on your own. The training schedule is three-tiered to suit levels from novice to advanced, and I’m available as needed to guide you along the path.

“In addition to the individual and small-group runs, we’ll meet each Saturday morning as one large group for distance runs along the greenways. There’s also an optional evening run each week that will focus on one particular aspect of training—such as intervals or hills—to build speed and endurance. Everything is outlined in the training schedule, and my cell, home, and work numbers are there, too, in case you have questions or need any help at all.”

“Yeah, good. I see that.” Noah nodded while his girlfriend jotted notes with a stubby pencil along the margin of her handouts. “Any suggestions on what to share with people while we’re fundraising?”

“Sure.” Patrick picked up speed as he fell back into a familiar rhythm. This he could deal with easily. It was the woman across the way holding his daughter that had him stumbling. He did his best to tune her out while finishing his explanation. “It’s also imperative to generate the interest of friends, family, and the community at large when fundraising. Use the marketing materials in your packet to let people you approach know that Dash for the Dream is unique in the fact that, due to the generosity of people like you and them, one hundred percent of the proceeds go directly to research. We have no overhead to speak of. It’s a small organization with far-reaching effects. Over the last four years, we’ve raised close to a million dollars and counting. I’d like to add to that bottom line, and I hope you’ll help me.” He cupped a hand, pressed it to his lips as he cleared his throat before continuing. This thought—the true purpose of Dash for the Dream—never failed to tug at his gut while holding him true-to-course. “A cure for CF is waiting to be discovered and kids like Aubree, Seth, and Jonah—and their families—are counting on you to help them have a brighter—and longer—future.