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What the hell? she thought. Live a little.
“Not much for Mexican food?”
“Oh . . . I like it well enough. I just try to keep the calorie intake within reason to avoid having to increase my exercise regime. It’s easier not to put it on than to take it off.”
“What kind of exercises do you do?”
“I run three to four times a week and use the weight room at our community center.”
&nbs
p; “I used to run fairly regularly,” said Simpson. “I need to get back to it. I’ve been too sedentary the last couple of years, and I had a problem with my right leg a while back.”
“I noticed you tend to favor it. What happened?”
Simpson was quiet for a few seconds, either gathering his thoughts or deciding what to share.
“Those nasty people I mentioned,” he said with a look to her.
Greta nodded. She remembered the vague reference to people he was now testifying against.
“Well, at the end, we had a serious disagreement about my future. I wanted one, and they didn’t.”
Greta’s mouth curved slightly, almost into a grin. “Can I assume that since you seem to have a future, the disagreement did not go well for the other parties?”
“It went extremely badly for some of them right away. Others are still suffering the consequences as time goes on.”
She didn’t pry further. The “others,” she assumed, were those he was occasionally called away to testify against. Regarding those for whom it went badly “right away,” she wondered whether it had been a terminal experience for them.
My, my, Mr. Simpson or whoever you are, you must have some stories to tell. I wouldn’t mind hearing them someday. He was pleasant enough, but her sense of him as someone potentially very dangerous coalesced further.
“Anyway,” he moved off that topic, “between that and my not keeping in the best shape before my disagreement, either my clothes are shrinking, or I’m getting larger around the waist. What’s a good jogging route here?”
“Nothing better than along the beach. Wet sand is easy on the knees and feet, and you can’t ask for a nicer setting than the ocean right there.”
“Hmmm . . . maybe I’ll give it a try. How far do you jog?”
“Depends on the time available and my mood and whether I’ve missed or skimped on runs recently. It’s usually four to eight miles.”
“You must like to run.”
“Who likes to run?”
He stared at her. She felt as if he was waiting for more of an explanation. Unable to think of anything else to say, she told him, “I need to stay in reasonable physical shape. There’s an outside chance I might be trying out for the U.S. Olympic team in two years or so.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Olympics? Really?”
At first, she was irritated—her automatic response when she perceived anyone’s surprise that she might be good at something. However, in contrast to earlier versions of Greta, she was learning to discard her first impulses as either self-delusional or unimportant.
“Really?” had been his question, and he waited for an answer.
“Yeah, really.”
“What sport?”
“Events. Sports are like basketball or rowing. Events are track and field. That’s mine. Field.”
His eyes narrowed, as his eyes roved over her body, as much as he could see above the table. “If I had to guess, I’d say one of the throwing events?”
