The whistle had just signaled the start of a rainy Mother’s Day race in Philly. My first few steps felt awkward as I struggled to coordinate my arms, feet, and legs into a rhythm.

Someone approached—fast—yelling, "Spiegel? Spiegel Cullen?"

The voice jarred me from my stride. I’d recognize James’ voice anywhere, but didn’t turn an inch. I’d never been able to talk much while jogging. I nodded when he caught me and thought only of the finish line up ahead, hoping he would dash on by.

Puffy clouds hung in the sky. "I’ve been trying to reach you," he said.

So what? I thought, but said, "Can we talk later?"

"It’s important."

God, that very vain disposition was what earned James Jordan the title of "ex-lover." Such is life—a zigzag dance until we get it right.

I wiggled and jiggled through the openings to find a comfortable lead over some of the slower runners and yelled over my back, "I’ll meet you at the end of the race." I panted and sped up to get to the finish line before he did.

"Wait!" he yelled, his tone angry, defiant. "Wait, girl."

I loved it! Ignoring him, I continued without so much as a hint of interest in whatever James had to say. Well, maybe a little interest. "I wish my sister Aliá was here." I murmured. She’d get the scoop.

It was all I could do to keep up with the demands of the whistle that had blown twenty minutes earlier to start the race along the tranquil, muddy Schuylkill waters on West River Drive. The big, green, Slippery Elms and Scarlet Oak trees that stake their claim on both sides of the river were in full bloom. People often stopped by to watch the geese entertain anyone willing to feed them fresh popcorn or brown bread. On that day, however, the ducks stayed in the water as a few thousand joggers eased on down the road to raise lots of money to fight breast cancer.

The Mother’s Day run, a tradition in our dear City of Brotherly Love, had people racing for a cure either "in memory of" or "in celebration of" various persons. James and I had started running this race together almost ten years ago, in memory of his mother. She had been my mentor in law school when she was diagnosed. Dorothy was so sweet; everyone loved her. How she ever produced a son as screwed up as James was beyond me.

Just the thought of James running somewhere close behind—that he was yelling my name as though he had lost his mind—propelled me to run even faster. What could be so important? We had not spoken since he had suddenly lost his fear of commitment and two months after we’d split married some girl pathetically lurking in the wings. I had heard that they now had a baby on the way.

"Be patient," he would say every time I brought up the subject of marriage and kids. Now there I was, childless, and not necessarily by choice. Mother’s Day was not one of my favorite holidays; hell, it wasn’t even a holiday. Was it?

I didn’t want a baby years ago, so I didn’t have one. Today I did, I really did. I no longer cared what motherhood would do to my career. But, if one could believe anything doctors said, my time was almost up in the fertility department. I figured I had eighteen months, nine days, seven hours, eleven minutes, and a few seconds left to fall in love, marry, and give birth. At the rate I was going, even my little sister would beat me to the maternity ward.

As the sunshine attempted to break through the clouds, a bald-headed woman jogged up on my left. We ran together for a while, elbow-to-elbow, knee-to-knee. At least thirty minutes into the race, sweat dripped from my face. Our eyes met briefly. I matched her smile. I would just die if I lost my hair. Shame on me—wasn’t it enough to survive cancer?

Approaching the finish line, I saw some familiar faces and many of the runners first out stretched on the wet grass, getting back their electrolytes with orange juice, pretzels, apples, bananas, yogurt. There was no sign of James. But all I could think of was that last cup of water I had downed, because I had to pee. My jogging tights and tee were sweat-soaked. My heartbeat raced, even though I had come to a stop. News trucks and sponsor trucks handing out bottled water and t-shirts lined the sidewalks.

"Hi, Spiegel. Good job. Forty-two minutes," said one of the race coordinators.

"Hey, thanks," I said. I handed him my race ticket, which would officially record me as a woman a few days shy of thirty-seven, who finished the 5-k somewhat slower this year than last year. Forty-two minutes? I would have stopped to chat, but didn’t want to take the chance of running into James. That, by now, he was out of breath and frantically trying to catch me, like a dog in heat, gave me joy.

"Well, excuse me!" I snarled when this young guy bumped into me, stepping on my clean sneakers without saying a word. But sheer jubilation prevailed among the others who had reached the end of the race. Some of the cancer survivors were talking to news reporters, sharing their stories of triumph over tragedy. I put a little more pep in my step and turned in the direction of my little oasis of a home, or what James used to call "a geisha haven for you and your too-independent attitude." Fuck him! James Jordan was an arrogant chauvinist pig, and no, I was not PMS-ing. I just like my space and place nestled in the midst of big green trees and lots of other natural stuff, in the city but close to a jogging path near the river.

In only a few minutes I arrived home and rushed through the front door for the toilet. Then, I opened the windows and let the air and sunshine quietly fill the room. I stripped piece by piece, headed for the bathroom, and stepped into the shower to lather up with a kiwi-scented bath gel, a "just because" gift from Craig. Craig Nicks—my latest attempt to get over James. I wanted the relationship to work like nobody’s business to show James that I was really over him.

I rinsed off quickly and pulled a towel around me. In the bedroom, chirping birds outside my window became part of the background while I reached for my favorite soothing lotion. I squeezed a little too hard and juggled to catch the stuff spilling off the edge of my hand. As I spread the lotion over my belly, I wondered what James—I meant Craig—was doing. As an assistant district attorney, I found this sort of down time so rare that I surrendered to the moment.

I flopped on the bed, fell on my back, and noticed the sparkling mirror clusters that colored my ceiling. The sparkling specks seemed to notice me as well, as I allowed my eyes to roam to what James dubbed his little chocolate chip—a mole on the right side of my cheek. He had a name for almost every part of me. My legs were "Tina Turner legs." I shook my head from side to side.

"What’s love got to do, got to do with it?" I began singing, slowly at first, then picked up the pace and belted as if alone in an elevator. I grabbed a Temple Law t-shirt from the pile of clean clothes scattered on my bed and continued my Tina Turner impression. As I stood up and started dancing through my bedroom, I heard, "Spiegel, can I come in?" I couldn’t tell if the voice was coming from outside the window or from inside my condo. Had I left the door unlocked in my rush?

"Spiegel, I need to speak with you. It can’t wait," James yelled from outside my window.

By now, my café latte complexion no doubt was showing various shades of rage as I contemplated grabbing my pistol and blowing his ass away. Justifiable homicide. I dressed quickly, hollering while bolting toward my front door, "James, get the hell away from here before I . . ."

"Breanna is in trouble," he yelled through the window. "I need to talk with you. She, she may have killed her boyfriend."

"What?" What? Did he just say killed her boyfriend?

"Can I come in, Spiegel?"

"What are you saying?" I moved closer to the window, trying to untangle the insanity I had just heard.

"I need your help."

A few good things did come out of my relationship with James, one—my relationship with his younger sister, Breanna. I hadn’t seen much of her lately, but she and my sister were closer still—girlfriends.

I opened the door and James stumbled in, still wearing his racing attire. Responding to my cue, he leaned against one of the barstools in my kitchen area. He looked like he had been in a fight with a bear. His curly hair looked unkempt, and he smelled badly, too, of underarm funk. His eyes roamed from my head to my toes before settling on my face. He didn't speak right away. He just looked at me cautiously. Shoot. I was only wearing a t-shirt. I tugged at the hem. It covered enough of me.

I rushed him with questions. "Where is Breanna? What do you mean she may have killed somebody?" A chilly breeze circulated the room.

He spoke. "They were vacationing last week in Bermuda, and they had a fight."

"Bermuda? Where is she now?" I could hardly keep my thoughts together. "Is Breanna all right?"

"She was scared, Spiegel. She left Bermuda without him." James lowered his gaze to the floor.

"The football player? Did she just up and leave Bermuda?" I had an instant headache and moved about in the kitchen, sitting and then standing, standing and then sitting again. I wrapped my arms around my waist to steady myself. I asked slowly, one word at a time, "Was she arrested?"

"No, and not the football player." His mischievous brown eyes looked up at me. "The police over there want her to return for some sort of preliminary inquiry."

"What the hell happened, James?"

"She left the island before the guy’s body washed ashore."

"Washed ashore?" I stopped. "Did he drown?"

He glanced hastily at my bare legs and red polished toenails before answering me, "I don’t know."

"Who? What guy?"

"Sean, Sean Thomas. He and Breanna have been going out for maybe two years." He looked me square in the eyes and said, "I never liked the guy."

"Sean," I said quietly, more to myself than to him, while thinking, where was his respect for the dead?

"We’re meeting with a lawyer in a few days," he said, glancing at the fireplace. The charred wood and ash from last night’s date were still present. He looked up at the customized etching of the Waiting to Exhale book cover that hung over the mantle.

"Who?"

"Walter Paine," he said. "Isn’t he your friend?" I nodded. "Can you be there, Spiegel?"

"For what? Walter is one of the best lawyers in the country."

"Can you be there—as a friend?" He nervously wiped his brow. "Breanna has not uttered so much as a word since the incident, and I know that she’d speak to you."

I placed my head between my hands to try to stop the room from spinning. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. An intense sensation of heat ran through my blood, prompting all of my vital organs to throb. I can’t do this, I thought; I’m not the one. As much as I hated to admit it, I was still in love with James. Anyway, I was a prosecutor, not a defense attorney, so everyone would understand.

"It was an accident, Spiegel," he stated. "Can you come over at least to see her?"

"Now?"

James moved a little closer in my direction and said, "I knew you would be running today. I’ve tried to call you, but I always got your answering machine."

"Let’s not go there," I snapped.

His eyes widened. "I’m sorry. I need your help. I only meant to tell you about Breanna’s situation." He backed up out of my face.

Imagine that, the arrogant, indignant, self-centered, inconsiderate Mr. James needed me.

"Are you okay, Spiegel?"

A range of emotions surely showed on my face. Beads of sweat started to collect on my forehead. Hot and weak, I wanted to hit and hug James at the same time but answered, "I’m okay."

He pulled himself from the stool to stretch. "Can I have a glass of water?"

I extended my hand toward the water cooler.

"Thanks, Spiegel. How’s your family?"

"This is not a social visit, James," I snapped again, and ripped a hangnail that I’d been playing with for the past ten minutes. With the chiming of my cuckoo clock, I realized that James had been in my company too long. I was ready for him to go. "Why don’t you let Walter handle it?" I asked. "He’s very good, you know."

"We trust you. And, well, you know . . . Breanna has a temper."

"What do you mean?"

"It was an accident, Spiegel, let’s just leave it at that." He moved nervously in a circle.

"James, this is awful."

James moved closer to hug me and I hesitated, but then relaxed into his embrace. He whispered, "Cuckoo, cuckoo. Why doesn’t that thing say ding-dong or tick-tock for damn sake?"

The telephone rang, ripping us from the moment.

"James, you’d better go." I backed away to catch the phone.

It was Craig, reminding me that I’d invited him to meet my parents later that evening. "Did I interrupt something?" Craig’s voice sounded much as it did when he was anchoring the sports news—upbeat. Most people said he looked like Detective Jones on NYPD Blue, tall and brown, except for the red hair. He got upset when people called him carrot top so he kept it cut short, so short he looked bald. His beautiful round almost-bald red head attracted me to him in the first place.

Knowing he would not understand, I lowered my voice and tried to sound cute and sexy. "Something has come up, baby."

"What?"

"I was actually on my way out."

He didn’t sound too upset. "To go where?"

"Baby, trust me. I’ll catch up with you later tonight."

James watched as I hung up the phone. "Are you seeing someone, Spiegel?"

"Are you married?" There, I had said it!

He looked at me like I had just smacked his face. "Does that mean that you will be there?" He shifted his eyes to the phone. "Do you have a date?"

"Walter can handle your case, but I will call him." Pointing the remote at the TV, I clicked to local news and noticed the most perplexing look on the reporter’s face. She was polished, of course, but she looked uncomfortable, as though she were about to blurt out something emotional.

I hit the volume just in time to catch an awkward pronunciation of Breanna Jordan’s name. James blinked to release a string of tears, taking a gulp of air as they rolled down his face. Tears. Damn.

Breanna, James’ little sister, I thought, while looking at the TV screen, then to James, then back to the screen.

A photo of Breanna appeared on the top right of the scene under the caption of breaking news. "Ohmygod. . . . Ohmygod!" I said softly. Seeing Breanna’s picture on television made everything James had just told me so tragically real.

The news reporter said, "Our top story today, Sunday, May 9th: Breanna Jordan, daughter of Congressman Felix Jordan, is wanted in Bermuda for the murder of her boyfriend. The two were said to be vacationing on the island when the murder was committed. Sources close to the investigation said the congressman had no comment." The news anchor shuffled papers, looked directly at the camera, and said, "Stay with News 10 as this story develops. More in a moment."

I felt both dazed and jolted, when James broke the silence, "You see, Spiegel. We’ve got trouble."