The Messenger

for a real run. Care to join me?”
    “What about Zizi’s workout?”
    “He says his back is sore.”
    “It sounds as though you don’t believe him.”
    “His back is always sore whenever he wants a day off.” He finished his set and wiped his glistening arms with a towel. “Let’s go before the traffic gets too heavy.”
    They boarded a launch and set out toward the inner harbor. There was no wind yet, and the waters were still calm. Jean-Michel tied up at a public dock, near an empty café that was just opening for breakfast. They stretched for a few moments on the quay, then set out through the quiet streets of the old town. Jean-Michel moved effortlessly beside her. As they started the twisting ascent up the hillside behind the port, Sarah fell a few paces behind. A motor scooter overtook her, ridden by a helmeted girl in blue jeans with shapely hips. She pushed herself harder and closed the gap. At the top of the hill she stopped to catch her breath while Jean-Michel jogged lightly in place.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I’ve gained nearly ten pounds on this trip.”
    “It’s nearly over.”
    “How much longer are we staying?”
    “Two more days in Saint Bart’s.” He pulled his lips down in typically Gallic expression. “Maybe three. Zizi’s getting anxious to leave. I can tell.”
    Just then the first flight of the day swept low over their heads and plunged down the opposite side of the hill toward the runway below. Without warning Jean-Michel started down the road after it. They ran past the airport and the island’s main shopping center, then rounded a bend in the road and started toward Saint-Jean village. The first traffic began to appear; twice they had to leap onto the sandy shoulder of the road to avoid approaching trucks. Jean-Michel led her through an opening in the stone wall at the edge of the road and down a sandy pathway to the beach. “It’s better if we run here,” he said. “I’m going to do a couple of fast intervals. Do you think you can stay out of trouble?”
    “What makes you think I can’t keep up with you?”
    He lengthened his stride. Sarah struggled to keep pace with him.
    “The interval is about to begin,” he said. “Are you ready?”
    “I thought this was the interval.”
    Jean-Michel sprinted away. Sarah, exhausted from her sleepless night, slowed to a walk, reveling in the fact that for the first time since entering Zizi’s camp she was alone. It did not last long. Two minutes later Jean-Michel came sprinting back toward her, arms pumping like pistons. Sarah turned and started running again. Jean-Michel overtook her and slowed his pace.
    “I’m famished,” she said. “How about some breakfast?”
    “First we finish the run. We’ll have something at that café next to the boat.”
    It took them twenty minutes to cover the distance back to the harbor. The café was beginning to fill by the time they arrived, but Jean-Michel found an empty table outside in the shade and sat down. Sarah looked over the menu for a few moments, then lifted her gaze toward the men’s clothing boutique opposite the café. The window display was filled with handmade French dress shirts of expensive-looking cotton. Sarah closed the menu and looked at Jean-Michel.
    “I should buy Zizi a thank-you present.”
    “The last thing Zizi needs is a gift. He truly is the man who has everything.”
    “I should get him something. He was very generous to me.”
    “I’m sure he was.”
    She touched Jean-Michel’s arm and pointed to the boutique.
    “The last thing Zizi needs is another shirt,” he said.
    “They’re very nice-looking, though.”
    Jean-Michel nodded. “They’re French,” he said. “We still can do a few things well.”
    “Give me your credit card.”
    “It’s an AAB company card.”
    “I’ll reimburse you.”
    He produced a card from the pocket of his running shorts and handed it over. “Don’t bother paying me back,” he said. “Trust me, Sarah, you won’t be the first person to buy Zizi a present with his own money.”
    “What size shirt does he wear?”
    “Sixteen-and-a-half-inch neck, thirty-three sleeve.”
    “Very impressive.”
    “I’m his personal trainer.”
    She gave Jean-Michel her breakfast order— tartin, scrambled eggs, and café au lait—then walked over to the boutique. She stood outside for a moment, gazing at the shirts in the window, then slipped through the entrance. An attractive young woman with short blond hair