“No, no, they’re just playing,” she answered. “What’s up?”

“Well, a couple of things,” I said, stretching luxuriously on my couch. There were fringe benefits to being single and childless, and talking uninterrupted on the phone was one of them. “Sam was here the other day, and I thought we really should take him out some night. He’s still a little glum.” Actually, Sam had seemed just fine to me, but I sensed he was only happy when he was doing stuff with Danny.

“Sure,” Katie said. “Just give me a couple days’ notice.”

“Great. The other thing is…well, it’s about Joe.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m kind of ready. To make my move.”

“Good for you!” Katie said cheerfully.

“So can I run the plan by you?” I asked, feeling very eighth grade.

Katie laughed. “Sure. Go for it.”

“I was thinking maybe I could have him see me out running, so he could notice that I’m, uh, in shape or whatever. And he’d see Digger and then he’d realize that we’re both dog lovers. And then we could talk about that when we saw each other next.”

“That sounds great. Very well thought out.” Katie’s voice became muffled. “Michael, if you do that one more time, I’m taking that dump truck away for nineteen days!”

“I thought you were in the closet,” I said.

“I am. Doesn’t mean I don’t know everything that goes on here.”

“Nineteen days?”

“Figure of speech. He thinks it means forever,” she answered, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

“So the running thing is good?” I asked, seeking validation.

“Running thing sounds great,” Katie answered. I heard Mikey’s lisping whine. “They found me, Mil,” my friend said. “Gotta go.”

“Okay. And thanks, Katie. I’ll let you know about Sam.”

WITH KATIE’S APPROVAL IN HAND, I set about orchestrating the casual, coincidental encounter with Joe. This is what I pictured.

I am running down Nauset Road, Digger trotting adorably by my side. I am wearing nylon running shorts and a T-shirt with an adorable, pithy statement. And what’s this? Oh my goodness, it’s Joe Carpenter in his truck! He slows down, appreciating the feminine bouncing, then realizes it’s his old classmate, Millie Barnes! “Hey, Millie!” he says, pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”

I stop, not horribly out of breath (because my car is hidden at the ranger’s station a half mile back).

“Hello, Joe!” I answer, reaching down to pat my adorable doggy. “How are you?” Chatting ensues. Some laughter. A few appreciative glances at athletic form (his glances, my form). We talk until a car rudely honks its horn, and Joe, regretfully, must take off. He watches me in the rearview mirror as I run effortlessly and happily until his truck rounds the bend and he can’t see me anymore (when I start walking back to my car).

Joe left for work at 6:30 every morning. This I’d learned on a stalking expedition several years ago. But timing was everything for my little running venture, and I had to be sure.

We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, haven’t we? Things we don’t want to confess to friends or parents or children. My obsession with Joe was one of those things. It was bad enough to have been secretly in love with a man for more than half of my life, but resorting to stalking at twenty-nine and a half was really embarrassing. Still, one does what one must.

Joe lived on a little dirt road on the bay side of town. It wasn’t close enough to the water to be ultra-desirable, and it was close enough to Route 6 to hear the traffic in the summer. Joe had lived there all his life. When his mom moved off-Cape three years ago, Joe took the place over. It was a rambling little cottage, with two additions put on since the original house had been built. Not a ranch, not a Cape, the house actually had no particular style at all. But it had a little deck and was private, surrounded on all sides by pitch pines and bayberry. Of course, I’d never been inside, but as Joe Carpenter was indeed a carpenter, I was willing to bet it was pretty damn cute.

And so at 5:45 in the morning, a time usually reserved for crows, fishermen and infants, I battled those familiar feelings of stupidity and exhilaration, drove across town, parked at the Church of the Visitation and walked to Joe’s road to begin stalking.

The birds’ springtime cacophony of song echoed around me, crows screeching and red-wing blackbirds chuckling. Though it was early May, the temperature still dropped into the forties at night, and the air was cool and damp. I shivered. Digger was at home, much to his dismay, but one can’t stalk properly with a licking, wagging, diarrheic dog at one’s side.

Until recently, Joe’s little road hadn’t been officially named; it was just a dirt road off Herringbrook Road. You know, where the Carpenters live? And the Lynches? And the Snows? Not John Snow—Nick Snow. That used to be how we Cape Codders identified this bumpy, sandy little stretch. But the out-of-towners who have invaded the Cape in record numbers in recent years liked signage for their summer addresses, and Joe’s road was now called Thistleberry Way.

I walked down the road, which was barely wide enough for one car. Joe’s driveway was the last one off Thistleberry Way. As I got close, my heart started to pound. The thing about stalking was, obviously, I might get caught. And how mortifying that would be! There was no good excuse for me to be near Joe’s house…well, no excuse other than the one I had ready. “Oh, Joe, great! I was coming home from an emergency at the hospital, and my car broke down. I was just going to see if I could use Mr. Snow’s phone…”

Well-researched and with no admission of guilt. Still, being caught would be dreadful nonetheless, because I knew for a fact that I would not be the first woman seen lurking on Joe’s street.

Okay. There was his driveway. I took my place across the road, about thirty feet back into the woods, well camouflaged by the squat trees and dense undergrowth. Poison ivy was rampant, but I found a sheltered patch that didn’t appear to have any of the evil weed and also afforded me a fair view of Joe’s driveway. Squatting down, not wanting to get my bottom damp, I began to wait.

This stalking episode seemed a bit more humiliating than the last one, less fun. Of course, the last time I’d been here, I was a first-year medical student, no pride, nothing to lose. And Katie had been with me, so it was more of a hoot. We’d snickered and whispered and tried not to wet ourselves when we laughed too hard, snorting into our arms to muffle our noise. And although my running plan hinged on Joe leaving home when I thought he did, I was nonetheless acutely aware of how ridiculous this was. Local Doctor Caught Lurking Outside Handsome Man’s Home. Charges Being Pressed.

6:05. The birds had settled down a bit, getting to work, finding their worms and bugs and the like. The wind quieted, too, sighing gently through April’s new leaves. My feet tingled from lack of proper blood supply. The tingling quickly turned to pain. I stretched out a leg from my squatting position and instantly tipped over, plopping into the cold mud, which seeped through my sweatpants, freezing my already-cold skin. My sense of idiocy grew.

6:15. I began hearing the noises of people waking up and getting ready for the day. A dog barked. Don’t find me, I prayed. Doors opened and closed, cars started. Mr. Snow (Nick, not John) drove his blue Oldsmobile gently over the bumps and ruts as he left for work in Orleans.

6:20. I felt itchy. Could I have touched poison ivy, or was that just regular, unshowered, morning itchy? Couldn’t tell. Cramp in blood-deprived legs. I stood up slowly and let the old circulatory system have a break. Not too much of a break, though. Would rather suffer agonizing pain than have Joe see me here.

6:28. Thank God! A door slammed, a dog barked, an engine started, and Joe’s battered truck lurched out of his driveway. He didn’t see me. I waited a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back, then stood up. On painfully buzzing feet, I made my way back to the road, brushing clumps of mud and oak leaves off my clothes. Luck decided to join me, and I didn’t see anyone I knew as I walked quickly down the road. Once on Massasoit, I was safe. I made it to my car as Father Bruce, my pastor, opened the doors for 7:00 mass. He looked a bit startled to see me but waved as I got into my car. I ignored him and drove away.

Back home, I showered, made some coffee and got ready for work. Now that the deed was done, my feelings of stupidity faded. I had secured my information. I was armed with knowledge. Tomorrow would be the Day of the Run. Day One of Getting Joe.

THE NEXT DAY, I WOKE UP at the horrifying hour of 5:30. I had gone to bed at 9:00 the night before but hadn’t been able to fall asleep for some time. The mirror was not my friend as I gazed at my puffy eyes, dark circles—and what was this? A pimple on my chin topped off my attractiveness for the day.

Never mind. I had to do this. If I didn’t get started, I’d never get my man. So this was just a tiny sacrifice compared to the happiness that I would find as Joe’s girlfriend/fiancée/wife.

I showered and shaved my legs, even though I would be wearing long pants. I washed my hair and conditioned it, then spent twenty minutes applying gel, drying and spraying it into place so it looked adorably tousled and unaffected. Because I was desperate, I drank one cup of coffee as I fed Digger. Then I got dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I had finally settled on one that said Massachusetts Department of Correction.

At 6:10, I left the house with a leaping, frenzied, joyful dog and drove to the Little Creek parking area on Doane Road. This site was used for the beach shuttle in the summer, so as not to have too many cars clogging up the area. Tourists and locals alike could park here and hop on an electric shuttle bus that would chauffeur them right to the beach. It was convenient, environmentally sound and wicked fun. It was here that I would hide my car, only about a mile and a half from my house. I could, theoretically, run from home to the Joe meeting point, but this morning was not about exercise.

Little Creek was not yet open, but I drove down the fire road and parked illegally. Even if I was caught, most of the rangers knew my Honda (thanks to my M.D. plates) and wouldn’t mind, I reasoned. It was off season, after all. My watch read 6:19. In approximately thirteen minutes, I would be talking to Joe Carpenter. Time to go.

Digger and I trotted easily down Doane Road, which led to two of the world’s most beautiful beaches, Coast Guard and Nauset Light. My goal was eventually to be able to run around my “block,” which was roughly four miles in circumference, past these two gifts from God, past the Outer Cape Senior Center and back home. But I was still at the two-mile stage, two and a half if I was lucky.

Heart pounding healthfully away, I turned onto Nauset. I trotted along, trying to lengthen my usual trudging stride, opening up so I would look more natural and less tortured. Digger enjoyed our brisk pace, as he usually had to adjust his fast little legs to an awkward walk-trot when we weren’t trying to impress a man. Now, as I glided along, he could actually canter, which no doubt looked much better to the idle observer. I looked at my watch. 6:30. Perfect. Joe would be leaving his house, perhaps already on Massasoit, headed my way. As I ran, waving occasionally at a walker or bike rider, I pictured Joe’s progress across town. Now he should be at the Route 6 intersection. If the light is green, he’ll be here in less than a minute. If red, maybe two minutes. Three, tops.

Mr. Demers was out in his yard, doing a little early morning gardening. He had been a friend of Gran, and I was happy to see him out and about. A tall, imposing, white-haired gentleman, he was from one of the Cape’s oldest families and had that regal sense of belonging. He knew everything there was to know about local history, from native tribes to shipwrecks to Hurricane Gloria, and occasionally gave talks at the library.