Not Quite Crazy

by Catherine Bybee

  “Good morning, Mr. Fairchild.” She nearly choked on his name, not sure if she should address him as Jason or not.

  He grasped her hand, an amused grin on his lips. “Really? I think you can call me Jason.”

  “Fine.”

  He squeezed her hand before letting go. “You remember my brother, Glen.”

  She shook his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  He winked. “You look much better without the black eye.”

  Rachel’s hand lifted to what was left of said bruise, and she shook her head. “You should have seen the other guy.”

  The employees around them laughed.

  “I don’t believe you met Trent.” Jason turned her attention to a man she’d seen in pictures on the Internet when researching Jason. “Trent is in charge of our helicopter vacation tours division.”

  He looked as if he’d just returned from a sunny vacation, complete with a tan and hair that needed a trim.

  “I’m also allergic to the office, so if you need to get in touch, call.”

  “That’s the truth,” Glen agreed.

  “I’ll do that,” Rachel said.

  Trent turned to the blonde on his left. “And this is my wife, Monica. The ambassador for our volunteer relief flight program.”

  Rachel smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Rachel said, clasping the woman’s hand. “I’ve read about what you’re doing and have some ideas on how to reach farther for your efforts.”

  “We have all the flights we can handle,” Trent said.

  “I mean more financial backing outside of Fairchild Charters footing the bill.”

  Monica had expressive blue eyes that lit up when she smiled.

  “I like that idea,” Glen said. The man in charge of the money portion always liked spreading the spending outside of the company.

  “Are you free for lunch?” Monica asked.

  “Lunch sounds perfect.”

  Out of the corners of her eyes, Rachel noticed all three Fairchild brothers exchanging glances as if they were having a wordless conversation. “What?” she asked.

  Jason glanced between Monica and her. “Nothing. We should get started.”

  For the next two hours, Rachel ran through a more detailed, global plan to expand Fairchild Charters’ reach. She had a laundry list of things to do for each department and suggestions on who would be best to handle each task. She mapped out goals and how to monitor and reach them. She suggested the use of interns, fresh out of college, or those who needed the experience for their grades, to help keep their hiring costs low. “Everyone bags on the millennials as entitled young kids who would rather sit on the beach with their laptop than go into an office.”

  “Sounds like me,” Trent said.

  The majority of the people in the office laughed along with him.

  “My point is, we can tap into that lifestyle and benefit from it. Use the empty legs we have sitting around as incentive for each team reaching their goals. Travel incentives for the new grad are more attractive than a dental plan.”

  Melissa, the head of staffing, leaned forward in her chair. “It sounds like you’re gunning for my job, Rachel.”

  Rachel put a hand in the air. “No thanks. I have enough to do with mine. My approach to marketing, and this plan, will reach out to the millionaire millennials and the working-class millennials. They speak the same language.”

  “You act as if it’s a foreign language,” one of the brokers said. His name escaped her.

  “In a way it is. In one breath they’ll talk about pros of personal jet travel to meetings for work, and the next connect because they both zip-lined in the Swiss Alps. There is an entirely new generation of professionals out there that understand there is a time for work and a time for play. If you give them a task, they will complete it on time, but if you force them into an office to do it, you might be nudging them two days after the task is due for the results.”

  “I’d be firing them,” Gerald said.

  “That’s my point. You won’t have to, because this generation understands the power of the online world better than anyone. That getting things done, and getting it done quickly and efficiently, means they have more time to skydive. How many of you have teenage kids?”

  Half a dozen hands went up.

  “Their phones are attached to their fingers day and night, right?”

  “My phone is attached to my fingers,” Glen said.

  “I would guess it isn’t for the same reasons. Teens today grew up with technology in ways even I didn’t. And I think I’m a bit younger than some of you in this room.”

  Several people smiled. One of the secretaries muttered something about asking her kid how to use her phone.

  “Generation Z, that’s kids born after 1995, are the fastest growing consumers. They have an attention span of about eight seconds. Which means you win or lose them quickly. Seventy-six percent of them are on Instagram, which is why you see me speaking of social media in all aspects of marketing.”

  “This generation doesn’t have money.”

  “You’re right, but their parents do. Seventy percent of the parents say their children influence their spending.”

  Hayden from accounting piped in. “Yes, but how many parents will charter a flight for their kid’s birthday?”

  There were several of the staff who obviously thought Rachel was blowing smoke up their asses. “When I was in LA, I was known to join my friend for her son’s holiday programs at the local elementary school. Do you know what it costs to make a playground a winter wonderland when it’s seventy degrees outside? Snow . . . man-made snow?”

  The laughter stopped.

  “Children influence their parents. From snow to a sixteen-year-old in a brand-new Camaro. I’m not suggesting we’ll see a spike in teenage-inspired flights. But those same kids that dream of it now will be flying in a couple of years. And that . . . that is what we are thinking of.”

  The room was silent.

  Rachel met Jason’s gaze.

  His slow smile said he approved.

  Jason stood by when Rachel handed Glen his requested budget proposal. He flipped through the pages as the conference room emptied out.

  “How did you do all of this in a week?” Glen’s gaze never left the document in his hand.

  “I wanted to make sure Fairchild Charters didn’t regret bringing me out here from LA.”

  Glen glanced up, slapped the file in the palm of his hand. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Jason felt a bit of pride in his chest, although he didn’t own it. Still, for some reason, he took joy in Rachel’s success.

  “I like how you think,” Trent said as he slid a hand behind Monica’s back.

  “I’m glad,” Rachel said.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon?” Monica asked.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Jealousy that Monica could have an innocent lunch with Rachel when Jason couldn’t sat in his chest.

  Jason hung back, waited until the last employee had made their way out of the room before he spoke. “Wow.”

  “Is that a good wow, or . . . ?”

  “If even half of what you’re presenting worked out, I can see our bottom line increase within six months to a year.”

  “It’s more of a three- to five-year plan.”

  “Even better.” He waved his own stack of papers in his hands. “I’ll need you to work with Glen on a bottom-line budget.”

  “I’ll schedule an appointment with his secretary.”

  Jason was never so happy that Glen was happily married as he was at that moment. His once upon a time player brother would have jumped at someone like Rachel before Mary entered into his life.

  He lowered his voice. “How is Owen?”

  “Kids bounce. He’s okay.”

  “Good.” He couldn’t think of any legitimate reason to keep her by his side.

  Rachel shifted from one foot to the other. “Well . . .”


  “Yeah . . .”

  “How is the Christmas party planning?”

  God, she was beautiful. “Good, uhm. I think. You’re coming, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What is Owen doing?”

  “Staying with friends.”

  “That’s probably for the best. The brokers really party,” he told her. They didn’t deny people bringing their kids, but . . .

  “Just the brokers?”

  “No, but they let loose. Most of them used to be Wall Street traders. High stress. We try and minimize that here, but most of them are just wired that way.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I had no idea.”

  “Well . . .” He didn’t want to leave.

  “Yeah,” she said again. “I should get back to work.”

  “Me too.”

  Neither of them turned to leave.

  “This is awkward, isn’t it?” she asked, breaking the tension.

  He leaned closer. “It is.”

  “That’s stupid. It shouldn’t be.”

  She gathered her paperwork closer to her chest, smiled. “We’ll talk later,” she told him.

  He stood back and watched her as she left the room. Jason was pretty sure his eyes just violated some kind of sexual harassment clause by the way they lingered on her ass.

  Chapter Twelve

  Monica had Rachel laughing long before their lunch arrived.

  “. . . So you call your husband Barefoot?”

  “From the day we met. If he had his way, he’d walk into the office with flip-flops.”

  “He’s one-third owner, what’s stopping him?” Rachel asked.

  “Peer pressure from his brothers. He is casual Friday every day of the week, however.”

  The waiter arrived with lunch and promptly left. Monica picked up her sandwich. “So you’re from LA too?”

  “Yep. Santa Monica, the last couple of years.”

  “I lived in the Inland Empire.”

  “Isn’t that hot?” As far as Rachel was concerned, the IE was a place to drive through on your way to Vegas.

  “Yeah, I hated it.”

  “Why were you there?”

  Monica shrugged. “Grew up out there. Lived with my older sister while I finished nursing school and eventually found myself in the ER.”

  The two of them glanced out the window of the small restaurant. New Yorkers were bundled in heavy coats, hats, and boots. “Now we’re both here in the cold.”

  “Yeah,” Monica agreed. “It’s all good until after Christmas, and then it just gets old.”

  “Really? I was hoping I’d get used to it.”

  Monica turned her gaze back to Rachel. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make it sound so awful.”

  Rachel finished chewing her food. “I’d rather the truth than sugarcoated bull any day.”

  “When I start getting moody, Barefoot takes me to Jamaica.”

  “The perks of your husband owning planes,” Rachel said.

  “You’ll have to come sometime.”

  Rachel couldn’t imagine taking Monica up on the offer. Chances were the suggestion was her polite way of making conversation, anyway.

  “Maybe,” she said, knowing she’d never do it. “So let me tell you about my idea of Flying with a Heart.”

  “Flying with a Heart? Is that a slogan?”

  “Yes, which is up for change. But I had to call it something while I outlined my ideas.” For the next thirty minutes, Rachel recapped what she thought she knew about Fairchild Charters’ involvement with relief efforts from disaster torn regions and let Monica fill in some of the blanks. Borderless Doctors and Borderless Nurses were partnering players, and Monica and Trent were the liaisons between all parties. Fairchild had started a foundation closer to home for organ transplant flights. As Monica pointed out, it wasn’t just the rich who needed a liver or heart, and when the cost of flying was taken into the cost of transporting organs, it often meant people in need did without.

  They knocked around ideas for finding more backers, putting a heart in all the Fairchild Charters marketing plans to remind everyone who used their service that their support as a customer helped, in a small way, to help others.

  By the time they finished their sandwiches, they were both on the same page.

  They both bundled up in coats before walking outside. “It smells like snow,” Monica said only two feet from the restaurant.

  “Does it?”

  “Yeah, I should get home before it lets loose. I brought my car instead of taking the train.”

  Rachel glanced at the gray clouds above the skyscrapers. “I haven’t taken the trains yet,” she confessed.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No . . . they’re so, I don’t know.”

  “Hey, I get it. I’m from LA, too. But driving in the snow and dealing with Manhattan traffic in bad weather isn’t worth it. You’ll end up in a ditch or worse.”

  Rachel smiled. “You mean like Jason?”

  Monica glanced over as they walked the two blocks back to work. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s how I met your brother-in-law.”

  “You ended up in a ditch?”

  “No, he ended up in a ditch. To be fair, I was probably driving about as fast as a nearsighted ninety-year-old, and he was trying to pass me on a hill. But he’s the one that ended up in the ditch.”

  “You’re kidding?” Monica asked, laughing.

  “Nope. I gave him a ride to my house, where he waited for someone to give him a ride home. Imagine my surprise when I walked into a meeting last week to see him there. I had no idea he was my boss.”

  Monica stopped her by placing a hand on her arm. The people behind them just walked around as if they were a rock in a stream and the water needed to move beyond. “He didn’t tell you his name?”

  “He said Jason. Last names didn’t seem needed.” Rachel started walking again.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Yeah.” Rachel wanted to quiz Monica. Why was someone as together as Jason not married? What kind of women did he date? What did he do when he wasn’t at work and wasn’t putting up her Christmas lights? Was he a sports guy, or would he rather watch a movie?

  “Someone got quiet.”

  She shook off her train of thought. “Sorry.”

  Monica chuckled. “It’s okay. He’s a good-looking man, they all are.”

  “I-I wasn’t thinking about how attractive Jason is.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I was wondering why he isn’t married.”

  “That’s easy. He doesn’t date.”

  Rachel hesitated. “Why not?”

  Monica opened the massive glass door leading into the high-rise. “I don’t know. I ask Barefoot all the time. He tells me his brother is overly dedicated to his job and it would take someone special to pull him away from it. Glen says he hasn’t dated, outside a social obligation, for years. Neither of them even know the last time he asked someone out.”

  Rachel actually snorted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said a little too quickly. The last thing she needed was Jason’s sister-in-law to know he’d asked Rachel out. “I bet he just keeps his private life to himself.”

  “I thought that, too. Probably for the best. Someone as eligible as him and people will start rumors and predictions. I’m glad Trent and I didn’t have society breathing down our necks when we were dating. I didn’t know his world, and he had only seen a glimpse of mine. And Mary . . .” Monica pressed the button for the elevator. “That’s Glen’s wife, she lived on the West Coast when they were dating. Of course, Glen was a playboy, so the rumors were that he was dating some movie star or some such garbage.”

  “I thought I read that his wife was a therapist.”

  “She is. Very sweet and always analyzing people.”

  They moved into the elevator with several other people. Rachel lowered her voice. “So what does she say about”—she looked around, d
idn’t want to use any names—“him not going out?”

  Monica leaned in closer, almost whispered, “Something about him being the oldest. Trying to be a role model for his brothers. Taking over for his parents in a weird sort of way.”

  “That would have to fade at some point. I mean . . .” The elevator door opened and several people got out. “It isn’t like your husband is a teenager.”

  “I know. Believe me, Mary and I have been on a quest to set him up.”

  They reached their floor, stepped out. “I doubt that would be hard.”

  “For women, no. But he wants nothing to do with it.” Monica leaned in again. “We even have it set up to auction him off in our spring fundraiser if he doesn’t show up with a date.”

  Rachel started to laugh. “Dinner with the CEO millionaire?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Sounds like a romance novel.”

  “We hope so. He either brings a date or we set him up. His choice.”

  The thought of Jason standing on an auction block while women bid on him had her grinning. “This I’d like to see.”

  “He’s a great guy. I just hate to see him solo. I don’t even care that he gets married, just go out and enjoy life a little more.”

  They came to the intersecting hall where Monica would veer off to the higher management offices and Rachel would return to her cubicle.

  “I’m glad we had this time to chat,” Rachel said.

  “Me too. You have a lot of great ideas. I’m sure Jason is happy to have you on the team.”

  “We’ll talk again.”

  Monica smiled as she walked away.

  “Oh. My. God!” The snow held out until sometime in the middle of the night. Then it dumped. There was well over a foot in her driveway, and it was still snowing. From her bedroom window, she could see up and down the street. There were very few tracks in the snow, and almost no activity. After turning on her TV to the local news to catch the weather report, she ran through her room, throwing on clothes. Rachel had lived there long enough to hear the locals talk about nor’easters. From the looks of outside, they weren’t exaggerating.

  She all but ran past Owen’s bedroom, rapped a few times, and kept moving. “Get up!”

  Downstairs, she shoved her arms into her heavy coat and pulled on her warm boots.