Flight Risk

by Barbara Valentin

  Dianne stood up, walked around her desk, and perched right in front of her. "And that means, like it or not, you need to get over your fear of heights and fast."

  Aubrey felt the color drain from her face like rain down a sewer grate. "Why?"

  "Because the senior travel writer spot, and first pick of all the plum assignments that goes along with it, is yours for the taking, but not until you can fly. Through the air."

  She gazed at Aubrey with her face pinched, waiting for her response. When Aubrey didn't deliver, she continued, "Well, OK then. I'll give you the weekend to think about it, but that's it. If you accept this promotion, your next assignment will be to pay a visit to the guys out at Windy City Jumpers next Wednesday, weather permitting. The piece is scheduled to run"— she paused to check her watch—"in the weekend edition two weeks from this Sunday."

  She clicked her blood-red nails against the desk, watching Aubrey, waiting for any reaction. But Aubrey's mind had gone blank.

  After a moment, she found her voice, only it didn't sound like her voice. "Windy City Jumpers? We're not talking kangaroos are we?"

  Finally, a smirk. An I-pity-you smirk, but still—she'd take it.

  "No, we are not. We're talking parachutes."

  "Oh no," Aubrey whispered.

  She could already feel the familiar wave of stress-induced sensations—sweaty palms, rapid heartbeat, loss of peripheral vision—threatening to make their presence known. "Why would we do something foolish like that?"

  Dianne leaned out from her perch. "Well, it's not foolish if you consider that it's a piece on extreme sports, Chicago style. Print and video. You'll go up—and down—with a certified instructor. It's all arranged. We've had it slated since January."

  Her heart slamming against her chest, Aubrey blurted, "Then you do it."

  Did I just say that?

  It was right about then she noticed what looked to be a noose dangling outside of Dianne's floor-to-ceiling window.

  The high-pitched whir of a hydraulic motor sounded in the background as her editor replied, "Sweetie, don't get me wrong. You're an ace writer. But in this day and age, I cannot justify promoting you, or even keeping you on payroll, if you refuse to go airborne. Not when I have a pool of low-cost contributors who are willing to do a lot riskier things than jump out of airplanes to see their name in print."

  But all Aubrey heard was, "Sweetie, don't blah, blah, blah. You're an ace blah, blah, blah. Not when I blah, blah, blah, in print."

  Because her eyes were fixated on the noose that was turning out not to be a noose after all. It was a cable dangling next to some sort of scaffolding rig on the upper edge of Dianne's bank of windows, on top of which she noticed a pair of work boots.

  Ever so slowly, a worn pair of snug-fitting faded jeans covering long muscular legs came into view. After another minute or two, the window began to froth with suds.

  After Aubrey's view was cleared with the skilled swoop of an oversized squeegee, she couldn't help but admire the hardware-heavy leather harness dangling from the squeegee wielder's hips, above which the words "Just kidding" peaked out from under a bright sky-blue windbreaker that flapped at his sides.

  What the—?

  Before she knew it, she was standing up and hearing Dianne, her voice barely audible, say, "Oh-ho, I've been waiting for this all morning."

  The inside of Aubrey's mouth suddenly felt as dry as sandpaper.

  Then, clear as a bell, she heard the rigid voice of Sister Mary Margaret, her sixth grade teacher at St. Philomena, listing off the seven deadly sins through her clenched jaw. "Lust" had always topped the list, and when she couldn't remember all seven, the nun had readily repeated "Lust" since, according to her, it was "especially deadly."

  As the rest of the shiny unicorn of window washing splendor came into view, she approached the window, marveling at the way the wind whipped his hair as he stooped to cover the lower expanse of glass with a soapy sponge.

  She nearly had her nose pressed to the glass by the time he stood up and stretched to reach the upper corners. Like a train whistle blowing in the distance on a dark winter night, she thought she heard Dianne call her name, presumably because she was blocking her view.

  The shiny unicorn of window washing magnificence must've noticed her standing there admiring his, uh, work because he stopped what he was doing and flashed a warm, genuine grin that held the promise of all things dangerous and exciting.

  That it made Malcolm's grin look like a leer did not escape her attention.

  Removing his mirrored sunglasses, he mouthed, "Hey."

  A high-pitched giggle escaped Aubrey even as her height-phobic self failed to register that the only thing separating her and a seven-story fall to the sidewalk below was an inch or two of reinforced glass.

  She watched as he put his hand to his ear as if he was holding a phone and mouthed, "Call me."

  Oh. Rats.

  With a grimace, she held her ink-free palm to the glass.

  A cloud of disappointment flitted across his face before he pulled his mouth into a half smile. Shaking his head like a disapproving parent, he yanked his gloves off, reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a pen. After scribbling something on his own palm, he held it to the glass as the scaffold started moving down to the next floor.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Aubrey saw Dianne hand her a pad of paper and a pen.

  She jotted down his number, unable to ignore the almost imperceptible pang that zapped her in the chest as she lost sight of him.

  Had she leaned over far enough, she might have caught a glimpse of the smaller figure working next to him give him a fist bump.

  She spent the next three hours debating whether to call or text him. Short of turning back time and preventing Max from jumping off of the Kawarau Bridge, what trick could he possibly have up his sleeve to rid her of her phobia?

  Gah. Just do it.

  Fearful that a phone call might distract him, she typed the following text: Hi, it's Aubrey from Chez Doug's. Could really use your help with the fear of falling thing. Call me. Please. After rereading it, she deleted the Call me. Please.

  And then hit Save instead of Send.

  Dammit.

  She shoved her phone in her purse and made her way to The Boatman.

  The last person Aubrey expected to see after pushing her way through the heavy wooden door at noon sharp was Nancy Braley.

  Scanning the crowd of already seated diners in the trendy hot spot that had just opened up on the Chicago River's promenade, she hoped to sneak in without her opinionated food editor friend spotting her.

  "Aubs?"

  Too late.

  Nancy sprang up from her seat at the bar where she had been locked in to what looked to be a very intimate conversation with a guy on the kitchen staff. "What are you doing here?"

  Using Max's favorite evasion technique, Aubrey deflected her inquiry with another question. "Who's your friend?"

  Nancy looked over her shoulder. "Oh, Ricardo? I was, uh, just trying to get him to share his mole recipe. It's so good. He drizzles it over grilled salmon that he serves on a little tapas dish during happy hour with saffron rice and caramelized onions. It's to die for."

  But Aubrey hadn't heard a word she said.

  Malcolm had just walked through the door. Through that gleaming smile of his, he breathed, "Sorry I'm late."

  "Oh, no worries." She did her best to sound as casual as possible, which wasn't easy considering Nancy was standing there with her mouth hanging open.

  "Nancy, I'm not sure if you've met, but this is Malcolm Darvish. He's with Griffin Media. Malcolm, this is Nancy Braley, assistant food editor at the Gazette."

  When Malcolm turned to shake her hand, Aubrey's eyes met Nancy's, and she flashed an OMG face, making sure to slap her flight attendant face back on before he turned around.

  "Would you care to join us?" he asked Nancy.

  Ever the gentleman. Sigh.

  "Yes. Do,"
Aubrey added through gritted teeth.

  But if you do, I'll never speak to you again.

  Sounding chirpier than usual, Nancy replied, "Thanks, but no. I've got to run, but it was a pleasure finally meeting you."

  D'oh.

  Then, pointing at Aubrey, she added, "And I'll see you tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  Nancy pulled an are-you-kidding-me face. "That new restaurant opening in Pilsen?"

  Head smack.

  "Oh, right. Sorry. I'll see you there."

  "Ted's coming too, right?"

  "Yep. Absolutely."

  "Thought so." Nancy then held up her hand in a wave. "Toodles."

  Malcolm frowned as he watched her sashay through the crowd to resume recipe negotiations with Ricardo who was waiting for her at the bar and then turned to Aubrey who gave her head a quick shake.

  "Sorry about that."

  He just lifted his chin, gave her a shrewd stare, and looked as if he was about to say something when the droll hostess asked, "Will it be just the two of you?"

  "Yes," they both replied.

  As she started leading them to a table for two next to the window, Malcolm held out his hand and said, "After you."

  Feeling his eyes on her back for the duration of the short walk through the dining room, Aubrey prayed she was completely insect free.

  "This is lovely. I've never been here before," is what she wanted to say. But not wanting to appear too bourgeois, she instead said, "This place reminds me of a little restaurant I found on the banks of the Rhine after watching fireworks on Bastille Day a few years back."

  He did not appear to be impressed.

  "Ah, speaking of which, I brought those figures for you."

  "Figures?"

  He handed her a manila folder. "Yes, my presentation on the fluctuations in foreign exchange rates and their effect on the travel department's spend—?"

  "Oh. Right. Yes. Thank you." She opened the folder and did her best to look interested in the numbers flying out at her.

  "Hi. My name is Devon, and I'll be serving you today."

  Oh, thank God.

  "Can I start you off with a cocktail or an appetizer?"

  Aubrey looked at Malcolm who recited as he gazed at her, "Grey Goose martini. Dirty."

  Devon arched a just-waxed eyebrow and turned to her. "And for you?"

  She pressed her lips together. "Iced tea, please. Thanks."

  Deciding not to bring up Section 4.1.5 of the Gazette Employee Handbook which explicitly prohibits the consumption of alcohol while working, Aubrey returned her attention to the folder and asked, "Would you mind walking me through these? It's been awhile since I've been abroad, and I haven't exactly kept up with exchange rates."

  "Of course. I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

  Too focused on the butterflies in her stomach to let the slight sink in, she set the contents of the folder on the table between them. As he bent his head over them, she had the perfect opportunity to observe him up close and personal without seeming too stalkerish.

  His light-brown hair was parted at an angle, longer on the top, much shorter on the sides, and in the back pristinely trimmed and held in place with some type of male hair care product.

  When he looked up and asked, "Have I lost you yet?" his grayish-blue eyes held the hint of a grin.

  "No," she smiled back. "I'm riveted."

  "OK, good, 'cause there'll be a quiz when I'm finished."

  When her smile faltered, he pulled his mouth into a mute laugh. "Just kidding."

  "Ready to order?" Their waiter asked as he placed their drinks on the table.

  "Are you in a hurry to get back?" Malcolm asked her.

  Aside from seeing if her old crossword puzzle proofreader position was still available, Aubrey's afternoon was wide open. And the balmy Friday afternoon beckoned with the promise of a lovely stroll down the walkway flanking the Chicago River or maybe even a leisurely ride on a tour boat.

  She perked both eyebrows up. "Uh, no, not at all."

  "Give us a few more minutes," Malcolm winked to the waiter. "Thanks."

  "So tell me," he started as he picked up his menu.

  "Yes?" she asked, her eyes filled with visions of late summer wedding venues.

  "Are we doing separate checks, or is this on you?"

  Aubrey flinched. "Oh, I—"

  Am disappointed on so many levels that you would even ask that.

  "Because," he continued as he scanned the entrees on the menu before him, "if it's on you, you can probably expense it."

  Uh…

  She narrowed her eyes, opened her mouth, and pressed the edge of her tongue against the back of her molars, contemplating her response. After a moment, she slapped on the flight attendant smile and said, "Well, you know what? I'm fine either way."

  "Ok, well, if you're paying, I'm getting the beef tenderloin and sea scallops."

  And I'll have a packet of Splenda.

  She was just thinking of the many methods Dianne could use to make her life even more hellish than she already had when Malcolm lowered his menu and grinned. "I'm just messing with you. Sorry. Accountant humor."

  Forcing her mouth into a smile, she pointed her finger at him. "You had me worried there for a second."

  Still looking like he thought he had just killed at a Second City audition, he explained, "Because you can't expense a meal unless it's for a legitimate business purpose like an interview, or you're on the road, but even that wouldn't cover a place like this." He gave her a genial nod. "Do you get it?"

  More than you know.

  All she could manage was to raise both eyebrows and press her lips into a thin smile before hiding behind her menu.

  After scanning the prices (Seriously? Twenty dollars for a burger?), she asked, "OK, so what are you having really?"

  "The Kobe beef burgers here are fantastic. I highly recommend the mushroom-Swiss burger. They serve the French fries with truffle mayonnaise." He gave her a smoldering smile and whispered, "So good."

  Feeling the blood drain from her head, Aubrey whispered, "Sounds perfect."

  Devon had no sooner taken their orders when Malcolm retrieved his presentation, placed it back in the manila folder, and asked, "So you want to tell me why you really asked me to lunch?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "A lot of people are afraid of heights. Not me, I'm afraid of widths." —Steven Wright

  After unclasping the security harness that was shackled between his groin and waist, John sauntered over to a pickup truck that was double-parked on East Illinois Street on the north side of the Gazette building.

  "Here you go, man," Javier, the site supervisor, said as he handed him a check. "That covers this week. We start up bright and early Monday morning at the CME building, all right?"

  "Yeah. Got it. Thanks, Javi. See you then."

  Javier started. "Wait—aren't you coming tonight?"

  Uh…

  "What's tonight?"

  "My sister's grand opening? Her new place on 18th Street? You gotta come, man. The whole crew will be there."

  John winced. "I'm sorry. I completely forgot. Tell you what, I've got a dinner thing I have to go to, but I can try to swing by afterwards, OK?"

  The thought of going to a bar with his work buddies was about a thousand times more appealing than going to some stuffy restaurant with his gran where she was no doubt going to read him the riot act. He could probably even crash on Cruz's couch afterwards so he didn't have to trek all the way back to the north side until the morning.

  Wouldn't be the first time.

  With a warm chuckle his supervisor replied, "No worries. We'll probably close the place."

  John put the envelope between his teeth while he shimmied out of his safety gear and placed it in the bed of the truck. His already tanned arms felt crisp after being exposed for days at a time to the warm late-spring sunshine and the breezes coming off Lake Michigan.

  Before leaving, he called, "Ca
tch you later."

  After Javi gave him a nod and a short wave, John started ambling his way towards the corner of Schiller and State Parkway—a bit of a walk, but he relished the cool of the shaded tree-lined sidewalks. Along the way he thought about getting his gran a gift.

  But what do you get the woman who has her own media company?

  After a few blocks he managed to convince himself that his presence at her birthday party would be enough. Especially since the last place he wanted to spend his Friday night was at some stuffy restaurant with a room full of people he hadn't seen for a year and a half and hadn't missed—at all.

  Fifteen minutes later, he bounded two steps at a time up a stone entryway, punched in a keycode, turned the brass handle, and let himself into the opulent two-story white marble entryway of the mansion that five generations of Delaneys had called home, himself included.

  A middle-aged woman of Hispanic origin appeared and blocked his path to the stairs up which he had hoped to slip undetected. "Stop right there. Not another step. Not until you take off those boots."

  John paused. "Nice to see you, too, Eugenia." He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  She reached up and grabbed his face. "Dios mio, you look so thin."

  With a low laugh, he admitted, "I'm definitely not the cook you are."

  With that she threw her arms around his waist and squeezed. Hard.

  He couldn't help but reciprocate. "I missed you, too."

  After a moment he released her. "But I really need to get in the shower."

  The housekeeper, who had more of a hand in raising him than all of his blood relations combined, waved her hand in front of her face, feigning disgust. "You don't have to tell me you need a shower. But you'd better hurry. She made the reservation for 6:30."

  "Good to know," John murmured as he unlaced his boots.

  "If you spend the night, I can have your clothes clean and ready for you in the morning."

  "Depends on how dinner goes," he grunted as he tugged off his boots and handed them to her.

  "Your room's all ready…"

  As much as he'd like to catch up with her while she made him her famous breakfast burritos, he had a feeling he wouldn't last an hour with the crowd his gran was assembling.