"No," Aubrey exclaimed over the lively sounds of a mariachi band starting to warm up inside the bar. "Not another Pisces."
Teddy lowered the papers. "Did I say anything about him being a Pisces? No, I didn't. Now, shush."
Aubrey just let her read, not really hearing much of what she said. The idea of her fate being tied to the position of planets in the sky, it was all folly. So was fortune telling and tea leaves.
Especially tea leaves.
Letting the tequila from her margarita relax every cell in her body, she thought out loud, "I should just call him."
"Who?"
"What?"
"Who should you call? Malcolm?"
"Oh, hell, no."
Teddy's eyebrows shot up, and she held both hands out. "Did you even hear a word of what I just read to you?"
Aubrey leaned across the table. "No, because I already met him."
"Who?" Teddy laughed.
"The guy with his head in the clouds."
"Aubrey," Teddy sang out, trading her Mexican accent for Cuban. "You got some 'splainin' to do."
And she did, over a large platter of nachos a waitress had just deposited between them and the sound of singing coming from the group of window washer guys who had just waved the mariachi band over to their corner of the patio.
* * *
Larson's. When you wanted a hunk of red meat, cut to order, grilled to perfection, there was no better place to go in the entire Midwest.
The scent of sizzling beef hit John as soon as he escorted his gran through the door and into the elegant but warm, welcoming interior. The carnivore within unleashed another ravenous roar.
"Do you remember when your father and I brought you here for your 18th birthday?" his gran mused as she fingered her pearls like a spider spinning a web.
With a nonchalant shrug, John smirked. "Barely." Partly because over a decade had passed since then but mostly because of the party his pals threw for him afterwards at one of their parents' houses up in Lake Forest that lasted three days.
"Ms. Delaney, how good to see you again. Right this way." The maître d' waltzed ahead of them towards one of the private dining rooms near the back of the establishment.
"Here you are." He waved his hand into the intimate space, the walls of which were painted the color of gingerbread cookies that complimented the reddish hues of the ornate wood molding and trim. One large round table with ten place settings sat in the middle and was draped with a burgundy tablecloth.
As he lit the candles on the table, he continued, "Your guests should be arriving within thirty minutes or so. May I get you anything while you're waiting?"
"The usual," the birthday girl sighed as he pushed the chair in for her.
John nearly choked, knowing full well that the cost of one bottle of "the usual" would cover about half of what he paid in rent each month.
"And you, sir?"
No drinking. Gotta stay sharp.
He held up his hand. "I'm good."
"Bring two glasses," his gran instructed.
John had no sooner asked, "So who all's coming?" than the sommelier appeared with the bottle of 2005 Chateau Batailley, Pauillac.
"Good evening, ma'am."
Abandoning any attempt at subtlety, his gran pointed across the table.
John twisted his mouth into a smirk as he watched the wine master pour a sip into his wine glass.
Here we go.
Bracing himself for a taste of liquid opulence, he swirled his glass before holding it to his nostrils. Closing his eyes, John took in the stunning perfume of camphor, graphite, black raspberries, white chocolate, and smoked meats before tipping some in his mouth to swish.
Like riding a bike.
He swallowed, relishing the dense, opulent tannins, powerful and rich with a zesty but sweet acidity.
A quick nod and the wine master poured a glass for his gran before filling John's glass.
As she raised it to her lips, he noticed her gaze slide to the room's entrance behind him and then back to him. She set her glass down before the wine even hit her lips. Turning his head, he saw the reason why.
A woman resembling Whitney Crenshaw was walking towards them, her smile seductive, her gait self-assured, her unadorned ring finger conspicuous as she raised her left hand to brush some hair from her face.
Peeling his eyes away, he turned back to his gran and growled, "You're unbelievable."
Unconcerned with his reaction, she growled right back, "Clock's ticking." And with that, she picked up her wine glass and left them alone at the very large table.
"Well, hello stranger. Long time no see."
John stood and took in the sight of Whitney who was dressed in a short, fitted black cocktail dress. A decade or so had passed since he had last seen her in person, but the years had been good to her.
Very good.
With his resistance to his gran's blatant manipulations wearing thin—because seriously, what the hell else did he have going on—he motioned to the chair next to him. "Uh, have a seat."
When she did, he followed suit—just as his cell phone started playing the opening chords of the Foo Fighter's "Learn to Fly."
Jerking it from the inside pocket of his suit coat, he prayed he'd see a number and not a name from his contact list.
Thank you, God.
He stood back up, nearly knocking over his chair. "Sorry. Would you excuse me for just a minute?"
Before Whitney even had the chance to reply, he started making his way to the restaurant entrance. As he passed the table at which his gran was seated with her driver, John could feel her eyes shooting poison darts at his back.
He finally picked it up on the fourth ring and was greeted by a dial tone.
Dammit.
Without thinking twice, he pulled up the number, hoping against hope that it was her—the girl of his matrimonial dreams. He hit the call button, unsure as to what he would even say.
Hi, I'm the guy from the coffee shop. Can I buy you a drink?
Hi, I'm the window washer you drooled over. Ready for your first lesson?
Or, given his gran's warning, maybe he should just cut to the chase.
Will you marry me?
One ring. Two rings.
He looked back into the restaurant's main dining room, his eyes glazing over the well-off patrons.
Three rings.
Then he saw his gran, glaring at him from her table as she got up and made her way to the private room, no doubt to speak with Whitney.
Whitney.
As annoyed as he was at his grandmother's audacity, he had to admit his former high school girlfriend did look amazing. Would make the perfect token wife to his future executive self.
Four rings.
And he was so not interested.
"Hello?" A female voice shouted in his ear.
He jerked to attention. It was her—the woman from the coffee shop. Even with the sound of music and laughter coming through the phone, he was sure of it.
Dipping his head, he stuck a finger in his free ear and replied, "Hey. Hi. I'm sorry I missed your call. Would you like to, uh—"
"Can you really help me, or was that just some lame attempt at a pickup?"
Yes.
Truth was, he had no idea how to help someone get over their fear of falling, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying. Not with her.
Stall her.
"Where are you? Sounds like a party."
"Oh, yeah. No."
Relieved that she didn't call him on his evasion, he relaxed his shoulders and listened as she continued, "I'm at a bar. Chessy's. In Pilsen? It's new. On 18th and—"
Javi's sister's place?
With a broadening grin, he instructed, "Ok, don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
CHAPTER FIVE
"Necessity is the mother of taking chances." —Mark Twain
"You ready to go, girlfriend?" Nancy asked as she plopped into the chair between Aubrey and Teddy. The pair
had just finished washing down the platter of nachos with a pitcher of frozen strawberry margaritas, compliments of the owner who had come out to greet Aubrey and thank her for mentioning the restaurant opening in a recent piece she cowrote with Nancy titled, "The Pleasures of Pilsen."
It had been forty-five minutes since Aubrey spoke with the window washer guy who had apparently found something better to do.
"I guess."
Unemployment, here I come.
Teddy had already stayed longer than she had planned to, keeping Aubrey company while she waited for him to materialize. Squashing back her disappointment, she peeled her eyes from the entrance of the patio just long enough to glance at her pal.
"How 'bout a lift home, Ted?"
"Nah, I'm good. I can walk."
"Yeah, but not in a straight line," Nancy chuckled. "Come on. You're on the way. Aubs and I can drop you off."
The trio wove their way back inside where it was even louder and more crowded than the patio. While the alcohol went a long way to vanquish Aubrey's fear of confined spaces, it blew her sense of direction all to hell.
And she had to pee like a racehorse.
Pushing her way down a corridor in which she was sure she would find the restroom, she barged through the first door she came across.
With her kidneys near bursting, she made a beeline for the first open stall. As relief washed over her, she heard her phone chirp. Where r u?
She thumbed back a text to Nancy. Or so she thought. Bathroom. B right out.
"Huh."
Seeing that another text had come in right before that one, Aubrey clicked it. On my way. Stuck in traffic. Sit tight. Pls.
She frowned at her phone for a minute trying to figure out why Nancy would text her that she was on her way and stuck in traffic. Given the crowd inside the restaurant, she could only assume it was as crowded out on the street with people trying to get in. Figuring she went to get her car and had finally found a spot right out front, Aubrey had just tucked her phone back into her purse when she heard the bathroom door push open.
But whoever came through it didn't go into the open stall next to her. Apparently, she went right to the sink because Aubrey heard water running.
At least she thought it was water. She stood up, pulled up her capris, and flushed.
When she opened the stall door, though, she came face to back with a sky-blue windbreaker like the ones worn by some of the window washer guys she had seen on the patio. Only this one was standing in front of a urinal.
Ewww…
As the faux pas poked its way through her tequila-spiked brain, she held up both hands and muttered, "Oh. Sorry."
Blissfully buzzed, Aubrey remained stuck to the spot. When he darted to the sink, she looked down at her shoes.
It's only polite.
Once he turned on the taps, she heard herself make up some ridiculous story about how she's a travel writer for the Gazette doing a story on bathrooms in restaurants throughout the Chicago area.
This seemed to amuse him.
He pumped some soap into his hands. "Is that right? Women's too or just men's rooms?" he asked without looking at her.
"Both," she shot out, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
Right about then she noticed a second smaller man near the sink who she thought she recognized from the group of window washers outside. As he brushed past her muttering something in Spanish, he pointed to the other man with a smile and said, "Double or nothing, man," before heading out the door.
When they were alone in the brightly tiled room, Aubrey, hell bent on washing her hands no matter how many laws of social etiquette she was breaking, thought nothing of joining the first man at the sink. "And what I find most surprising," she continued as if she waltzed into men's rooms all the time, "is that none seem to have the typical gender-specific markers like pink tile for ladies' rooms and blue for boys. Well, men's."
Giving him a quick glance in the mirror as she reached around him to grab a paper towel from the dispenser, she caught a teasing smile that curved a corner of his mouth upwards. Not a leer. More like he appreciated Aubrey's improvisational skills. She was certain of it.
Thank you, Second City.
Then she looked at him again.
Hey, wait a minute…
The letters arvar aw peeked out from the opening in his windbreaker.
Harvard Law…Just kidding.
Raising her eyes to his face, she spotted a pair of caramel-colored peepers waiting expectantly. After what seemed like a full minute of dead silence, she gasped, "It's you."
Giddy with relief, she heard herself squeal, "You came." And she had never squealed before in her life. Not even when Max popped the question.
Before her very own personal phobia buster could react, she hugged his upper arm and gave him what was probably a way-too-big smile while gushing, "I'm so glad you're here."
With a laugh, he replied, "Me too."
Still, something seemed off.
Releasing his arm, she looked up at him, not his reflection. With a frown she observed, "You look different."
He looked down at his clothes. "Really? This is exactly what I had on this morning."
Still skeptical, she shook her head.
"Oh. Here." He raised his hands and messed up his slicked-back hair, pulling some down over his forehead. "Better?"
Aubrey hesitated. "No. That's not it."
She wasn't sure, but something about him seemed…expensive. Like he had just stepped off of a yacht. Or had just signed a lucrative contract with the Chicago Bears.
Maybe it was his cologne, the subtle scent of which transported her to the spice markets of Southeast Asia she had visited on her first assignment out of graduate school.
Or maybe it was just the tequila.
Whatever it was, even in jeans and a T-shirt, he made Malcolm seem like the host of a cable shopping show.
Losing his smile, the guy said, "It's good to see you again," with what could only be described as a bedroom voice.
Aubrey squirmed, ignoring the goose bumps that were racing up her arms.
Margaritas. Need more margaritas.
Still not moving from her spot, she watched as he took in her black-and-white patterned sleeveless blouse that she had paired with white capris and black ballet flats. "So when you check out men's bathrooms, you go undercover as a suburban soccer mom…? That's genius."
Aubrey looked down at her clothes and then back at him. "Suburban what?"
Hearing the mariachi band's string section strum the opening chords of "When I Fall in Love," over the little wall-mounted speaker in the corner, she gasped, "I love this song." Pointing back over her shoulder towards the door, she asked, "Would you like to dance?"
Before he could answer, the door opened behind her, and she spun around, teetering as she tried to regain her balance.
"How about some fresh air and coffee instead?" she heard him chuckle.
Feeling a big paw press against the small of her back, she pulled out her phone and texted Nancy to go ahead without her. Next thing she knew, she was sitting back out on the patio, only this time, on an ornately carved stone bench under a big old sycamore tree near the fence that had lanterns dangling from several of its branches.
"Here you go. I wasn't sure how you took it, so…" She watched as her career savior set a couple of flavored creamers and packets of sugar on the bench between them, right next to a disposable coffee cup.
"Oh. How nice. Thank you."
The warm night air and the soft glow coming from the white Italian lights draped all over the patio made everything seem quite dreamy—until she spied Nancy and Teddy at a nearby table looking like a couple of helicopter parents tailing their daughter on her first date.
"I don't normally drink while I'm working," she started. Looking down at her shoes, she admitted, "To tell you the truth, I'm really nervous."
Her new best friend forever turned towards her, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on
his knees. Catching another whiff of his cologne did little to alleviate her intoxication.
With a smile that threw off her balance even more than the tequila, he said, "Well, that's understandable. If I were in your shoes, I'd need a little liquid courage to go into a ladies' room."
She stared at him a minute, waiting for his words to register. When they finally did, she sputtered, "No. That's not what I meant."
A furrow formed between his thick well-groomed eyebrows. He lifted his bearded chin and waited.
"It's my next assignment." Unable (or unwilling) to keep the fear from her voice, she exclaimed, "Skydiving."
At this, he sat up. Eyes bright, he asked, "Seriously? You get paid to do that? Talk about a dream job."
His sudden movement made it seem that the bench beneath her had started to pivot in place. She gripped his arm again, only this time she was distracted by its well-defined bicep.
When he asked, "Right?" she started and then looked into his eyes. His rich caramel-brown eyes.
"What?"
"Skydiving," he chuckled.
"Oh, yeah. No, I'm petrified," she gasped.
Then, tightening her grip on his arm just a little, she leaned closer. "Here's the thing. If I don't do it, I'm gonna lose my job. And that would be bad 'cause what I owe on my credit cards? It keeps me up at night."
The crease between his thick eyebrows returned. "Oh, that's not good."
"I know. Right?" Still hanging on to his bicep for dear life, she pleaded, "You've got to help me."
"When is it?"
"What?"
"Your assignment."
"Next Wednesday. But I have to let my editor know by Monday morning."
"Hmm. That doesn't give us much time." He picked up the coffee cup and handed it to her. "Here. Come on. Drink up."
She released his arm and took a sip.
"But," he started, "like I said this morning, I can help you."
"With what?"
"Your fear of falling."
Aubrey shook her head. "No," she corrected as carefully as she could, considering her articulation challenges, "I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of falling."
At this, his face broke into a broad grin which faded into a warm, kind smile when he replied, "That's exactly right. But I'm serious. I can totally help you."
Flight Risk Page 7