Flight Risk

by Barbara Valentin

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray hoodie. "You just don't seem the type."

  "Oh yeah? And what type is that?" she asked as she rushed after him.

  A little voice in his head buzzed. Careful.

  He gave her a sideways glance. "Never mind. Come on. We're gonna miss our bus."

  When they saw it slow to a stop a full half block ahead of them, the pair ran for it.

  Snagging two open seats, John let her slip in first so she could have the window. Even though she was sitting right next to him, she seemed a million miles away. Well, not really. More like half a block away.

  He took a deep breath and asked, "So what do you like about it?"

  She shot him a look. "What?"

  "That building? Why do you want to live there?"

  "Oh." After squirming a bit, she sputtered, "I don't know. I just think it would be wonderful to live right downtown, you know. On the river. And, I mean, the Gazette is, what? Just a couple blocks away. Plus, you've got the theater district over on Randolph. Tons of great restaurants, concerts, shopping, Millennium Park…"

  Her voice trailed off as she gazed out the window at the tourists starting to pool at the intersections.

  At least she had stopped asking where he was taking her.

  He probably shouldn't have said what he did next, but he just couldn't help it.

  "Well, it doesn't have a roof deck."

  This caught her attention.

  With her eyebrows furrowed, she asked, "How would you know?"

  Before he could answer, she hit the palm of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, of course. You've been up there. For work."

  No, actually, I almost bought out the top floor before I came to my senses.

  She let a shudder work through her whole body. "I don't know how you do it."

  "What?"

  "Dangle from buildings."

  He leaned his shoulder into her. "Sure you do."

  She looked at him blankly.

  With a roll of his eyes, John asked, "Have you forgotten your first lesson already?"

  A few seconds passed.

  Wait for it.

  "Oh. Ha." She let out a laugh. "You don't look down. I get it. All right. I can see how this day is gonna go."

  And somewhere, deep inside, he did too, and for that he was glad. Very glad.

  * * *

  "We're here."

  John sounded like a little kid who just arrived at the circus. Maybe that's why Aubrey's eyes fell on a directional sign that pointed to Cirque du Soleil as soon as the bus lurched to a stop at the Navy Pier entrance.

  Oh dear God. He's going to make me swing from a trapeze.

  She couldn't move. "Why are we here?"

  She got her answer as soon as they disembarked and he pointed to the Ferris wheel.

  From where they were standing, it looked like a cute little carnival ride, complete with blue glass-enclosed gondolas, and it was moving very slowly.

  Feeling more relieved than an American tourist who found a foreigner who speaks English, she let out a laugh and put a hand on his forearm. "That's it? We're going up in the Ferris wheel?"

  John just narrowed his eyes at her and nodded.

  As she rushed to catch up to him at the ticket booth, she called out, "Starting off kind of tame, aren't you? Did I happen to mention I was one of the first journalists to ride the Takabisha roller coaster in Japan? It's the steepest in the world."

  He tossed her an unimpressed glance as he reached for his wallet.

  Elbowing her way to the booth, she almost shoved him over. "No, no, no. I've got this."

  "Ya sure?"

  She handed over her credit card. "Please. You're the one doing me a favor. It's only right."

  "Thanks, Aubrey."

  "Pffft. Of course."

  "No. I mean it. Thanks."

  Shoving a ticket at him, she checked his face, trying to see if sarcasm was his intent or just the result.

  "Not a big deal."

  "The way I was raised, if you take a girl out, you pay."

  Tickets in hand, they made their way down the promenade.

  "Ah, well, see, this is not a date, so…"

  Passing a couple of restaurants and a few bars on their left, Aubrey spied a merry-go-round dead ahead and tour boat ticket booths on their right.

  "I haven't been here in years. I feel like I'm at a carnival," she mused as they strolled.

  "Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that," she heard John mutter as they approached what looked to be another carnival ride's line.

  She turned to face him, noticing for the first time that his hoodie had "UIC" across the front, denoting University of Illinois-Chicago.

  "Is that where you went to college?"

  John looked down at his chest. "No."

  "So why are you wearing it?"

  He pressed his lips together. "It was a gift."

  "Ah."

  Recalling the shirt he wore the day before, she asked, "Did you go to college?"

  His face went all disgusted on her before he hissed, "Yes."

  Then she took another look at his baby face that was hiding under all that stubble.

  "Oh God. You aren't still in college, are you?"

  "Tickets, please," a pier staffer demanded.

  "No," she heard him chuckle as she handed over the tickets and shuffled forward in line.

  "I'm only asking because you look like you're, well, you know…younger than me."

  "How old are you?"

  Aubrey coughed, "I'm not telling you that," as she watched another staffer open the door on a big blue-rimmed, glass-enclosed gondola that looked like it could fit six adults.

  And it was moving.

  She finally looked up and took in the majestic Ferris wheel towering above her.

  "Whoa, wait a minute."

  "Ma'am, please get in." He gave a pleading look to John who was standing behind her.

  She felt his hands at her waist. "Come on, cougar."

  With a soft push, he added, "In you go."

  Her feet went out from under her, and she landed smack in the middle of a bench, which caused the gondola to sway. If she had her bearings, which she didn't, she'd know that she was facing north. John sat directly opposite her, wearing that stupid smirk as he leaned forward and clasped his hands.

  "This isn't funny." Her heart raced, and her head spun as she frantically looked for a seat belt or a safety bar or something, anything that would give her a sense of stability and security.

  Trying not to whimper, she looked down as the people waiting in line got smaller and smaller.

  Then she heard his voice. "Look at me. Look into my eyes."

  She did, and with each second that brought them closer to the 150-foot pinnacle, her breathing slowed. Relaxing a bit, she eased into a tentative smile. When she did, she watched as John covered his eyes with his mirrored sunglasses.

  "What should you never ever do when you're way up high?"

  To her not-petrified reflection, she conceded, "Look down."

  At that, he moved to the seat next to her, causing their gondola to list like a ship in a storm.

  Aubrey sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and clutched his arm. "Don't do that."

  She felt his free hand cup her cheek. "Come on, now. Open your eyes. You're missing it."

  Clenching his arm with a death grip, she squinted up at him. "I only want to look at you."

  "Yes. My evil plan is working," he chortled. Then he waved his hand in front of them. "But you're missing all that."

  Pressing the side of her head against his arm, she cast a wary eye towards the horizon and heard him say, "Just remember to look out or up, and you'll be fine."

  What she saw was blue sky and some high-rises fringing the north shore and beaches and boats in the water and…

  Overcome by the sensation of falling, she shut her eyes again. "This isn't working."

  "Yeah, it's because we're moving. Your point of focus keep
s changing. Try again, but this time focus only out on the horizon." He pointed to the northeast, towards the lake. "Nothing but blue."

  That seemed to work. Before she knew it, the tops of trees and other structures came into her line of vision as they descended. When their gondola skimmed the launch pad and slowed so they could exit, she let out an excited, "I did it."

  John help up a high five, which she promptly smacked her hand against.

  "OK, quiz time," he announced when they were sitting at a nearby park bench digging into celebratory hot dogs.

  "Don't look down," she shot out.

  Incredulous, he laughed, "Oh, now you remember."

  Aubrey flashed a cheesy grin and shoved four hot, greasy, ketchup-covered French fries into her mouth at once.

  "Ready?"

  She could only nod.

  "What should you do when you're very high up and moving at the same time?"

  With a hand to her lips to prevent food from spewing, she mumbled, "Focus on the horizon."

  "Very good."

  They ate the rest of their food in silence but only because Aubrey refrained from asking about a prize.

  Maybe because this time, he didn't offer.

  "Where to now?" she asked as she wadded up what remained of her lunch and deposited it in a nearby trash can.

  "You'll find out when we get there."

  So juvenile.

  He then headed for the exit. With the midday sun rising higher in the sky, the lakefront began to toast. So did her cheeks when she watched John tug off his sweatshirt as he walked. The white fitted T-shirt he had on underneath left little to her imagination.

  A tumble of excitement, exasperation, lust, and dread welled up in her as she joined him.

  "You're like a kid in a man's body, you know that?"

  An incredibly hot man's body.

  He stopped and faced her. "And did you know that most people who suffer from phobias have a hyper-developed need for control?"

  "Are you implying that I'm a control freak?"

  He chuckled. "No, I'm not implying it. I'm stating it, rather explicitly."

  She pointed at him. "There. You did it again."

  "What?"

  She quoted back what he had just said. "Who talks like that?"

  He narrowed his eyes. "Well-read adults?"

  Of which you seem to be neither.

  She kept walking.

  "What are you getting so huffy about?"

  After a moment of silent reflection, she replied, "I don't like not knowing where I'm going."

  At this, he held out his hands as they walked along. "Did I call it, or did I call it?"

  She turned and grumbled, "Jackass."

  Drawing closer, John draped an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry. All right. I'll tell you where we're going next if you promise not to freak out on me."

  Edging away from him, she announced, "I'll do no such thing."

  John shrugged. "Have it your way."

  A few steps later, he asked, "How are you on boats?"

  "I'll have you know I've cruised down the Amazon, Yangtze, and Congo Rivers. I even rode on a fishing trawler in the North Atlantic with a bunch of tourists on a marine biology expedition. During a squall, too."

  John stopped and turned to her. "Would you please stop doing that?"

  "What?"

  "Listing your credentials. I already know you're brave. You're the one who seems to have a hard time believing it."

  All she could do was stand there and wonder how it was that this guy who she had met a little more than twenty-four hours before just told her, in essence, the exact same thing her childhood BFF told her over too many margaritas.

  Pulling herself up, she drew in a breath and replied, "I'm fine on boats, why?"

  By way of an answer, he waved in the direction of a school-bus-yellow boat docked along the river embankment and said, "The quickest way to get where we're going."

  After purchasing a pair of tickets, John handed her one. "Ladies first."

  Aubrey made her way to the stairs and started climbing to the upper deck.

  When John had caught up and slipped into the seat facing her, he teased, "This isn't too high?

  Aubrey was busy coming up with a smarmy comeback when she saw him suddenly grab his phone from his back pocket. Leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, he frowned at it, studying what she assumed was a text he had just received and then started texting back as if his life depended on it.

  As he did, her eyes riveted on his hair, the style of which looked like a grown-out version of a bad five-dollar cut. And it was a complete mess.

  Overcome with the urge to sink her fingers into it as she had back in the hammock, she wondered what he'd do if she slipped into the seat next to him and demanded another lip-locking icebreaker.

  Staring a little too long, she was surprised when he looked up.

  "Problem?"

  "No," she croaked.

  Forcing herself to swallow, she turned her attention to the high-rises flanking the embankment as the water taxi bobbed west. Just before ducking under the Michigan Avenue Bridge, it stopped to take on more passengers. Soon they were surrounded by a group of badly behaved kids and their oblivious parents.

  The boat revved its engine and began edging west under the bridge. With Malcolm's high-rise soaring over them to her left, she wondered what he was doing at that very minute.

  Probably working out or maybe reading some poetry or helping an elderly neighbor with their grocery shopping.

  It never occurred to her that he might be doing something mundane like cleaning his toilet, flossing his teeth, or taking out his garbage.

  She was busy trying to picture herself standing on the other side of Malcolm's window, watching water taxis ferry passengers under the Michigan Avenue bridge, when she heard a voice ask, "So what happened?"

  It wasn't until she felt something nudge her foot that she realized it was John.

  "I'm sorry. What?"

  He was sitting with his legs stretched out on either side of hers with his arms, his chiseled, tanned, mouth-watering arms, folded across his chest.

  Down girl.

  "Have you always been afraid of heights?"

  "Uh, no."

  Her knee-jerk reaction was to list off the riskiest assignments she had ever been on, but she bit her tongue when he leaned forward again and pulled off his sunglasses. Squinting in the afternoon sun, he asked, "So…what happened?"

  He may as well have asked her to strip naked right then and there.

  Drawing in a breath, she gave her dream residence one last wistful look before turning her attention back to him. "It's a long story, best told over a bottle of wine." She paused before adding with a laugh, "Or three."

  John leaned back in his seat, wincing as they chugged under the shadow of the Clark Street Bridge. "That bad, huh. Who was he?"

  Aubrey waited until they emerged into the sunshine on the opposite side before replying. Despite the warmth beaming down on her, she wrapped both arms around herself, looked over the side, and said, "My dead husband."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" —Vincent van Gogh

  The small bell over Madame Marie's entrance announced Allison Delaney's arrival just as it had for the last thirty years. Comforted by the familiarity of the kitschy establishment, what with its always-lit candles, dark burgundy drapes and wall paper, and aroma of exotic spices, she sank as usual into the lush upholstered chair at a small round table to the left of the foyer.

  An ornate crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Flanking the wall opposite of the entrance was a velveteen antique couch of indiscernible design on which Marie's adorable granddaughter used to sit and watch. Years later, Marie had inquired about getting that same girl a job at the paper. Given that it was the only favor Marie had ever requested, Allison was happy to oblige.

  Placed her in the Lifestyle department, if
memory serves.

  "Greetings, my dear."

  Madame Marie entered the room, bearing a small teapot and matching cup. After she set them in the middle of the table, Allison waited until the old woman took her seat. Pressing a hand to her chest, she blurted, "Thank you for taking me on such short notice, my dear friend. I'm beside myself with worry."

  Marie reached a wrinkled hand across the table and patted Allison's. "Your grandson?" she asked with a thick accent that Allison never had been able to identify, despite all of her travels around the globe.

  "Yes." Allison almost wept with relief and gave a feeble smile to the only person to whom she had ever divulged her deepest feelings. "I knew you'd understand."

  She watched as Marie poured her a cup of tea. Pushing it towards her, she instructed, "You drink. Save some for reading."

  Pressing the rim of the cup to her mouth, Allison sipped the warm liquid through her lips as she had so many times before.

  Her appetite for the truth had taken her down many strange paths during her storied journalism career, but none so strange as this. Still, it was Madam Marie who had confirmed her suspicions about her husband's affair, warned her about a traitorous board member, and most recently, predicted her only son's untimely demise.

  When she had finished all but a bit of her tea, she handed her cup over and watched as the psychic swirled it three times before peering into it. After a few quiet moments, she began to hum and rock back and forth in her seat before instructing Allison to close her eyes.

  Knowing this was part of the ritual, she did as instructed and waited anxiously for the result.

  * * *

  Squeezing into the empty space beside Aubrey, John took her hand in his. "I'm sorry."

  While she didn't pull it away, she didn't acknowledge it either.

  He could only imagine what was going on inside her head. The morning before, as he'd stood in line at the coffee shop, John had only heard bits and pieces about what she had been saying to her friends—most noticeably, "Max," "married," and "jackass." He was hoping she would take this opportunity to fill in the blanks.

  The water taxi slowly chugged south, following the river as it sliced through downtown Chicago, passing the Ogilvy Transportation Center on its right and the Lyric Opera House to its left.