Rebounding into a bobbing action, she thinks about how some people say suicide jumpers die of fright before bottoming out; surely this has to be a similar feeling right to the end, but nobody dies of fright in bungee jumping. Common sense, though, rebuts that there’s no comparison between bungee and suicide jumping.
In any event, with the deed done, she’s anxious for the pickup boat to grab her so that she can get back up to the bridge for more. “That was exhilarating!” she exclaims to the rescue team as they pull her up.
Once she is reunited on the span above with Troy, who likewise exudes exhilaration, he says he’ll cover the cost if she’ll jump with him. She’s game. They take a plunge together to the standing ovation of all the Texas Tech tourists.
Their tandem leap leads to a night of camaraderie on the town. Troy is impressed that Sheryl’s a teetotaler like the women in his family back home on the range. They dance up a storm, working themselves into a lather at a humid club away from the rest of the hard-drinking tour.
Conversation breaks on the dance floor reveal surprisingly numerous areas of common feelings and interests. They keep dancing and talking as the night rambles on. By the wee hours, they feel heightened romantic vibrations possible only between strangers in a strange land.
Chapter 5
AMERICAN CUISINE
On a snow-packed Chicago sidewalk in the present day, Sheryl winds down from a windblown tornadic spin next to Sterling, who is doing the same. They catch each other in their frozen tracks, laughing, eyes locked, as they steady themselves against the next arctic wind gusts off Lake Michigan. Speechless and out of breath, they exchange stiff smiles that hurt their frozen faces. Regaining confidence, they resume their trek up Diversey toward the American Cuisine Grill.
Soon a revolving door to the nearly empty restaurant delivers Sheryl Taylor and Dr. Sterling Jackson to an aging maître d’ waiting for more diners to materialize. They have been here often, but not lately.
The maître d’ springs to life at the sight of them. “Ah, my friends!” he exclaims, fawning over their arrival at the starving eatery. “Welcome back. It’s been too long since we’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
“Seems like forever,” confirms Sheryl.
“I assume you’ve been off to an exotic land, leading a life others only imagine.”
“Yes, but it’s one trip I’m trying to forget about—and fast.”
“What? Why? Where was this? I’ve never heard such talk from you.”
“Let’s just say there was way too much excitement, and not of the fun variety.”
“Enough said,” says the maître d’, shifting gears. “Now, where would you like to sit?”
Sterling glances at the many open tables. “Make it your finest table,” he quips, “away from the maddening crowd.”
“You got it,” the maître d’ responds with a broad smile. Picking up two menus, he looks to Sheryl. “One of our good old-fashioned American meals will help you forget all about whatever spoiled your trip, I’m sure.”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
“Thank you, so much. Right this way please.” He leads them across the main floor, past two couples dining with apparent enjoyment, to a quiet table around a corner where the only other visible tables are empty. It’s as though Sheryl and Sterling will be eating in their own private dining room. “Does this work for you?” asks the maître d’.
“You’ve outdone yourself once again,” Sterling assures him.
Sterling and Sheryl shed their coats. As they settle into chairs, the maître d’ supplies them with menus and returns to his station. A busboy brings water and rolls and butter and disappears.
“Nosy old man,” Sterling snarls, glancing in the direction of the maître d’. “Always fishing for something.”
“What are you talking about? He’s nice and totally genuine.” She takes a roll, passes Sterling the basket, and butters up her bread.
Sterling also goes for the rolls. Slowly, he concedes, “Okay, maybe you’re right. But I was just reacting to his being intrusive with you right after you’d said let’s please get off the subject.”
“I know, but that was a reflex reaction anyone might’ve had. He backed off right away.”
“Anyway, my bad. I’m just feeling protective of you after your rough trip.”
“No worries. I understand.”
“I, uh, need to hit the men’s room—it was a long wait in the lobby.”
“It was, was it? Try Cairo under siege for a week or so if you wanna talk long wait.”
“Touché, but I gotta go. When I get back, I’ll get into the lawyers’ news.”
“It better be good news this time, and real good, because I’m at my rope’s end.”
Without a smile, he assures her, “It’s good.” He gives her a gentle peck on the cheek before leaving.
Alone with her thoughts, Sheryl glances out the window. Her snowbound neighborhood triggers sympathy shivers for a passing couple walking east into the teeth of another arctic blast. Brushing aside a stray thought of Troy and the Kawarau Bridge, she grapples with the idea that it’s been only days since she was embroiled in the chaos that is the new Egypt. She further reminisces about how only weeks before that, the various riots somehow had seemed far away, nameless others’ problems. Her tour groups had come and gone like clockwork, with her happily headquartered in the lap of luxury. Life was good, she thinks without thought, quickly adding, or so it seemed.
Life generally has been good whenever she’s been away from home. Her number finally came up, though, in Cairo. She can’t believe how quickly the Tahrir Square riots became her own ongoing nightmare. She thanks God for having been so lucky—surely blessed—to have escaped. Lucky? She inwardly laughs hard enough to raise a smile on her face. Lucky to get back to all this? Thinking of debts, she concludes, I must be joking.
Overcome by anxiety, she uses her menu as a privacy screen while fears of ruination breed paranoia that says everyone sees her fears as clear as day. From experience, she’s confident that if she can avoid eyes for just a short spell, she’ll be okay. To ward off the familiar symptoms she considers borderline insanity, Sheryl force-feeds herself businesslike thoughts of how the Egyptian trip had been her first lengthy assignment of any sort in nearly a year. Suddenly more relaxed, she basks in recognition of how her overall skills were still going strong.
She realizes she flawlessly handled drastically altered arrangements in Cairo. Yeah! her inner core says encouragingly. All had started normally enough, with her staying long-term in one resort, repeating the same tour several times over for a few weeks for the continuous arrivals and departures of the various tour groups that her boss, Thomas Kearns, sent her way. Every last individual in each and every tour had the usual tedious needs of unprepared tourists, and she handled them all—including when all went to hell during her last group’s tour with the arrival of what would become known as the Arab Spring. Peeking over the top of her menu, she silently asks, That’s proof I’m all right, right?
Most impressive in her own self-congratulatory opinion was her effortless ability to shift from one language to another; she had not gone rusty. Even still, suddenly frantic, she wonders how ready she really is for the next couple trips Kearns has lined up for her: Hawaii and Turkey. They seem right around the corner, and Cairo will take some time to leave behind. Meanwhile, she’s feeling pretty gun-shy about going anywhere.
But wow, Sheryl suddenly realizes, it’s been sixteen years since my first Magic Pigment Hawaiian tour. Darn! Where’s that broach they gave me last year for fifteen years’ service? I’d better be wearing it this year! She figures it must be around the apartment somewhere, but where? Beyond contrasting thoughts about Hawaii, she frets over the one-week turnaround from her return to the mainland till her departure for Turkey. This is just the sort of stuff that contributed
to her having insisted on shorter, more widely spaced tours over this last year. After all, as her fellow tour directors seem to get younger every year, living out of a suitcase for Sheryl isn’t always so glamorous anymore. Thoughts about what to do persist over both workplace and financial arenas.
She is startled back to reality, nearly letting the menu slip from her hands, upon seeing Sterling returning from the men’s room. “So,” he asks while taking his seat, “what looks good?” Picking up his menu, he seems not to notice that Sheryl’s hands are slightly shaking as she holds hers.
“Oh, the usual—same old menu.”
As Sterling catches up on the menu, Sheryl privately flashes to how her laying off long trips for a while had been, on the surface, a result of her volunteer duties feeding the homeless through church. In reality, all that church stuff was only half the story. As usual with her life, there was the other half, the secret half, the half involving Sterling. It’s this half, she quickly concludes, that now leaves her feeling helpless, drained of all self-respect and funds, and maybe even soon to become homeless, in need of a free meal herself. She asks God, How did I ever let him get this stranglehold on me? Sometimes I can’t even think for myself anymore—when I’m home, anyway.
Sterling, unaware of her private conversation with the Lord, asks, “Still thinking steak? I think I’m thinking red meat too.”
“I may not have a clue about anything else, but I know I want a rib eye. I’m starving.”
Their waiter comes. They tell him to make it two, medium rare. Both choose soup over salad, an easy choice this time of year. Once they are alone again at the secluded table, the conversation finally gets around to brass tacks.
“All right,” Sheryl says, starting the ball rolling with a cynic’s intonation, “what’s the latest from your crack team of lawyers?”
“Geez, woman, how can I tell you anything with that kind of attitude? Are you going to give me an open mind?”
She forces a derisive smile. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you,” he says with a theatrical bow of his head in mock appreciation. “So anyway, we go before the judge again Monday. He’s already pretty much agreed that some of my corporate funds will be unlocked for personal expenses.”
“Wow, big surprise.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She snickers. “I’m just saying—funny how after all these years your lawyers suddenly get a brainstorm about trying to unlock some dollars for that.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if there were other issues they had to handle first. It’s all a methodical process—total bullshit, but they’re working within the system.”
“The system. How all-inclusive for you. How handy. In any case, I can’t help but worry that the truth is you’ve been ripping me off for years.”
“If that’s what you want to think.”
“It’s what it is, as far as I can see. You’ve drained my funds dry. I used to be flush with the world—owned my condo outright.” Sterling tries interjecting, but Sheryl won’t allow it. “Truth hurts,” she continues, “right? I know it hurts me!”
“So be it, my dear, if you say so. But redemption’s coming, you’ll see—the verdict and money’s all coming to pass, like I’ve said all along. Just in the nick of time too.”
“You mean just in time to save my condo, right?”
“Of course that’s what I mean,” he assures her with a false ring. “Monday will be a huge step toward getting us both out of hock.”
“Well, I hope you mean ladies first on that pledge.”
“Naturally. Don’t worry about that. But also don’t forget that the noose tightens more every day on my own mortgage too.”
“Which puts me at the end of the line, I’m sure.”
“No, baby, we’re in this together, and better days are just ahead.”
Their soup arrives, and the server promises that their steaks will be up shortly.
“Good news,” chirps Sheryl. “I’m starving!” She dives into her soup.
As Sheryl begins eating, pausing between spoonfuls to recount her battles to obtain scarce airline tickets out of Cairo, Sterling’s mind wanders deeply into his shared past with her. Although he gives the appearance of listening attentively to her story, inwardly he finds himself recalling how he drifted back into her life six years after their Makeup Is Us days. He walked back into her life handing over the $500 he had owed her all those years. Now, with a minor touch of retroactive guilt, he remembers how Sheryl thought the money was bail for his cousin. The truth was that it purchased an abortion for one of Sheryl’s summer coworkers who had allowed Sterling to get too frisky. Smugly, he thinks, Yes, for sure those were the good old days. Thinking about the wide-eyed, long-legged beauty he’d put in a family way leads him to wonder whatever happened to her.
Sheryl, apparently thinking she has Sterling’s full attention, excitedly recounts, “Finally, my main ticket broker came through for me!”
Sterling nods with a smile at her storytelling and says admiringly, “You’re amazing with all your connections around the world.” He maintains sharp eye contact to convey that he’s captivated by her strength and heroism, even while daydreaming of the other girl.
Sheryl is obviously pumped up in the glory of recounting this most hair-raising of her many adventures. She humbly declares, “I prefer to think my deliverance from evil was more a demonstration of God’s protection than any earthly connections of mine.”
“There’s no doubt, my dear,” he finds himself saying. “No doubt about it. How else can we explain it?”
As Sheryl moves on with her saga, Sterling smiles and heads back to dreamland and that first reunion with Sheryl. It was then he crafted the backstory for what would become his lifelong cover for his career as a criminal. He recollects with pride how from the start with Sheryl, it was easy passing himself off as a doctor, Dr. Sterling Jackson, gynecologist. How perfect! thinks the professional ladies’ man with an inward chuckle. He can’t help an impulsive smile, which Sheryl seemingly takes as interest in her exciting tale of escape from Egypt.
The waiter approaches with their steaks. Sheryl smacks her lips at the sight of the juicy rib eyes. “I knew I was hungry, but I had no idea I was this hungry.” She already has a mouthful before Sterling picks up a fork.
As he slices off a chunk of his own juicy red meat, Sterling is happy about having gotten her off talk of money woes. Home free, he figures, for now anyway, though he knows time will tell more truly.
Chapter 6
KTC
American Cuisine’s ladies’ lounge is vacant as Sheryl enters and heads for a sink. Taking a high-tech toothpick from a pack in her purse, she loosens a chunk of meat from between two molars. Recalling the very recent eating of scraps under siege back in Cairo, she still can’t believe that she is not only home but also already wary of Sterling after having missed him so much. Nothing new there! she grouses to herself.
Looking at her face in the mirror, she notices a tired trace of aging and thinks back to her first steak dinner with Sterling, when both were still young. The fancy dinner was in celebration of events stemming from his having resurfaced in her life earlier that same day, six years out from Makeup Is Us.
Sheryl is a rising-star tour director at Kearns Travel Company—or KTC, as its brochures tout. She is fluent in three languages and passable in three others, and the references who helped her land this great gig all raved about how she has been everywhere and is cool under fire. KTC specializes in packaged tours of the States and trips abroad, for groups both large and small. Whether alumni adventure travel or sales-incentive conventions, KTC has something for everyone. Housed in a midrise complex near O’Hare, the company is apt to be running up to a dozen tours concurrently, from lazy river cruises up the Danube to treks along the Great Wall. The tropics, of course, also are popular.
Thomas Kearns rules with a soft touch from his corner office, where the panoramic view appropriately enough captures a never-ending string of jetliners catapulting skyward, departing O’Hare for destinations and adventures unknown. Still other planes come in for landings.
Alone in his office, Kearns is reviewing an upcoming tour’s itinerary while chomping an unlit cigar, his troubled brow betraying business concerns, when an energetic Sheryl pops into his office.
“Hi, boss. Ready for that meeting on Jamaica?”
They have a final planning session scheduled for a rapidly approaching tour of hers to Jamaica. It’s a large enough group to require that an assistant travel with Sheryl. However, as Sheryl takes a seat on the other side of Kearns’s desk, her boss reveals that her assistant tour director has just quit without notice.
“After all you’ve done for her!” Sheryl exclaims.
“No kidding. Too bad too—I had big plans for her.”
Sheryl maintains her usual positive attitude. “When is Tammy due back from China? Maybe she wouldn’t mind going along as a number two. She loves Jamaica.”
“You’ll be three days out before her China group gets back.”
“Bummer.”
“Yes, so we need to come up with somebody else.” Kearns’s intercom buzzes. “What’s up, Shannon?” he asks the receptionist.
“Sorry to interrupt, boss, but Sheryl has a visitor.”
Kearns glances at Sheryl, who shrugs, having no idea who it could be.
“She’ll be right there,” Kearns informs Shannon.
“Sorry, boss,” says Sheryl. “Whoever it is, they can wait. Let’s figure out Jamaica.”
“See who it is. You never know. On JA, I’ll put out an SOS to our part-timers.”
As Sheryl enters the foyer, her jaw drops at the sight of Sterling Jackson leafing through Condé Nast Traveler. He looks up as Sheryl approaches. Breaking into a grin, he gets to his feet.
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