As he waited for a reply, Nick just smiled at him from across the booth at the Cozy Cup, a chintzy diner located not far from the high school at which he coached the boy's cross-country and track teams.
"And Mattie's OK with it?"
Nick pulled a face. "Of course. Hell, it was her idea. She's convinced that we wouldn't have gotten engaged if it wasn't for you."
John sat back in his seat and smiled, remembering the foggy morning he and his running team from the Lincoln Park community shelter had overtaken Mattie on the lakefront running path about a month before the Chicago marathon that previous fall.
He would never forget it.
At that point, she and Nick hadn't seen each other for a couple of months. John still didn't know all the details, something about Mattie not being completely up front with Nick about her marital status, or lack thereof, the entire time he had been training her to run in the marathon.
Somewhere along the way though, they must've fallen in love because as soon as Mattie realized he knew Nick, the look on her face. The pain behind her eyes. It was the day he had seen heartache up close for the very first time. And he'd hoped it would be his last. But it hadn't been. He saw it again later that same day, when he'd told Nick that he had run into her.
But because of them, he also knew what true love looked like.
Playing a key role in a carefully crafted plan, John's job had been to hop onto the marathon course at mile twenty, just in time to basically escort Mattie to Nick who had been waiting to pop the question on the other side of the finish line.
Witnessing that scene—Nick getting down on one knee, Mattie laughing and crying all at the same time, and then Nick hoisting her into his arms surrounded by a veritable mob of cheering well-wishers—had left him with a feeling that nagged at him ever since.
I want that.
But he knew all too well that wasn't something he could buy, even with the promise of his inherited wealth.
Especially with the promise of inherited wealth.
Over a year into his self-imposed poverty, though, he was becoming convinced that he couldn't get a girl to fall for him without said inherited wealth.
It was a helluva catch-22.
He thought of his most recent attempt to snag himself a piece of the true love pie.
Bridget.
When she had wandered into Soulmates, the running shoe store he had worked at part-time, John had managed to convince the hot brunette that the latest Mizunos were perfect for her stride. It was the first pair of shoes—hell, it was the first anything he had sold—and it had left him feeling more accomplished than even earning his MBA from Harvard had.
That she'd agreed to meet him for drinks had just been icing on the cake.
Sadly, she had only been a few sips into her Two Brothers draft when she informed him that a guy like him—what with no car, no career, no security—was not for her. It hadn't stopped her from spending the night, though.
She had left the next morning with little more than a "See ya." But he never saw her again.
Probably didn't help that his overgrown hair and untrimmed beard coupled with his Goodwill wardrobe and tiny Logan's Square apartment threw off any and all trace of his silver spoon upbringing.
Whatever the reason, he was beginning to lose hope.
Who needs five billion anyway?
"I'd be honored," he heard himself say.
Nick DeRosa clapped his hands together. "Great."
The guy was so damn happy his entire face lit up.
I want me some of that.
John dove back into his pancakes while his soon-to-be-married buddy kept talking with his hands as if he was an interpreter for the hearing impaired. "Now listen, I don't want you to worry about the cost, OK? I'll take care of your tux rental, and we'll figure out a way to get you up there."
He couldn't help but marvel, again, at the kindness and generosity this guy constantly bestowed on him, never expecting anything in return. Having landed at the shelter where Nick was volunteering on that cold Thanksgiving Day, he was the first person to show a genuine interest in John even though he probably looked like he didn't have a dime to his name.
He took another bite of his pancakes and asked, "Up where?"
Nick laughed. With his eyes bright, he explained, "Oh yeah. Sorry. Uh, I think it's called the North Shore Club? It's where the reception's being held. We were gonna have it over at my cousin's banquet hall on Lawrence, but when Mat asked Les to give her away, he insisted, so…"
Hearing the name of his gran's country club, John lowered his fork as memories of the countless hours he had spent there as a kid taking golf, swim, and riding lessons, and later attending ridiculously uncomfortable social events robbed him of his appetite.
He could only hope the "Les" Nick referred to wasn't who he thought it was.
"And who's Les?"
"Lester Crenshaw. You remember? The guy from the Gazette who hired me to coach Mattie then helped me get my job back at Knollwood?"
Not only was Lester on the Griffin Media board of directors and one of his gran's most trusted allies, he was John's godfather.
He lifted his chin. With his voice barely audible, he replied, "Thought so."
Feeling the pancakes he had already eaten congeal into a hard lump in his stomach, he reached for his water glass.
"Nick."
He took a swig of his water, knowing what he had to do. And dreaded it with all his heart.
His buddy cocked his head and frowned. "Problem?"
A few minutes after John started his confession with, "I'm not who you think I am," Nick still hadn't said a word.
John was staring into his nearly empty coffee mug when he heard his breakfast companion clear his throat.
Feeling like a total schmuck for leading the nicest of guys to believe he was someone he wasn't, he looked up and repeated, "I'm so sorry. I should've been upfront with you from the very beginning."
"Where have I heard that before," Nick mumbled before setting his elbows on the table. Locking his hands together, he held them in front of his mouth and gave him a cold, hard stare.
Squirming under his gaze, John continued. "After my dad passed away, the pressure was on for me to take his place. I mean, it's what I've been groomed for my whole life. I just didn't think it would happen this soon. I'm thinking he must've suspected it was a possibility, though, 'cause I can't figure why the hell else he would have included a clause in his will mandating that I'd have to—"
John stopped short.
Nick, doing a piss-poor job of masking his disappointment, waited a second before lowering his fists and snarling, "Have to what?"
Inhaling a big breath through his nose, John smirked and with a shrug, answered, "Nothing. There's just something I have to do first. And in order to do that, I have to stay completely disconnected from the life I had before, if that makes any sense."
Nick pulled his face into a bit of a grimace and shook his head. "No, not really."
John blew out a big breath and shifted in his seat again as he wrestled with spilling the beans—all the beans—to the great guy who just asked him to stand up in his wedding.
In the meantime, he watched as Nick scanned the partially crowded diner before leaning farther across the table. With his voice low, he asked, "Are you in trouble, man? I mean, trust me. I'm a hundred and ten percent Italian. I know what you mean by"—he raised his hands to make quotation marks—"family business."
John let out a relieved laugh. Even after finding out that he had not been completely honest with Nick, the guy was still concerned about him.
"No. I mean, don't get me wrong—my gran could totally pull off the whole mob family matriarch thing, but no—it's not that kind of family business. It is a pretty big company. Totally legit. It's based right here in Chicago, actually."
With both eyebrows raised, he pressed his lips together and gave Nick a quick nod, hoping he'd pick up on his end-of-discussion body language.
"Jesus. Are you a Wrigley?"
Guess not.
John's smile broadened. "Heh, no."
Nick sat back in his seat, no longer the happy groom-to-be and held up a hand. "Well that's the only Chicago-based family business I know of."
Then he checked his watch before slipping an arm into his jacket. "Well listen. I'd better get going. First bell is in a couple of minutes."
But John still felt awful.
Here goes.
"John is my middle name, and my last name isn't really Trelawney. That's my grandmother's maiden name."
Nick froze. With his voice thick as mud, he asked, "What is it?"
John tucked his chin down and said, "Delaney."
Hunching his shoulders up, Nick frowned. "Doesn't ring a bell."
Swallowing hard, John sighed, "No, I expect it wouldn't. My family owns and operates Griffin Media."
When Nick still didn't show any signs of recognition, John prodded, "Mattie's employer?"
A deep crease formed between Nick's dark eyebrows. "She works for the Chicago Gazette."
"Which is owned by Griffin Media. Since 2009." He smiled apologetically. And still felt like a complete jerk.
Shoulda kept my mouth shut.
After a long awkward moment of silence, Nick slipped his other arm into his jacket while a grin slowly made its way from one side of his mouth to the other.
"Seriously?"
John nodded. "Seriously."
"Mattie's gonna flip when I tell her."
John splayed out his fingers on the table before him. "Absolutely not. No one can know."
"Why not?" With confusion creasing his face, Nick pressed, "Why all the secrecy?"
With another shrug and an uneasy smile, John did his best to explain without giving away any more than he had to. "Like I said, there's still one more thing I've got to do, and if my cover's blown"—he lifted his hands up and let them fall—"all bets are off. This whole exercise will have been a complete waste."
Nick lifted an eyebrow as he slid out of the booth and pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet. "I wouldn't go that far."
"What do you mean?" John asked as he did the same.
Giving him a light smack in the chest with the back of his hand, Nick replied, "We wouldn't have met."
Not knowing what to say, John gave him a bro hug, which Nick returned. "I'm sorry. My bad."
After a pause, he added, "Listen. I know it's a lot to ask—you've already done so much—but you've just gotta trust me, OK?"
Jutting his scarred chin at him, Nick asked, "For how long? I'm no good at keeping secrets, especially from Mat."
There was no mistaking the blush that ran up his neck and tinged his cheekbones.
Heh, I'll bet.
"What's the date of your wedding again?"
CHAPTER TWO
"Do one thing every day that scares you." —Eleanor Roosevelt
The next morning, Aubrey stood in the late February predawn darkness right outside of her nana's Ukrainian Village apartment building, shivering as she watched her friend Sara Cleff's scrappy little Honda approach. When she pulled up to the slushy curb, Aubrey ducked into the back seat, cursing Dianne Devane, their editor, for forcing her back on the road.
The assignment was multi-faceted. Since Sara, the music critic, had to follow some band on a tour through the Midwest, their budget-conscious editor tasked Aubrey with tagging along to report on festivals and unique travel destinations and Nancy Braley, the food editor, with tracking down culinary treasures along the way.
Fully appreciating that she did not have to fly, Aubrey refrained from complaining about being stuck in the cramped back seat. Still, with having to spend ten days crammed back there and share hotel rooms with two other women for the duration, a ride in an airplane was looking mighty good in comparison.
During the course of their character-building excursion, Aubrey managed to submit several pieces which had received mediocre reactions from her editor. For instance, she got a "possibly" on her write-up on an Amish country fair where she saw exemplary quilters in action, and managed to pick up a gorgeous sample for her nana, while her piece on eagle-watching in the St. Louis area was filled with what Dianne described as "interesting" photographs of the majestic birds in their natural habitat.
The band's last stop prior to their presumably triumphant return to Chicago was in Monroe, Wisconsin—the "Swiss Cheese Capitol of the USA." Before they headed back to Chicago, though, Aubrey asked to be dropped off at the Heidelberg Brauhaus where she had lined up a meeting with a local celebrity.
Two hours later, Aubrey was flush with guarded optimism, having scored an exclusive interview with Greta Medinger, the newly crowned Swiss Cheese Queen.
Certain it would be the centerpiece of her Midwest expedition, she just hoped it would be enough to convince Dianne that she was capable of writing hard-core, cutting-edge travel features again.
If all else fails, I can always give her the autographed beer stein.
That Aubrey didn't have to board a plane for the assignment continued to earn her appreciation.
It had been almost a year since the daring young travel writer had the misfortune of witnessing her brand new husband's untimely demise at the end of a faulty bungee cord in a remote New Zealand canyon.
During the long flight home alone, the view of the brilliant blue sea from her window seat had no longer captivated her as it used to. Instead, it had slammed home the realization that she was flying some 30,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean in what basically amounted to a tin can.
And thus began Aubrey's first ever panic attack.
It should've come as no surprise to her when Dianne had temporarily assigned her to the Entertainment section, proofing crossword puzzles and word searches—just until she was ready to hit the road again as her ace travel correspondent.
What's a ten-letter word for "potentially disruptive airline passenger"? F-L-I-G-H-T-R-I-S-K.
Knowing full well that Dianne could have fired her outright, Aubrey had acquiesced.
She had remained hidden in that temporary position as long as she could—that is, until Dianne had tasked her with the cost-saving assignment.
It wasn't until this very last day of said assignment, when Aubrey was grilling the buxom blonde lederhosen-clad heir to the Medinger bratwurst dynasty about the heady responsibilities she was about to assume as Swiss Cheese Queen, that she felt the same zip of excitement she had while careening through the icy waves of the north Atlantic with a team of tourists tagging along on a marine biology expedition.
Climbing into the back seat of Sara's Honda hatchback with a beer stein signed by Greta herself, she felt certain Dianne would agree with her.
I am so back.
She buckled her seat belt and started shifting around the contents of her overnight bag to accommodate the clunky mug. Before she could zip it back up, though, something fell to the dirty baseboard, taking her sense of euphoria with it.
Reaching down, she picked up the elegant wedding reception response card embossed with platinum edging around its beveled corners and stared at the blank space next to "Number of guests."
Her intention, well her hope really, was to write the number one in that space, but her dream date—one Malcolm Darvish—had not yet accepted. Maybe because she hadn't worked up the nerve to ask him yet. Which was OK because she still had plenty of time.
She just had to convince the bride-to-be, her friend and coworker Mattie Ross, who checked with her so frequently. Aubrey was thinking of having a sign made to hang on her cubicle wall that read, "No, I haven't asked him yet."
It certainly didn't help that Nancy thought so little of Malcolm, noting his too-short suit pants ("Maybe he's still growing?" she was fond of asking) and the way his undoubtedly imported dress shoes squeaked as he walked. She had even taken to calling him "Mr. It's-Good-to-Be-Me."
Still, her observations did little to assuage Aubrey's one-sided affections.
&nb
sp; "Ready ladies?" Sara asked as she pulled out of the Heidelberg Brauhaus's busy parking lot.
"Well, as much as I enjoyed my lesson in sausage making," Nancy announced with a shudder from the front passenger seat, "I am definitely ready to go home." Examining her hands, she murmured, "Coulda swore I had a ring on this morning."
"Nancy!" Aubrey laughed and not in a funny, ha-ha way. More like a horrified, I-hope-you're-kidding way.
Nancy waved her off with a "Whatevs" that didn't sound quite right coming out of her forty-something mouth.
Tucking the card into her purse, Aubrey made a conscious decision to not let her lack of a plus one spoil her triumphant return to travel reporting splendor. She took a peek at the selfie she took of herself and the newly crowned Cheese Queen before reminding Sara to check both ways before pulling out of the restaurant's busy parking lot.
Excitement coursing through her veins as they tooled down Highway 50 on their way back to Chicago, she thanked Sara again for driving. "Next time," she promised, "we can take my car."
It was a 1998 Volvo she inherited from her Nana Marie who willingly surrendered her driver's license after a near miss with a parking meter while picking up her beloved bichon frise from the groomer.
Good thing, too. Otherwise, Aubrey would probably still be driving her dead husband's Toyota Camry. And that would be bad, especially after finding a fuchsia thong and a condom wrapper in the glove compartment on the same day she was bringing the suit he wore for their hurried city hall ceremony to the morgue.
Everything happens for a reason.
Which is exactly why she intended to double up on her efforts to become Mrs. It's-Good-to-Be-Me.
* * *
Dianne's lukewarm reception of Aubrey's Swiss Cheese Queen interview, and pretty much everything she had submitted since then, was the only reason she found herself standing on a tiny platform that rose high above a deep gorge in the middle of Starved Rock State Park on a blustery, unseasonably warm Saturday in May.
For the fifth time in under a minute, she tugged at the strap that secured her helmet to her head just to make sure it was indeed clasped.
Flight Risk Page 2
