by Teddy Hester
The pilot nods a greeting and finishes his preflight checklist while Mick and I wrestle each other into the plane.
“You touch my ass again, and I’ll cut a few of your lines,” I threaten as Mick shoves my backside through the doorway of the Cessna specially fitted for jumpers. “Not enough to kill you, but enough to remind you to respect your elders.”
“You’re definitely my big brother,” Mick gasps, helping maneuver me against the back of the pilot’s seat with my legs straight out before me. “You need to lay off the chocolate soufflés and cappuccinos, man.”
“You really want to compare anatomy with me, little brother?”
He barks a laugh and wedges himself against the back bulkhead, legs stretched out beside mine, in the opposite direction. The plane will handle a third jumper, but as long as our legs are, it’s more comfortable with just the two of us. And since we can afford it…
We take off and are mostly lost in our own thoughts because of engine noise as the plane achieves altitude and position for our jump. When the pilot signals, Mick slides over to the door and gets on his haunches. He motions for me to line up behind him. Ready, my excitement ratchets as we wait for the pilot to let us know when to open the door. When we do, the blast of air that fills the plane is shockingly frigid.
With a grin, Mick adjusts his mask over his mouth and nose, gives me a thumbs-up and dives out of the plane. I check with the pilot. At his nod, I ignore the rational side of my brain urging me to abandon this plan, and I tumble out after Mick. The plane veers away to begin his landing approach, and I angle my body, like an arrow, for Mick, who’s spread-eagled in the air, waiting for me to catch up. I sail up to his side and spread my arms and legs to slow down my fall.
It’s so quiet up here. Forty-five seconds of utter peace, an amazing experience I never tire of. The flakes have pretty much stopped falling, but everything's white with snow out to the ocean five miles away. My earlier jumble dissipates with every foot I fall. Wonder if it could quiet the hummingbird? Is she the kind of woman who’d even try? She exuded confidence last night, sporting all those strong colors, and ignoring people’s reactions to her antics. She might be the type to enjoy something like this. I’ve never even considered asking Eleanor. She’s more the type to come home to, share some Champagne and a nice dinner with.
Mick pops his chute. The honeycombed rectangle unfurls as I follow suit, easing us out of freefall, calling for more attention from us. He hot-dogs around, but I use the steering toggles to maneuver toward the drop zone where I see a Jeep waiting. I’ve done enough jumps with Mick to be able to judge the distances and do the math to glide right to the spot. With his smaller, more maneuverable chute, Mick’s more like a ballerina in the air, twirling and twisting through the fall. At the last minute, he straightens out and touches down like dew on a flower petal.
Damn. That makes me think of that woman again. I land with a sigh and begin to drag the Kevlar toward myself so I can gather it in my arms and carry it on the Jeep back to the airport.
Mick’s laughing as he jogs over to me, carrying his chute. “Go again?” he asks.
“No, these chutes are too wet to pack.”
“I had a guy pack us a couple more. They’re back at the airport. But that’s not the real problem, is it?”
I climb into the Jeep and greet the driver. “What do you mean?”
Mick gets in, and we zoom away. “Where’s your head, man? You were lost in your own little world up there. We usually chase each other across the sky.”
“I have a few things on my mind.”
He scoffs. “I’ve never known you to get distracted about business.”
I send him my best “leave it alone” glare.
Which makes him laugh in my face. “That looks like woman trouble. Let’s go find some coffee and talk about her.”
*****
“That’s right. Yuck it up, flyboy,” I mutter, casting a glance around the coffee shop near my office to see if anyone else is witnessing my embarrassment at Mick’s guffaws at my expense. Fortunately, it’s busy, with people coming in or leaving, doing their coffee pick-up thing.
I don’t think anyone listens or cares what my idiot brother is saying. Of all my brothers, why did I mention the hummingbird or our shared antics to the King of Twat?
Mick restrains himself enough to say, “I was just getting used to the idea of welcoming Eleanor into the family.”
I almost choke on my Americana roast. “Really?”
“Sort of. After a year of dating, isn’t it headed that way?”
That it even pops into his mind panics me. “Do you think she thinks so?”
His wide, toothy grin reminds me of the Cheshire cat in the Alice in Wonderland cartoon movie we used to watch as kids. “Women often do, I’m told.”
“Seriously. We see each other sporadically. We’ve never even been exclusive.”
Mick shrugs. “Women are nesters.”
Imagining what kind of nest the hummingbird might live in makes me smile. Filled with multicolored bric-a-brac, no doubt, looking like a cyclone just blew through. “What would a harem master like you know about women’s nesting habits? You don’t keep ‘em around long enough to find out.”
“It’s one of the main reasons to keep a harem. That, and I like to keep things…lively.”
That conjures up an entirely different set of mental images with the hummingbird. Her inability to be still for half a minute could come in handy in certain situations…as could teaching her the power of stillness…
“Yeeaah. What’s that look for?” Mick asks.
I’m saved from answering by a minor disturbance near the order counter. Two women, one blonde, the other brunette, both dressed for the office, appear to be wiping coffee off each other’s chests. Fortunately, it diverts attention away from me.
“Oh, man,” Mick exclaims. “I think they need our help, don’t you?”
I snort in disgust. “Exactly how young are you—” I start to ask, knowing full well he’s only two years younger than I am.
But something catches my eye. “Hey, wait. I think that’s my hummingbird!” My chair scrapes the floor when I jump to my feet.
What’s she doing here? Does she work around here? No. Surely I would have noticed her.
Mick’s gaze flicks to me, then back to the kerfuffle. “The blonde or the brunette? They’re both knockouts. You take yours, and I’ll take the other. Which one’s yours?”
“The brunette,” I answer automatically, then grimace at him. “Grow up.” I take a stride in the women’s direction. It would be nice if I could find out her name so I wouldn’t have to call her “the brunette” or “hummingbird” all the time. But I don’t get two steps before my phone vibrates. A quick look tells me it’s Tom, and I know I need to take this call.
Hummingbird drops something in the contest jar as I answer my phone. “Tom, good to hear from you. I’m out of the office at the moment. Can I call you back in ten?”
He launches into a spiel that I’m not registering, because just then, she and her blonde friend turn toward the doorway. Hummingbird’s eyes, as vivid blue as I recall, flit across me on her way out, but I don’t read recognition in them.
That’s a disappointment. I could have sworn there’d been a connection last night.
Mick points at her exiting the shop, and he’s laughing at me. Again. “Man, are you sure that’s your girl? It’s like she didn’t even know you exist.”
Thanks, asshole, I got that message loud and clear without you.
“She’s not my girl.” And it’s probably just as well. She’s a walking disaster. Trouble travels with her, and what guy in his right mind would want to deal with that? She’s off-the-charts high-maintenance. I have enough on my plate without adding her drama to it.
Nevertheless, my feet don’t consult me before they switch directions to the contest bowl. It’s filled with business cards for a drawing. Although there are dozens of cards in the bowl, the
re’s little doubt which one’s hers. Drenched in color and abstract tessellations worthy of Robert Delaunay, Avant-Garde Advertising in gold metallic slashes across the face of one. And below, in shiny black and candy-apple red is a name: Clementine Waiteberry, Proprietor.
Holy shit, it’s him. He’s here!
Wait. There are two of him?
No. There’s a definite family resemblance, but one’s too cocky to be the guy from last night. The other one, though, all in black? Did I really think he was a stuffed shirt? The way he’s filling out his skin-tight T-shirt and low-slung jeans gives new meaning to the term. And look at those purple-rimmed sunglasses hanging from the neck of his tee.
Hot damn. David Gandy should be here, taking pointers.
This is the guy who nearly flipped me out at the concert, making me screech to a complete stop, maybe for the first time in my whole life.
And here I am, making an ass of myself in public again. And now stained, to boot.
Wonderful.
Never mind that I own a successful advertising agency, that I’m a mover and shaker in the region, active in all sorts of endeavors, with contacts and networking galore. Oh, no. To him I’ll probably always be the woman who interrupted a concert with her monster purse and caused a wreck in the coffee shop by slamming into my friend, splashing coffee on both of us. All because I wanted to enter that giveaway for a month’s worth of free coffee.
Juliette and I just laughed about it as we mopped each other up.
Until I saw him.
Then I was lucky not to drop the rest of my cup.
Now I clench my eyes tight. Please, God, get me out of here with no more commotion.
Grabbing Juliette by the hand, I drag us out of the shop as quickly as I can, heading back to her shop, Sophisticated Events.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, juggling her cup, trying to slide on the cuff as we dash away.
“It was him,” I hiss, as though he can hear me while he’s still in the coffeehouse.
“Him who?”
“The guy from last night.”
Juliette tugs on my hand, forcing me to slow down my power walk. “The guy at the concert? The one you wish your models were more similar to? What’s he doing here? Stop. I have to see what he looks like.”
Oh, yeah, like that won’t draw any attention. “No, you don’t. He’s not important. Forget about him. I plan to.”
“Right. Forget about the first person on the face of the planet who kicked you out of your breakneck race through life? I don’t think so.”
She looks toward the coffee shop, taking a sip from her cup. As we stand there, the two men exit. I drag Juliette off the sidewalk, trying to hide.
Rolling her eyes at me, she asks, “Which one is he?”
“The one on the phone.”
We both bury our noses in our cups and peek over the rim.
“He’s really nice-looking, Cleo. You sure you want to let him off the hook?”
“I don’t even know his name, Jules. A guy like that probably isn’t even single. He was with another woman, remember.”
Juliette cocks her platinum blonde head at me. “We could follow them. See where they go. See if somebody there knows them.”
I rear back to stare incredulously at my prim and proper friend. “Since when did you go all Nancy Drew on me?” I’m not going to tell her I was thinking the same thing.
Her laughter is like little bells. Juliette is such a girly-girl, it’s a mystery we ever became best friends. She takes my free hand and gives it a little squeeze. “I don’t think Rodney is right for you.”
No duh. “Then you’ll be glad to know I broke things off with him last night.”
Juliette’s gray-green eyes go big and round. “After Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected?”
I drop her hand like it’s a dead fish. “Cute. Bitch.”
She smiles sweetly. “But am I right?”
“Maybe.” My sigh is monumental.
“Thought so. Let me go find out who he is, Cleo. I’ll be discrete.”
I’m about to acquiesce and tell her I’ll go, but in our short conversation, the guys have disappeared.
Juliette and I turn our gaze on each other, and she gives me her ladylike smirk, which pinches her pink lips into something between a moue and a half-smile. It should be god-awful, and on anyone else it probably would be.
“So, now, instead of a new relationship,” she says, “we’ll be talking about the one that got away.”
Dammit.
A second opportunity to meet this captivating guy. I’ve muffed it twice. Of course last night, on dates with other people, the timing wasn’t right. But today? Why did I run? I can’t remember the last time I ran from something. Especially something that intrigues me.
Especially after seeing him in the light. In ass-hugging jeans. Wonder what he does for a living?
Second chances are rare enough. It’s ridiculous to wonder whether or not there might someday be a third.
I’m not used to living with regrets. But right now, I’m so far out of my comfort zone, I don’t know which end is up.
It’s probably just as well he got away. The way he twists me up, what woman in her right mind would want to deal with something like that on a daily basis? I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.
So, bye-bye, stuffed shirt.
I square my shoulders, feeling better.
Yeah, it’s all good.
“Okay, Juliette, so let’s talk about my impressions of the concert hall you forced me to check out last night. Have you been in there recently?”
CHAPTER 3
My fifth-floor office at DePaul Investment, Inc. is a haven. From my substantial walnut desk to the tobacco leather sofa that sits on nubby, caramel carpeting, it’s a den of tranquility. And for tense financial moments, a wall of windows to the right of my desk provides a calming panorama of the Atlantic Ocean. I’ve been letting it ground me for the last half-hour.
Closing the folder on the contents we’ve been discussing, I study the two men sitting across my glass conference table and tap the flimsy cardboard cover. My friend, Tom, a history professor at the local college, is in jeans and a predictable green tweed sports jacket. His brother-in-law, Eldon, a contractor, sits comfortably, his long body in jeans and a non-descript black sweater.
“Tom, I like the ideas and figures I see so far. You’ve put a lot of thought and time into them. But my honest reaction is that you’re biting off more than you want to chew.”
Yeah, sorry, dude. Your baby’s kinda ugly and nobody else will tell you.
I don’t enjoy saying it. But hard truths are part of what my clients expect from me.
Tom exchanges glances with Eldon, then displaying teeth as startlingly white as a toothpaste commercial, he grins through his sleek brown beard. “I expect my financial advisor to be conservative, so that’s no surprise.”
Tom sounds much too blasé. He’s even checking his watch like he’s done and has someplace else to be. Well, he may think everything’s decided and everybody’s on board, but he’s dead wrong. Maybe a little shock treatment will get through to him. “It’ll take at least ten million to bring her back to full glory. I’m not sure you have any idea what kind of commitment that is.”
He dips his head. “Twelve million, actually, and, yes, I understand the commitment.” Leaning forward, his earnest face shines with intensity. “Tony, the Regal Theatre has been in my wife’s family for three generations. It’s part of her family history. Someday we hope it will be part of our children’s history. I can’t let the city condemn it and tear it down or sell it off to make apartments or shops. Our community is large enough to support a concert hall. The people need this.”
Good Lord, he’s talking about saddling his unborn children with this behemoth? I’ve seen my father make sacrifices for Mammina. But they were more on the scale of not buying a fishing boat one summer so she could have a new SUV to haul us kids around in. And we were never going to have
to pay for that SUV or its upkeep later in life.
I reach for the coffee carafe Mom bought and pour myself a cup, gesturing for the others to follow suit. “I understand your emotional connection to the project, Tom. But let’s talk business plan.”
He ignores the coffee, but passes the carafe to Eldon. “Well, you’re my accountant and financial consultant. Isn’t that something you’ll help with?”
“Yes, but my time is limited.” In fact, I have two, more viable, projects on my desk for evaluation right now. I briefly consider passing Tom’s job onto a junior associate, then feel like a heel. “Eldon, you’ve been awfully quiet. What’s your take?”
Eldon’s leathery brown skin appears to have seen too much sun in its forty-odd years, and his flinty eyes have seen just as much of everything else. His reputation in the field is strong, and he gives off a vibe that warns others nothing much is gonna get past him. “There’s work to do. Nothing that can’t be handled.”
“You have the time for a project this size?”
He looks me square in the eye. “I’ll make time.”
With a nod, I push back from the table and walk over to the window. My thoughts need some space.
Not much snow left here in downtown, with all the foot and vehicle traffic. On a corner, a couple of blocks away, I can see part of the majestic old Regal Theater with its domed roof like a miniature Hagia Sophia. Losing it would change the look of the city. Restoring it might trigger an urban renaissance, a reaffirmation of the town’s Southern heritage.
“Tell me something, Tony.” I turn at Tom’s voice, coffee cup in hand. He relaxes back against the chair and strokes his beard. “How’d it feel, being there the other night? Did you enjoy it?”
Rainbow sequins and a pert bob flit through my mind’s eye, along with the exhilarating challenge of that vibrant woman calming at my touch. My hand suddenly tingles, remembering the feel of it around her arm. Adding delicate scent and trim backside into the mix makes me realize I’m not coming from a particularly professional state of mind any more than Tom is. “I found it…intriguing.”
