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  FLIGHT RISK

  by

  BARBARA VALENTIN

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  Copyright © 2016 by Barbara Valentin

  Cover design by Estrella Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To my boys for reminding me complacency is bad, courage good.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First, for helping me figure out the best place to start this story, I need to thank my Christopher, future best-selling novelist/playwright.

  Second, for sharing the details of their skydiving accounts (because I'm way too much of a chicken), I'd like to extend my heartfelt thanks to Robert, my eldest son who was wise enough to not tell me he had actually jumped out of an airplane until after he landed safely, and Dan Rose, my day-job colleague who spent a good chunk of time detailing his encounters with parachutes and all things airborne.

  Third, I need to thank my train pals for their unwavering support, understanding that when my laptop's open I should not/cannot chat, providing on-the-spot feedback for name choices and plot points, attending my signings, buying my books, and most especially for reminding me that the day will come when I won't need to commute to a day job anymore.

  Lastly, I'd like to give a big shout-out to my small but mighty team of beta readers: Marlene Kasten, Marybeth Kasten, Mary Beth Wise, Nancy Wise, and Elaine Balling for their candid, constructive feedback. You guys are the best!

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  "The scariest moment is always just before you start." —Stephen King

  Dear Plate Spinner— I have never written a letter like this in my life…

  Claire Mendez, aka the Plate Spinner advice columnist for the Chicago Gazette and recipient of the snail mail letter, rolled her eyes, let out a loud yawn, and grumbled, "How original."

  The black decaf she sipped from her oversized mug, emblazoned with "Mom's Sippy Cup" did little to rouse her concentration. Still, she kept reading.

  …but I'm at my wits end. It's about my grandson. Over a year ago, we quarreled…

  "Quarreled? Now that's a word you don't hear every day," Claire thought to herself.

  …during the reading of my son's will…

  "Oh."

  Claire sat up in her chair and examined the cream-colored envelope. The grain of the weighty stock was high quality, similar to that of a wedding invitation. No surprise given that the return address was for a house on North State Street.

  The Gold Coast.

  The top of the letter was engraved with initials A.T.D., and the handwriting itself was beyond elegant.

  She kept reading.

  …which included a clause mandating that in order to inherit his share of the estate and assume leadership of our family business, my grandson must marry by his 30th birthday.

  Claire's eyebrows shot up. "How medieval."

  In hindsight, the inclusion of this clause seems entirely reasonable, especially considering my grandson's carefree and, at times, reckless lifestyle. However, he would have none of it—even after our attorney verified its legality and reaffirmed that he will lose all claim to his share of the estate should he chose not to fulfill it. Sadly, the very next day, my grandson began some ridiculous vow of poverty. Aside from periodic updates I receive from my driver who I have tasked with keeping tabs on him, I haven't spoken to my grandson since.

  Assuming her driver lost track of him, Claire thought of her close friend Mattie Ross who she had replaced when Mattie moved into an investigative reporter role at the Gazette and muttered, "This probably should've gone to her instead."

  But that wasn't what the letter writer needed. The next sentence read: How can I get this dear stubborn child, who turns thirty in just a few months, to see reason?

  "Oh boy," she whispered before clenching her jaw into a tight grin. "Ya got me."

  Relatively new to the whole advice columnist gig, the requests Claire had received to date had more to do with maintaining work-life balance, child-rearing, and even some marriage counseling. How to get a stubborn, entitled adult to see reason was a first.

  As she usually did before venturing into unchartered territory, she tried picturing one of her boys doing something similar. She thought of her eldest son, a high school freshman, and did her best to imagine him running away from home after refusing to comply with a mandate handed down by her husband. With some kind of fortune hanging in the balance.

  She propped her elbows on her desk and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  Need caffeine.

  Sitting back in her chair, she closed her eyes and rubbed her baby bump, as if it was a harbinger of good luck.

  Come on, baby. Momma's gotta get this one right.

  After a few seconds her eyes popped open.

  I've got it.

  "What if," she thought to herself, "Paul promised to get Luke a brand new car on his 16th birthday, but he would only hand over the keys if Luke agreed to take his cousin Elise to her prom?"

  She thought for a minute.

  "No, that wouldn't work. Even though he can't stand her, for a new car, he'd take her in a heartbeat."

  This is gonna be harder than I thought.

  She reread the letter, hoping against hope that the grandmother wasn't referring to her grandson's sexual orientation when she described his lifestyle as "reckless."

  Taking another swig of her coffee and cursing its lack of mind-clearing powers, she tried putting herself in the grandson's shoes.

  Why would I be willing to take a pass on a fortune just because I didn't want to get married?

  Her mind drifted to the combative environment she herself grew up in with her parents staying God-knows-why in their loveless marriage.

  Of course.

  Claire's hands started flying over the keyboard. Dear Wit-less—That your grandson is willing to forego his entire fortune instead of getting married tells me that he has not been raised in the presence of happily married people. Trust me. I know of which I speak. Seeing as I am a firm believer in the power of true love, I propose (pun intended) that he just hasn't found the right partner yet. As such, he is choosing solitude over material wealth, no matter the cost. That being said, unless you can find a way to either expose him to loving married couples (and fast) so he can see what he will be missing out on or somehow find his perfect match and throw her (or him) in his path, it's safe to say that the bottom line of your family business will enjoy a significant bump in the coming months.

  She had no sooner typed up the original letter to include in her next column than she heard someone clearing their voice behind her. "Excuse me, Claire. Do you have a min
ute?"

  * * *

  Aubrey Thomas, a staff writer for the Travel section, sank into Claire's guest chair. "You missed Lester's big town hall meeting this morning."

  Claire spun around to face her, her eyes wide with surprise. "Yeah, I had a doctor's appointment. Dianne said she'd fill me in later."

  As she always did, Aubrey shuddered at the sound of Dianne Devane's name. Perhaps because the unflappable editor had made it a point of telling Aubrey on her first day at the Gazette that she was forced to hire her against her will.

  Shaking off the disturbing memory, Aubrey replied, "You didn't miss much. The paper's losing money, blah, blah, blah. Same old story."

  Claire took her coffee mug in her hands and nodded. "No layoff announcements, I hope?"

  "Truth be told," Aubrey sighed, "I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention."

  Her focus was entirely on one Malcolm Darvish, financial whiz kid for Griffin Media and, if Aubrey had her way, her future husband.

  "Oh?" The advice columnist studied the young widow. "Was Malcolm there?"

  Aubrey, feeling her entire body flush crimson, nodded. Her friend saw right through her. Again.

  With a grin spreading over her face, Claire asked, "And is it safe to assume that you were thinking about more important things like china patterns and baby names?"

  Aubrey's attempt to rationalize her foray into fantasy sounded lamer with each word that left her mouth. "Ever since Mattie asked me to stand up in her and Nick's wedding, I, well you know, I've been thinking about"—her eyes latched onto Claire's—"how I don't want to grow old alone."

  Claire pressed her mouth into an understanding smile. "Sure."

  "Besides," Aubrey continued, "he's the only decent looking guy in the entire building."

  With a cough, Claire responded, "You mean besides that new guy up in Accounting, right?"

  Head smack.

  "Of course. I meant besides your husband."

  Then she couldn't help but blurt. "Oh my God, Claire. That's brilliant. They work in the same department. Paul must know Malcolm. Think he could introduce me?"

  With a nod, Claire responded, "I can ask." Then after a minute, she added, "But I really think it would be better if you did it yourself, sweetie. That way it wouldn't seem so set up, you know?"

  As apprehensive as she was, Aubrey knew Claire was right. She took a deep breath through her nostrils and exhaled, "It's just the more nervous I get about losing my job, the more appealing he becomes, ya know?"

  Claire looked confused. "No, actually I don't."

  Malcolm, who Aubrey had researched as thoroughly as a journalist could, was a well-educated, well-off accountant who somehow always managed to look like a star quarterback who had walked straight from the field and into a perfectly tailored business suit—and was the living embodiment of everything her first husband wasn't.

  Ergo, he was perfect for her.

  Aubrey tried to verbalize her rationalization without sounding too shallow. "There's just something about him," she started. "I can't put my finger on it, but he just oozes competence. And stability."

  Breaking into a chuckle, her friend murmured, "Yes, security can be very sexy."

  Aubrey flinched. "OK, so maybe it's a little weird for someone my age to want security over other things like, you know, love, but I've been there, done that, and have nothing to show for it but a bruised heart and a chip on my shoulder the size of the John Hancock building."

  Lowering her voice, she added, "And that's never going to go away because the guy who put it there is"—she looked away before finishing—"pushing up daisies."

  Aubrey hated playing the pathetic widow card, but it was true. She was a widow, and she did feel pathetic.

  Claire reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, Aubs."

  With a half smile Aubrey took another deep breath and continued with her story. "Well, anyway, when the meeting was done, I had worked up the nerve to introduce myself to Malcolm and ask him to the wedding."

  Claire sucked in a breath. "Oh, you didn't, did you? Ask him to the wedding, I mean."

  Aubrey stiffened. "Uh, well, no. Why?"

  Her friend was visibly relieved. "It's a terrible a place to have a first date. Witnessing someone getting…you know, married and everything…it can be very awkward."

  Feeling a tad deflated, Aubrey grimaced. "I hadn't thought of it like that. I was looking at it more like prom for grownups."

  Claire offered a feeble grin. "Well, yeah, it's that, too." Then she shrugged and added, "But it's still a couple of months away. In the meantime, maybe you should just ask him to meet you for drinks. Or coffee. Or lunch. Whatever you're comfortable with."

  Each idea left Aubrey's head spinning. Drinks with someone like Malcolm who, rumor had it, lived in a brand-new luxury condo right on the Chicago River would mean going to a high-end bar. Someplace fancy. Really expensive.

  So scratch that.

  Coffee? That could work. Maybe arrange to meet at Chez Doug's. The only problem there would be running into her friend Nancy, a food editor at the Gazette who a) did not like Malcolm and b) lusted after Chez Doug's namesake proprietor.

  Too risky.

  That left lunch. Casual. Everybody eats it, and their office was in close proximity to a plethora of affordable dining options.

  Lunch it is.

  Giving her head a quick shake, Aubrey tucked her thick butter-blonde hair back behind her ears. "OK, great idea. That's what I'll do."

  "Whoa, back up." With a frown Claire asked, "So how come you didn't introduce yourself after the meeting?"

  Aubrey pressed her lips together and slowly shook her head. "It wasn't for lack of trying. I couldn't think of a way of introducing myself without coming off like a fourteen-year-old asking Justin Bieber for his autograph."

  With a shudder, the advice columnist announced, "I wouldn't let my fourteen-year-old within an arm's length of that guy."

  Aubrey gave her head another quick shake. "Never mind. But then I saw Lester."

  All Aubrey really knew of the Gazette's publisher was that Mattie thought enough of him to ask him to give her away at her wedding.

  "So I'm thinking game on, right? All I had to do was introduce myself as a member of the wedding party and then turn to Malcolm and ask him if he'd like to go. With me."

  Claire leaned forward again as much as she could, given her expanding midsection.

  "So what happened?"

  "Well, I walked right up to Lester, and he asked, 'Yes?'" Aubrey's impression of the high-ranking executive prompted a laugh from Claire.

  "And that's when Malcolm looked right at me. I was actually in his line of vision, and all I wanted to do was throw my arms around him and tell him how much I want to be his love slave."

  Unable to maintain the levity of their conversation, her shoulders slumped. "Then it started."

  Claire's face fell. "Panic attack?"

  Aubrey met her friend's sympathetic gaze and shook her head. "No, not a full-blown one, but still, shortness of breath, sweaty palms. Meanwhile, Malcolm is still staring at me with this look on his face—"

  "Like you're the most adorable thing he's ever laid eyes on?"

  With a rueful laugh, Aubrey replied, "No. More like 'What the hell is wrong with you?'" She hung her head. "It was a disaster."

  After a moment she sat back up determined to wrap up the painful course of her failed attempt at an introduction. "Anyway, so Malcolm leaves, and I say, out loud mind you, 'I'm in love with you. Please go to the wedding with me.' Then, I hear Lester say, 'Oh, uh thank you, but I'll be taking my wife.'"

  Claire, seeing the comedy in the situation, indulged in a loud laugh, and Aubrey couldn't help but join her. "I know, right? Oh my God," she groaned, "I couldn't get out of there fast enough."

  After she composed herself, she pointed to a picture of Claire and her husband dressed to the nines at a gala the Gazette had sponsored before the holidays and sighed, "I don't suppose Paul has a
brother…?"

  Claire smiled. "Sorry. No. But don't give up on Malcolm just yet. Ask him out to lunch. Tell him, I don't know, that you want to better understand the impact of the travel department's budget on the Lifestyle section's overall spending."

  Aubrey just stared for a moment, letting Claire's corporate speak sink in. "I keep forgetting you used to be a manager at a software company."

  "Heh. Old habits die hard."

  In a much brighter voice, Claire added, "And if worse comes to worst, you can always ride with me and Paul to the wedding and reception."

  Aubrey hedged. Being a third wheel to Claire and her doting husband, both of whom were also in the wedding party, was not exactly what she had in mind. She'd much rather ride with Malcolm in his—well, she didn't know what kind of car he drove, but she was sure it must be really expensive.

  Pointing to the imminent addition to her already large brood of boys, Claire added, "And don't forget—if you come with us, you've got an automatic designated driver right here. You can get totally smashed if you want to."

  Scrunching her face into a tentative smile, Aubrey asked, "Thanks. Can I let you know?"

  "Absolutely."

  Checking the time on her phone, she exclaimed, "Oh, shoot. I'd better run. Thanks again, Claire."

  Just as Aubrey stepped foot out of Claire's cube, she heard the advice columnist deliver one last bit of advice. "Remember, Aubs. Everything happens for a reason."

  * * *

  John Trelawney looked up from his half eaten stack of pancakes.

  "Oh, wow. Are you serious?"

  When his buddy Nick DeRosa had invited him to breakfast, it was on the premise of catching up since they hadn't seen each other for a while. The last thing he expected Nick to do was ask him to be a groomsman in his wedding.