Wide Blue Yonder - Beth Stafford (the reading list TXT) 📗

message on his pager.
    Len continued his raving, his voice intermittently disturbed by his furious gum-chewing. But Hugh wasn’t listening. He’d never concerned himself with making idle conversation with cabbies, especially not ones as irate as Len Bateman.
    Hugh’s mobile phone thrummed in his briefcase, cutting off Len’s rant. But Hugh didn’t bother answering it. He knew who it would be, who it always was; his wife. And considering the already stressful meeting he was on his way to, he couldn’t quite bear putting up with his wife’s nagging as well. Whatever she had to moan about could wait. Besides, he could probably guess. You’re never home on time. You don’t spend enough time with the kids. I never get to see you anymore.
   Hugh shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The ringing subsided, the third call of the morning. It wasn’t that Hugh was uncaring, or that he’d fallen out of love with his wife. Quite the opposite. He loathed working late at the office, selling his soul to the CEO in the hopes of a promotion, or maybe even a simple pay-rise. He extracted his wallet from his briefcase, sliding out the picture of his two children from the front pocket. He’d missed just about every important milestone in both of their lives; first words, first steps, first tooth, first tantrum. He’d missed it all, and he hated himself for it every day. In fact, it was his daughter’s gymnastics try-out tonight. He’d promised her he’d be there, but in his heart of hearts he knew he wouldn’t. And, for the umpteenth time in his life, he’d have to see that bitter disappointment flood her face, and he’d have to explain why he couldn’t be around like all the other daddies.
    They’d understand one day, he knew. When they were old enough to appreciate the sacrifices he made to make their lives comfortable—to send them to the best schools, to be able to afford braces for them both, to set up college funds for respectable colleges. In short, everything he’d never had. And if that meant he didn’t get to see them as often as he’d like, so be it. In his opinion, happiness was unattainable without the resources to pay for it.
    “That’ll be $13.25.” Len was looking at him expectantly, still chewing on his gum in the same fashion a cow chews grass.
    Hugh fumbled a twenty from his wallet and pressed it into Len’s palm. “Keep the change,” he said, gathering his suitcase and stepping from the cab.
    Hugh breezed through the plaza, an instrumental of John Lennon’s Imagine playing as he made his way toward the lobby. He nodded politely at a few of the security guards, before thumbing the button for the elevator.
    Tyra Thornberg’s heels clattered through the lobby, reverberating off the walls. She came to a stop beside Hugh, panting slightly.
    “You’re sure in a hurry,” Hugh observed, flashing Tyra a whimsical smile.
    Tyra’s cheeks flushed. “Just a little. I have an interview up on Windows.”
    “Ah, I have a meeting up there this morning. Guess we’re going straight up.”
    Tyra and Hugh smiled at one another for a moment, before the elevator sighed open before them. They stepped in side-by-side, and Hugh punched the key for the 78th floor’s sky lobby.
    A voice crackled over the loud-speaker, informing Tyra and Hugh of the speed in which the elevator was traveling, among other menial facts. The two didn’t speak.
    At the sky lobby, Tyra paused for a moment to take in the awe-inspiring view of Manhattan sprawled out below like a carpet. She joined Hugh in the next elevator, going straight up to the 107th floor.
    Once the elevator had released them, Tyra gave a polite nod to Hugh before rushing off to find Dexter Martin. She found him sitting in a booth in the middle of a restaurant, considering a folder before him with a look of steely concentration on his face. Tyra shook his hand over-enthusiastically, before settling in for their interview. Dexter Martin didn’t even notice she was late.
    On the other side of the restaurant, Hugh found his entourage seated around a large circular table, some sipping at orange juice or taking tentative bites from buttered toast.
    Behind him, the elevator opened once more, this time to admit Nancy Carver, Alec Goodman and Sarah Mahoney into the restaurant. Nancy was picking at the dried porridge on her sleeve as she took a seat next to Hugh, mumbling a quiet hello. She didn’t make eye contact with any of the men at the table, choosing instead to drink her coffee in silence.
    Alec and Sarah took a seat by the window, picking up their menus to inspect them. Alec had determined his cornflakes to be non-sufficient, deciding that a decent breakfast would ensure a successful merger in the coming afternoon.
    “You know what, you’ve really got me craving pancakes,” he whispered to Sarah, eying the menu. “Maybe you’ll have to make breakfast from now on.”
     “Aw, you know they’ll be more delicious here,” Sarah said. “Besides, isn’t it nice having breakfast at a place like this, just the two of us?”
    “Yeah, I suppose it is,” Alec reached out for Sarah’s hand, planting a kiss on her lithe fingers.
    “I’m just going to go get a glass of water,” Sarah said, rising to her feet.
    She made her way to the jug of chilled water, sitting on a trolley near the window. Something made her look up, an empty cup clasped in her hand. She saw the Hudson river snaking away in the distance, and seemingly mimicking the curve of the river was an American Airlines jet. The watch on her wrist read 8:46am.
    “That plane’s flying awfully low,” Sarah muttered, leaning over the trolley and pressing a splayed hand against the glass.
    She watched as the plane crested toward her, its shadow flickering on the street below. Panic rose in her throat, catching there. “That plane is flying way too low.” Imprint

Publication Date: 06-05-2012

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