Matchmaer 09: September

Brooklyn

I sat at my desk listening to the phone trill in my year. After a moment there was a click and then a rich, cultured voice with just a hint of a British accent spoke. "Roger Bentley."

"Mr. Bentley, Brooklyn Lancaster."

"Ms. Lancaster. So good to hear from you again."

"I need your confirmation to lock in your reservations. I've tentatively reserved you a cabin in Sugarloaf for the month of September. That's about twenty minutes west of Boulder and just within the maximum distance from the airport you requested. You're sure you don't want me to make your travel arrangements?"

"Quite sure. What days?"

"We're a little crunched on time, but I have you scheduled from August thirty-first through September thirtieth. I can adjust that a little if you like. We can't slide it too far back because the cabins are quickly becoming booked with winter skiers, and pulling it forward more than a couple of days will run us out of time to make the arrangements, but I can shift it a few days if necessary. Will arriving August thirty-first give you enough time to prepare for your trip?"

"That's about ten days out?" he asked before a brief pause. "Yes. That's perfect. Plenty of time. Does it work for my companion?"

I nodded even though he couldn't see me. "Yes. Since you had such specific instructions, I factored that into the selection process."

"Great. Then we're all set, yes?"

"I believe so. Now that you've approved the plan, I'll get in touch with Azumi and let her know."

"Azumi? Interesting name. First or last?"

I smiled. "First. An interesting name for an interesting woman. I think you'll find her most agreeable."

"With your references, I trust you implicitly," he said, his smile clear in his voice.

"Thank you. Let me get these plans locked. I'll be back in touch with you within a few days with the final details."

"Thank you, Ms. Lancaster. I'm looking forward to hearing from you."

I hung up the phone and immediately redialed. After five minutes of conversation, I had Roger and Azumi's cabin booked. I had to pay a premium for the last week in September, but Roger was

insistent

that he had to be in Boulder the first week in September. If his companion wanted to join him there during that time, he would welcome her, but if that wouldn't work for her, he wouldn't be able to engage my services for at least a year.

I had a nagging feeling Roger wasn't telling me everything, that there was some piece of information he was withholding, but I couldn't figure out what it was. He was agreeable to nearly anything, as long as he was in Boulder, Colorado, September third through September eighth.

I shook my head. It was none of my business. My job was to find him a companion and facilitate a meeting. I tried to match the client and companion's wants and desires, and this was no different than someone wanting to go skiing in the winter or surfing in the summer. What happened after that was up to my client and his or her companion. Azumi was excited to see the Rocky Mountains, and a chance to see snow, so the timing wasn't an issue.

I glanced at my clock. It was just after four p.m. here in Chicago. Azumi should be able to accept my call. I dialed and waited while my phone purred.

"Azumi."

"Ms. Mah. Brooklyn Lancaster. Good news. Everything is scheduled."

"That's great! Still for the month of September?"

"Yes. You'll be flying into Boulder on Saturday, September first. I'll have a car waiting to pick you up."

"And I don't have to buy new clothes?"

"No. I'll take care of everything, but pack a few warm things for when you arrive."

"I'll do the best I can. It's not like we get a lot of cold weather here, you know."

I snickered. "I can guess."

"I'm so excited! I hope I get to see some snow!"

I smiled. I much preferred Azumi's exuberance to Roger's Zen-like calm. It made him hard to read in person, and more so over the phone. "I can't promise, but I suspect you'll see some before you leave, especially at the higher elevations."

"That's great! I want to build a snowman so I can check that off my bucket list."

I smiled. "If you do, send me a picture."

"Count on it! So, what's next?"

"Now, you make sure your affairs are in order so you can leave. You can be ready to leave the first day of September?"

"Yes. No problem. I've been clearing my calendar."

"Okay, great. I'll send you a first-class ticket in a few days. A car will pick you up and take you to the airport. The packet with your ticket will include all the itinerary information you need. Simply be ready."

"And Roger will buy me new clothes to deal with the cold when I arrive?"

"Yes. It's part of the package. When I say, 'all-expenses paid,' that's what I mean."

"It hardly seems fair, though."

"Trust me, Ms. Mah, the cost of your clothing is nothing compared to what Roger is spending simply to arrange this meeting. Unless you object on principle, my suggestion is to not worry about it. When I spoke with Roger, I explained to him how he may have to provide suitable clothing. He had no issue with the idea."

Azumi sighed. "Okay. This is all so... strange. I've never been in this situation before."

"Few have, Ms. Mah."

"Okay," Azumi said, her enthusiasm returning to voice. "I'm getting excited at the prospect."

"Good. That's what I want to hear. Because all of this is a little rushed, if you don't have the itinerary and ticket by Wednesday, contact me so I can track down what went wrong."

"Got it!"

"Excellent. Enjoy your vacation, Ms. Mah."

"I plan to!"

"That's the right attitude. If you have any questions or problems, please feel free to contact me at any time."

"I will." Azumi paused, and I could sense there was more she wanted to say. "And Ms. Lancaster... thank you for selecting me."

"You're quite welcome, Ms. Mah. I think you and Roger are going to get along very well."

"I hope so. I hope he likes me. It would be such a waste of time and money if he doesn't."

I smiled. "Yes, but remember, this works both ways. You always have the option of leaving at any time, no questions asked. Simply call the number that will be included in the information packet for a car and present the return ticket at the airport."

"I understand. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Anything else?"

"No."

"Expect your ticket and flight information in a couple of days and enjoy your trip."

"I will."

I hung up the phone and rocked back in my chair as I smiled to myself. Roger said he was looking for someone with a zest for life. During my interviews with him, Roger was so calm and reserved I hoped he understood what he was asking for. Azumi always bubbled over with enthusiasm, so full of life she couldn't contain it.

I'd really stretched for this client, reaching far out on the limb where the best fruit was always found. They were going to be like oil and vinegar. They wouldn't readily combine, but when mixed with a little spice, they could form something new and wonderful. I just hoped that Roger, especially, understood that occasional remixing would be required to maintain what I hoped they discovered.

.

.

.

Roger

I applied pressure to the torque wrench until it beeped, indicating the bolt was tightened to the proper specification. That was the last bolt. I removed the wrench from the opening and snapped the cover closed over the spar attachment point, making sure it was properly secured before I scrambled up from lying my back on the cold, hard concrete floor. I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. I still had plenty of time to make it to DEN to pick up Azumi.

After yesterday's grueling twelve hundred mile, eighteen-hour drive from San Francisco, I was in no condition to even think about assembling the plane. If I'd tried to put the wings on the Peregrine when I arrived last night, I'd have been terrified to fly her until I'd checked ever bolt and connection. Instead, I parked the glider's enclosed trailer in the hangar I'd reserved, disconnected the Ranger Rover, and drove to the cabin Brooklyn had rented for us to crash for the night. After a solid eight hours of sleep, I was refreshed and alert enough to feel like I could assemble the aircraft without putting life and limb at risk.

Making the plane airworthy wasn't difficult. Made entirely of carbon fiber and semi-rigid polymers, the glider was light enough that one person could easily handle her. Everything I needed to attach the wings was kept in the trailer, and after a couple of hours of work, the Peregrine was ready to fly. I smiled as I ran my hand along the leading edge of the wing. She would make a huge splash when she was revealed.

I returned the wrench to its protective cloth bag and placed it in the toolbox before locking the container down inside the trailer. The Peregrine was incredibly strong, but she was also fragile, and could easily be damaged by an unsecured toolbox bouncing around inside the trailer.

I removed the deep blue satin polyester fabric from the trailer and draped the silky covering over the plane, sliding it around and adjusting it until she was fully covered. With the Peregrine protected from prying eyes, I walked to the hangar door where I paused, taking one last look at the project that had consumed most of the last ten years of my life. Sleek and graceful, the Peregrine was finally ready for her public debut. With a nod in satisfaction, I stepped through the door and locked it.

The Peregrine wasn't exactly a secret. Plenty of people had seen her during her development, testing, and FAA airworthy certification process, and she'd even been featured in a couple of glider magazines, but what made her special was still secret. She was the first of her kind, sporting a radical new wing of my own design, an idea I'd started working on while in college, and I didn't want that revealed until her debut. The Peregrine was the tangible proof my wing worked. It was going to revolutionize aircraft design and make me rich in the process.

I climbed into the Range Rover and rested my head against the seat's headrest for a moment. Yesterday's drive was starting to catch up with me again. When sleep started to pull at me, I forced myself awake with a shake of my head and started the SUV. It was about forty-five minutes from the Boulder airport to the Denver airport, and I had almost twice that before Azumi's flight arrived, but it wasn't worth going to the cabin first. By the time I got there I'd have to turn around and leave. I started the satnav and followed the prompts as I made my way to the Denver airport.

-oOo-

I stood at the foot of the escalators leading to the baggage claim area. Brooklyn was a cagey one. I had no idea what Azumi looked like, her last name, nothing. All I had was her flight number, which told me she was flying in from LAX, and her first name. I'd bought a yellow legal pad and a thick marker while I waited on her flight to arrive and written her name on it in large black letters.

Now I was holding the pad in front of my chest as I watched crowds of people stream past. The Denver airport was a busy place, and I couldn't tell if the passing throng was from her flight or another.

"Roger?" a tiny, dark haired woman asked as she coasted to a stop in front of me. "I'm Azumi Mah."

I smiled down at the woman. Most wouldn't consider me overly tall at six foot, but I towered over Azumi. She couldn't be an inch over five-two but was likely shorter than that. Wearing sneakers, the top of her head only reached my shoulder.

I smiled as I held my hand out. "Roger Bentley. Nice to meet you, Azumi." Her delicate hand disappeared inside mine, and I was careful not to squeeze to hard.

"Nice to meet you too."

"Shall we collect your bags?"

She grinned. "This is it," she said, hefting the small carryon in her hand. "I didn't have a lot of clothes for the weather."

I took the bag from her. She was wearing a University of Hawaii hoodie sweatshirt over blue jeans and yellow sneakers. She would probably be warm enough dressed like that while the sun was up, but she would freeze her ass off at night unless we got her some warmer clothes. I pulled my phone and checked the time.

"Right. Lunch, then shopping. Brooklyn didn't tell me where you were from, but she warned me we'd have to get you some warmer clothes. I guess you don't need much in the way of warm clothes in L.A."

She smiled. She was lovely. While she spoke with an unmistakable American accent, she was obviously of Asian ancestry, her long, coal back hair and slim, diminutive size, reinforcing the stereotype. "Maybe, but I'm from Honolulu, and we don't have many cold days there, either. At home, if it gets down to sixty degrees, people start wearing parkas."

"Honolulu?" I asked as I escorted her to the exit doors.

"Yeah. Born and raised."

"What's it like living in paradise?"

The automatic doors rumbled open, and the chilly Colorado wind whooshed in around us. She shivered and turtled down into her hoodie after flipping the hood up. "Warmer!"

I snickered. Normally the highs in Denver in late August and early September were in the eighties, but the city was in a cool snap, and the stiff wind had a bit of a bite. Because the Jet Stream had dipped far to the south, it was pulling cold arctic air down from Canada and I could feel the air's source in its chill. The denser air and wind were great for flying, but the forecast high today was only sixty-eight, with lows tonight in the upper forties. I juggled her bag as I shrugged out of my leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. With the breeze and being in the shade, it was a touch cool, but it wasn't so uncomfortable that I couldn't share my jacket.

She shivered again. The jacket swallowed her, but she pulled it around her, holding it closed with only her fingers peeking through the opening. "Thanks. I didn't expect it to be so cold. I thought it was supposed to be in the eighties this time of year. The pilot said it was sixty-five, but it doesn't feel like sixty-five to me."

I grinned, feeling a little sorry for her. She was so tiny the wind might blow her off her feet. "It's the wind."

I led her to the Range Rover, opening her door for her before tossing her bag into the back seat. I smiled as I settled behind the wheel. She was still snuggled down into my coat. I started the car and switched her heated seat on to full while cranking up the heat on her side. By the time I was paying for parking, she'd relaxed as the seat warmed her, and by the time I made the interstate, she was turning the heat down.

"Thanks. I was excited about getting to see some snow, but now I'm not so sure," she said, looking at me and smiling as she pulled my jacket from around her and tossed it into the backseat.

"Just wait until tonight," I teased.

She groaned, but she was smiling. "So, Mr. Roger Bentley, I told you where I'm from. Where do you hail from? Certainly not around here."

"San Francisco."

"Really?" I nodded. "Does everyone in San Francisco sound like you? I'd have guessed England or Australia, somewhere like that."

"Nope. The accent is left over from my parents and my youth. I was born in Nottingham, England, but my parents immigrated to the United States when I was about ten, when my dad was recruited by

BSS PowerSystems

to help design their next generation large capacity storage battery. Been here ever since. I got my American citizenship about five years ago."

"Nottingham?" she murmured. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"The Sheriff of Nottingham Forest? Robin Hood?"

She snapped her fingers. "That's it!" She grinned at me. She had a quick and very lovely smile. "Is that what you do, design batteries?"

"No. I actually design airplanes."

"No shit?"

I nodded. In actuality, I designed the Peregrine only to prove my wing concept, but it was close enough for this conversation. "No shit."

"That's really cool!"

"What about you?"

"I'm a designer too!" she said, but there was something in the way she said it that made me look at her.

"And what do you design?"

"Clothing," she said, her voice teasing. "I design haute couture clothing. I have a small store in Honolulu where

all

the best dressed men and women shop."

"Haute couture? I've heard the term, but I don't know what it means. Not exactly."

She shrugged. "Haute couture is French for 'high sewing.' In my case, it means that I make custom fitted clothes, like bespoke suits for men, evening gowns, party dress, and corporate attire for women, things like that, all my own design. I also have a specialty line of evening and party wear, all custom made of course, for women. Call them Polynesian chic with a modern sensibility."

"Interesting."

She grinned at me. "I think so, and I enjoy doing it. Not like designing an airplane, though."

"No, probably not. Designing an airplane is mostly about math and science. You're more like an artist."

She watched me a moment. "You know, I like you already," she said, her tone playful. "If you're not working for some big-name designer like Gucci or Chanel, or independently famous like Vera Wang, most people look down on you. I've had more than one person say something like, 'Oh! You sew dresses?' Well, yeah, that's true, but you should hear the disdain in their voice."

I waved my hand in dismissal. "I've never heard of Vera Wang, but she had to start somewhere too. People only look down on you because they don't understand what you do."

"And you do?"

I shrugged. "I understand what it's like to start with an idea and have to see it through to completion. I don't claim to understand how you can take a length of cloth and turn it into a dress, though. I'd be lucky to sew a bag, much less designing clothing that was attractive and stylish. It's like what a painter, musician, or writer does. For all I understand you creative types, what you do might as well be magic."

She grinned at me. "I never thought of it that way."

"That doesn't make it any less true. So, what do clothing designers normally eat for lunch?"

"Doesn't matter to me. Surprise me."

I came to Boulder every year as I worked on the Peregrine to see the latest ideas and technology, and I quickly flipped through my mental list of interesting places to eat. "Ever had a bison burger?"

"Bison? That's a buffalo, right?"

"Not really, but most people use the terms interchangeably."

"What's the difference?"

"The bison is native to North America, the buffalo isn't. If what you're thinking of is that big shaggy animal that used to roam the great plains by the millions, that's a bison."

"Oh, okay, and no, I can't say I've had a bison burger. Not a lot of bison or buffalo in Hawaii. What's it taste like?"

"A very lean ground beef. You do eat meat, don't you?"

"Sure! A bison burger sounds perfect. When in Rome, and all that."

I left the interstate and worked my way to the restaurant I had in mind. As I drove, she poked and swiped at her phone. "Oh. I see the difference now." She paused as she swiped and poked some more. "It says here people used to call bison buffalo because it reminded early American settlers of Asian buffalos." She grunted. "It also says in the United States and Canada, both names are considered correct."

I shrugged. "I've only heard them called bison."

"Ugly critters."

I grinned as I pulled the SUV to a stop in the parking lot of

Great Plains Burgers,

a chain of quick service restaurants that served bison burgers exclusively. They were pricier and slower than a typical fast food place, but the level of service and quality of the food more than offset the slightly slower pace and higher price.