Free Fall
by Phyllis Humphrey

 Chapter 1

It seemed like only yesterday that Jennifer’s boss repeated, “You’re going to drive an airplane down the highway and park it in the middle of the mall?”  As a matter of fact, it had been only yesterday.

Jennifer Gray stood on the tarmac of the small airport nestled in the sheltered bowl of California’s San Joaquin Valley and fumed. She had less than an hour to get the plane she wanted into its slot at the Lido Lane Shopping Center for her sports promotion, and fog—with its chilling blasts of air—swirled like wet smoke across the pavement.

She hated airports. And, worse, airplanes. The Wright  Brothers, as far as she was concerned, should have stayed on the ground and done something useful, like opening a fast food chain, something people needed back then.

Her knees met through the heavy fabric of her jeans, her toes curled in her short leather boots, and her hands burrowed deep in the pockets of her Irish knit sweater, the collar pulled up to just below the cold tip of her nose.

The fog, unusually heavy for June, had already obliterated everything—the hangars and planes had disappeared. It looked like a set from that old movie Casablanca and it didn’t take much to imagine Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman stepping out of the fog, the darkness, and each others’ lives.

A sound, reminiscent of the one made by her former vehicle, a finicky VW bug, shattered the air. Definitely a motor of some sort. She listened intently while it sputtered, then died completely, only to cough into life again. That was the thing about motors: they had a nasty habit of conking out. And although she had promised herself before—any number of times—she renewed her vow never to be lured into anything that used its motor to leave the ground.

The noise of the engine increased, and the nose of a small plane poked through the mist. That was the reason she had flunked Fear of Flying School. For a moment the pilot seemed intent on taxiing right up onto her toes, but then it stopped moving and the engine died.

The permit, folded deep in her purse, stated “Cessna 150” and why she had ever expected it to be no larger than a sports car, she couldn’t imagine. She had asked the gentleman on the phone for a very small airplane, and he had promised her one that carried only two people. So why then did this machine appear to be the size of a locomotive?

“Ken?”  She peered into the darkness and mist but couldn’t see anyone. Ken McGrath, maintenance manager of the shopping center, where the plane had to fit on the mall, had driven her there in his car and apparently wandered off somewhere. Maybe into one of the hangars to keep warm.

“No, the name’s Colin Thomas.”  The voice had a beautifully deep timbre to it. Darkness not withstanding, she then saw the man who belonged to it. Although his tanned face seemed at least ten inches above her own, she saw closely-cropped black curly hair, straight white teeth, broad shoulders and trim hips neatly wrapped up in a blue jumpsuit. Also, finely chiseled features, giving him an aristocratic appearance, which seemed somehow out of place on someone she assumed to be an airport mechanic. He was definitely not Ken McGrath. Or even Humphrey Bogart. But whoever this Colin Thomas was, he had no right to make her feel suddenly warm all over, in spite of the frigid air.

“Well, hello...” he drawled. Before she could answer, he thrust his hand forward and caught hers, squeezing it firmly in a large, warm grip. His eyes, startlingly blue under thick dark lashes, widened.

Both his touch and his look made electric currents sizzle somewhere inside her. Seconds seemed to turn into hours. As much as she enjoyed the sensation, to say nothing of the approving looks the man gave her, she pulled her hand from his and kept her gaze on the abstract patch over the left breast pocket of his jumpsuit instead of his face.

He wasn’t Ken—he was probably a mechanic who worked at the field—but perhaps he could shed some light on Ken’s whereabouts.

“Have you seen a tall man,” she asked, “fifty-ish, wearing a brown parka?  His name’s Ken McGrath.”

“Was he driving a green minivan?”  He looked off in the direction of what could have been the parking lot.

“Yes.”  Maybe he was waiting for her in the car.

“He’s gone.”

“What?”  She looked about, as if it were possible to see more than ten feet in front of her. “He can’t be gone. He has to drive me back to the Lido Lane Shopping Center.”

“Brown coat?  Green van?”  The deep even tone had become unnervingly calm. “Guy took off five minutes ago.”

“Oooh.”  Jennifer gritted her teeth. “What about a man named Whitey Franklin?”

She could tell by the man’s expression that the news was all bad and she didn’t need his, “Gone, too, they drove off together,” to start an initial stage of panic. And why did Colin Thomas have to flash that drop-dead smile every time he said something she didn’t want to hear?

“If you need a lift, I’ll be glad to give you one.”

“You will?”  His offer might possibly save her job and she considered dashing up and hugging him, but he began retreating toward the hazy outline of the Cessna. She followed, quickly, not to let him out of her sight. Two men had already disappeared on her.

When she reached the plane, he was standing beside one of the little doors and opened it for her.

“Hop in,” he said. Then he skirted the nose, went around to the other side, and slid into the pilot’s seat.

Oh, no, he was not getting her into anything with wings. And he wasn’t just a mechanic. He was obviously a pilot as well. “That’s a plane.”  

“You noticed.”  He leaned across the seat. “I’m going to the center, and there’s room for two.”

“Excuse me, but I can’t do that. I—”  How could she tell this man about her phobia?  She hated to admit it even to herself.

“I…um…have this thing about heights.”