Standing On Top

Chapter 13b

"Got another one of those?" Celia asked him, taking up position on the rail next to him. She, like everyone else at the rehearsal, was dressed informally. She had on a pair of khaki shorts and a white sleeveless blouse. Her hair was pulled into a simple ponytail.

"I think I can spare one," he said, pulling out his pack. He shook one out for her and then lit his lighter so she could ignite it. She drew deeply on it and then exhaled, sending a plume of smoke out over the beach where it was torn asunder by the breeze.

"Thanks," she said with a sigh. "I really needed that."

"My smokes are your smokes," he told her. "I spent a little time with your parents earlier."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he said. "You'll excuse me for saying so, but your mom is pretty hot for a woman her age. Greg should be pleased. You definitely pass the 'mom test'."

"The 'mom test'?" she asked. "I don't think I'm quite familiar with that."

Jake chuckled. "It's one of those chauvinistic ideas we men like to engage in," he told her. "According to conventional wisdom, if you're considering marrying a woman, you need to take a look at her mom on the theory that the woman in question is going to age similarly to her mother. The assumption is that you're getting a look at what your possible wife is going to look like in twenty-five years."

"Ahhh, I see," she said with a chuckle. "So if my mom would've been fat, or gray, or wrinkled..."

"Mom test failed," Jake confirmed. "Your mom, however, is none of those. Your padre is a very lucky man."

"So is my madre," she said. "You probably didn't notice, but daddy is pretty good looking as well."

"Actually, I don't tend to notice things like that," he said. "But now that you mention it, he does seem to hold up rather well."

They had a few more drags apiece, listening to the crashing of the surf. It was a companionable silence, not the least bit awkward.

"So how are you doing, Celia?" Jake asked her. "As I recall from past conversations, you only smoke cigarettes when you're stressed out. Is the wedding getting to you?"

"That's part of it," she said. "This whole week has been nothing but a frantic rush as we tried to pin everything down and make sure everything is arranged and ready."

"What's the other part?" he asked.

She looked at him and took another slow drag, letting it drift out of her mouth and nostrils. She tapped the ashes over the balcony railing. "Greg's been acting kind of weird lately," she said. "I'm not sure what to make of it."

"What kind of weird?" Jake asked. "Are we talking homicidal maniac kind of weird or the garden variety what-the-hell-crawled-up-your-ass kind of weird?"

Celia giggled a little. "The latter," she said. "It's been going on for almost two months now. He's very distant with me at times. At other times, he's very argumentative. He'll snap at me for some little thing and act like I just killed a child or something when all I did was drop a can into the garbage instead of the recycle bin. It's been getting worse over the past three weeks."

"You think it might just be pre-wedding stress?" Jake asked. "I hear it can be pretty bad."

"Maybe," she said. "It's certainly gotten worse as the date actually approached. But I think it might be something else as well."

"Like what?" he asked.

"It really started when Aristocrat told us they weren't going to pick us up for the next option period," she said.

That had been at the beginning of May, Jake remembered. The first time Jake and Helen had gotten together with Celia and Greg to play golf after returning from the international tour, the news had still been days fresh — fresh enough to still sting. And, now that he thought about it, Greg had seemed even angrier and more hurt about the rejection than Celia had. He had gone on and on about how the sleazy record companies just used someone as long as they were making money, destroyed their career with their overbearing restriction on artistic license, and then just threw them to the curb once they were done with them.

"It bothers him a lot that we're not going to make another album," Celia said. "He's been acting like it was some sort of personal affront to him and him alone. It kind of pisses me off at times, to tell you the truth. I mean, Eduardo and the rest of the band had to move back to Venezuela because they kicked us out of our condos. I would have had to move back too if Greg wasn't paying for an apartment for me. And somehow, I've managed to accept all this. I don't know why Greg can't."

"I assume you've talked to him about this?" Jake asked.

"I've tried," she said. "All he keeps going on about is whether or not there is some way I can sign with a different label as a solo artist and put out my own album."

"You can't," Jake said. "You're pretty much forbidden from making any music until your contract expires."

"I know," she said. "He can't seem to get a grip on that particular fact though. I keep trying to tell him that it's only two years, that I'll be able to put something together when I'm free, but he says that it might be too long. That people might..." She choked up a little, turning her face so Jake couldn't see it.

Jake reached out and gently took her face in his hands, turning it back to him. There was a tear tracking down her left cheek. "People might what?" he asked.

"They might forget about me by then," she said.

"It sounds like maybe you're worried about that too?"

"Yes," she said. "I am."

He tossed his cigarette out onto the beach below and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. With his finger, he reached up and wiped the tear from her face. "You're a great musician, Celia," he told her. "You were forced to make some forgettable music by your circumstances, but your career is not over, whether people forget about you or not. Once you're free, you can make any kind of music you want and it'll be badass music because it will be yours. You've got the voice, you've got the composition skills, and you've got the guitar talent. All you'll need to do is surround yourself with some good musicians who will do what the hell you tell them to do and you'll shine. I have no doubt about that."

She smiled, snuggling her face into his shoulder. "Thanks, Jake," she said softly. "That actually makes me feel better. It wouldn't have it had come from anyone but you, but I... you know... I respect your musical opinion quite a bit."

"And I respect yours," he said, hugging her against him a little tighter for a moment and then releasing her.

"That still leaves me with the problem of Greg," she said.

"How big of a problem is it?" Jake asked. "Is it big enough that... you know... maybe tomorrow is a mistake?"

She sighed. "I honestly don't know," she said. "I love Greg very much and I know he loves me, but this whole issue is just... weird. I don't know why it bothers him so much that I won't be working for the next two years, but it does. It's not like we need the money or anything."

Jake shrugged. He didn't know either. During the few conversations he'd had with Greg since arriving in Martha's Vineyard yesterday, he had been pleasant and a good host, giving no hint that he was troubled.

"He was embarrassed when you asked us about the leak to the press," Celia said.

That had been a few days after the media had first started demanding to know if the rumor they'd heard about Jake's attendance was true. Greg had denied leaking anything and had seemed genuinely upset that a leak had taken place. He had his people look into the matter and it had been discovered that one of his publicist's assistants had been the source of the leak. She had claimed it was a simple mistake and that she hadn't realized the information was supposed to be secret.

"It wasn't his fault," Jake said. "Shit happens. I, of all people, should know that. He told me that he gave the young lady in question a stern talking-to and that was the end of it."

"That's just it," Celia said. "I... well... I'm not entirely sure that he was being truthful about all of that."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have any hard proof or anything, but I kind of think that Greg told his publicist to release that information and make it look like an accidental leak."

"Why would he do that?" Jake asked.

"He seemed to think that if it became public knowledge that you and I were friends — that if I had enough street-cred to hang out with Jake Kingsley — then Aristocrat might just change their minds and authorize a new album after all."

"Wow," Jake said, unsure what to say.

"Obviously it didn't work," she said. "I could've told him it wouldn't. But that was one more thing he got pissed off about and led to another two-day rant about the record company."

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing by marrying him?" Jake asked.

She offered a cynical smile. "It's a little too late to back out now, wouldn't you say? In less then eighteen hours it'll be a done deal, prenuptial agreement and everything."

"It's never too late until you say those two little words," Jake said.

She shook her head. "I'm not much for grandstand plays at the last second," she said. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen if — God forbid — I am making a mistake? We'll get divorced somewhere down the road and I'll end up collecting a good chunk of alimony for a few years. If nothing else, it'll keep me in the states until my contract period expires."

"That's not what marriage is supposed to be about," Jake told her.

"I know," she said. "And I'm just blowing off a little steam here. More than likely all of this is just pre-marital stress and we'll go back to our happy little life once it's over with."

"Hopefully," Jake said.

She threw her own cigarette over the balcony, adding to the litter on the beach below. "We'd better get back in before they send someone out to find us."

"Right," Jake said.

"Thanks for listening to me, Jake. I really do feel better about all this now that I've been able to talk to someone about it."

"Anytime," Jake told her.

"You really are a dear friend to me," she said. "One of my best, as a matter of fact. Sometimes I wonder..." she blushed a little. "Oh... never mind."

"What?" he asked.

"Well, if circumstances would have been different, if... you know... there could've been anything between us."

"I guess we'll never know," Jake said.

"I guess not," she said with a hint of sadness.

She reached forward and gave him a big hug, wrapping her arms around his back. He put his arms around her waist, feeling the softness of her skin beneath her shirt, feeling her breasts pushing into his chest, smelling the scent of her vanilla wafting up through the sharper odor of cigarette smoke. She looked up at him, her brown eyes sparkling, staring into his. And then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, lingering there for a few seconds. It was a kiss that made him tremble.

Slowly she pulled her lips away, a melancholy smile on her face, her arms still around him.

"What was that for?" he asked her, his voice not quite steady.

"I just wanted to see what a first kiss with you might've been like," she said. "Now I know."

"And what did you think?" he asked.

She released the embrace but didn't move away from him. She reached up and ran her index finger through his long hair for a second. "It was very nice," she said. "I'm glad I did it."

"Me too," Jake told her.

They went back inside. Jake didn't talk to her again the rest of the night.

In all, there were three hundred and sixteen guests at Celia and Greg's wedding ceremony (Greg's publicist would later describe the affair as a "small, intimate ceremony with just a few close friends in attendance"). Most of these were on the groom's side. There were dozens of famous actors and actresses and their significant others. There were movie producers, directors, and a few odd make-up artists and crew members. There were only a few members of Greg's family on this side of the room. His mother and sister were there and two people he identified as cousins. He was estranged from his father for reasons he had never explained to either Jake or Celia and his older brother had elected not to come for reasons that were also unexplained.

Celia's side of the room, by contrast, had very few famous people. No one from Aristocrat Records had bothered to show up and the only other professional musicians in the group were Jake and the other members of La Diferencia. Most of the pews on this side of the room were taken up by Celia's family and close friends from Barquisimeto (all of whom had been flown in for the occasion at Greg's expense). There were grandmothers, grandfathers, and one great-grandmother. There were cousins and uncles galore. There were half a dozen members of the church Celia had attended as a child, including her former choir teacher. There were three women and two men who had been childhood playmates of Celia.

In addition to the guests, there was a complete photography crew from People magazine in attendance. They had paid fifty thousand dollars for the exclusive right to photograph the nuptials and distribute them in their magazine. They flitted here and there, flashing their bulbs and taking pictures of everything and everyone.

Jake and Helen sat on the bride's side of the room. Since Jake was to be part of the ceremony, they were in the second row, just behind the seats for the immediate family. Jake was wearing one of his custom tailored tuxedos. Helen was adorned in a royal blue dress that had cost $2800 in the Rodeo Drive shop where they'd bought it. It was modest, falling to just below her knees and displaying only the very top of her cleavage. Only Jake knew that beneath it she was wearing a pair of silk stockings attached to a garter belt.

At Celia's insistence, the ceremony itself was a traditional contemporary Catholic wedding. This was to please her family, she had confided in Jake at one point, and not because she or Greg were practicing Catholics. The priest entered the room first. He was decked out in full regalia and held a large, leather bound bible in his hands. The organ played soft music and Greg's groomsmen entered the room, walking slowly down the aisle. The groomsmen escorted Greg's mother, Celia's mother, and Celia's grandparents to their seats at the front of the room. They then retreated back out of the room, only to return a minute later with the bridesmaids on their arms.

"Nice dresses," Helen whispered to Jake.

As far as bridesmaid dresses went, they were pretty attractive. They were floor length, rose red gowns that left the shoulders bare. All of Celia's bridesmaids were friends from Venezuela and had dark complexions that contrasted very nicely with the color of the gowns.

The groomsmen and the bridesmaids separated and took their positions before the altar. Next, the best man and the maid of honor entered the room. Greg's best man was Michael Stinson, his co-star in the last movie he'd made. Celia's maid of honor was Gloria Dominquez, the girl who had been her best friend during her high school days. These two walked arm in arm to the altar (Gloria had been in awe of the fact that she got to touch Michael Stinson all throughout the rehearsal last night) and then separated and took their positions.

The flower girl came next. She was a young cousin of Celia's, about six years old, and absolutely adorable in her red dress. She scattered rose petals around the aisle in advance of the bride.

The Wedding March began to play. The priest asked that everyone please stand in honor of the bride. Everyone stood and turned toward the back. Celia entered the room, escorted by her tuxedoed father. She was quite stunningly beautiful, decked out in a traditional white wedding dress that had been designed by Versace himself (or Himself, as Greg liked to put it). The dress had cost more than twenty thousand dollars and it fit to absolute perfection.

"Look at her," Helen whispered. "She's gorgeous."

Jake simply nodded. Helen was correct.

Celia took her place at the altar. The priest asked who gave this woman and Celia's father replied that he and her mother did. Her father then took his seat and the ceremony began in earnest.

It went on for more than forty minutes before they started to get to the good part. The priest read passages from the bible, he expounded upon the religious implications of the holy union of matrimony, and every few minutes he would say, "let us pray" and everyone would lower their heads while he talked to Our Father. Every few minutes apart from that, he would say, "please rise" and, once they did, he would recite some other passage from the bible and follow it up with a "you may be seated". Finally, just when Jake was starting to think he wouldn't be able to stifle a yawn any longer, the exchange of the vows began. When that was done, the priest asked each of them if they took the other in holy matrimony.

"I do," said Celia, looking shyly at Greg.

"I do," said Greg when it was his turn.

They exchanged rings and then the priest told them they were man and wife. Greg kissed his bride and quiet applause rippled through the room.

"And now," said the priest, "a dear friend of the couple, Mr. Jake Kingsley, will perform a song he has written in honor of this union. As we found out last night at the rehearsal, this song has never been performed before another person before. Celia, Greg, and all of you will now enjoy it for the very first time." He looked at Jake. "Mr. Kingsley?"

Jake gave a brief smile to Helen and then stood up. He walked slowly to a spot just beside the altar and pulled up a Fender electric/acoustic guitar from hiding behind a section of latticework. The guitar was plugged into a guitar cord that ran discretely off to a small soundboard that was plugged into the facility's speakers. Jake had sound checked and tuned the guitar earlier that day, before the arrival of the guests. He pulled a pick from the inlay and walked up to the small microphone the priest, Greg, and Celia had been using.

Jake spoke no introductory words, nor did he give a warm-up strum of the strings. He simply began to play, picking out a soft, gentle eight note rhythm that was both soothing and captivating. He sang into the microphone, using his voice to its best advantage, singing of love and beginnings and compromise and contentment. There were two verses with a chorus in between that spoke of the "start of the journey" that a married couple was embarking upon. There was a brief bridge, during which he upped the tempo the slightest bit, displaying a considerable amount of flair with his instrument and getting a good many feet tapping. Finally, there was a final verse that led to an abbreviated version of the main chorus with a subtle changing of the lyrics.

"The start of the journey," he finished up, "begins... right... here."

He did a brief final flourish of his strings and then let the last strum fade to nothing.

The applause for this performance was much louder than that which had been offered when Greg and Celia had been declared man and wife. The guests, in fact, gave him a standing ovation. Jake saw with satisfaction that more then a few female eyes (and even the odd male eye) were leaking tears from his song. He gave a shy smile to the crowd, acknowledging the applause, and then carried the guitar back to its hiding place and set it down.

He turned and looked at the bride and groom. Celia was crying, wiping the tears from her eyes. Even Greg looked a little choked up. Greg stepped forward and shook his hand warmly.

"Thank you, Jake," he told him. "That was very moving."

"Yes," Celia agreed, pulling him into a spontaneous hug and planting a kiss on his cheek. "It was beautiful. We couldn't have asked for anything better."

"It was my pleasure," Jake told them. "Congratulations to both of you."

The reception began soon after. Little by little the guests all wandered into the next room where a bandstand, an open bar, and dozens of white clothed tables awaited. Each table had a vase of red roses, a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white wine, and a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne chilling in an ice bucket. A large table for the wedding presents was set up near the back of the room. Jake and Helen found their places at a table near the center of the room. They were seated with one of Celia's uncles, his wife, and their two teenage children.

"Do you know Bigg-G?" was the first thing one of the kids asked Jake.

It was almost an hour before the new bride and groom made their entrance. Everyone went through the reception line to take turns shaking Greg's hand and kissing Celia on the cheek. This took another hour. Finally, dinner was served. It was prime rib or Peking duck. Jake and Helen both had the prime rib, drinking glasses of red wine with it.

Jake managed to get one rum and coke into his stomach before the toasting began. The champagne was opened and poured but was halfway to being warm before anyone got to drink any of it because Michael Stinson gave a toast to the new groom that was nearly fifteen minutes in length. When we finally wound down, Greg's mother and sister each offered lengthy toasts as well. A few of Greg's other friends then chimed in their two cents worth. Finally, at long last, everyone who wanted to offer a toast had had their say and they moved on to the throwing of the bouquet and the garter. Two of Celia's cousins were the catchers of these items.

Celia and Greg then cut the wedding cake — a four-tiered number that had cost $4000 — and took turns feeding it to each other. The rest of the guests were then allowed to have a piece as well.

When the cake dishes were taken away, the dancing began. The live band wasn't bad, but they weren't all that great either. They played mellow wedding reception classics while Celia and Greg did the traditional first dance as a married couple, as Celia and her dad danced, and as Celia and her brother danced. Finally, open dancing began and the band started to play faster tunes with more of a beat to them. The couples flooded out onto the dance floor one by one until it was crowded with well dressed bodies.

"C'mon, babe," Jake said, standing and taking Helen's hand. "Let's do it."

Helen wasn't the best dancer Jake had ever shaken his booty with. In fact, she was one of the worst. She liked music and liked physical activity but did not seem to possess much of a sense of rhythm. And, since she knew she wasn't good at it, she always felt like people were watching her, which tended to make her restrict her moves to the point where she was almost standing still, her feet never leaving the floor. This, of course, ended up attracting more attention than if she'd just let it all hang out.

"Oh... Jake," she said. "You know I hate dancing."

"The only way to get better is to keep practicing," he told her, tugging on her hand again. "I told you, just dance like no one is watching."

She refused to get up. "Not in these heels," she said firmly. "And not with a freakin' photographer from People magazine floating around."

Jake knew she was not going to give in. She had her stubborn expression on her face. The best he could hope for here was a compromise. "Okay," he said, acquiescing, "but will you at least dance the slow ones with me?"

"Jake, these heels and this dress..."

"You don't have a hair on your ass if you don't," he told her.

It was an insult she couldn't abide. "Okay," she said. "The slow dances only. Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic," he told her. He turned to Celia's fifteen-year-old cousin who was sitting next to Helen. "Come on, Margarita," he said, holding out his hand to her. "You're not afraid to be seen with me, are you?"

She looked at the hand, her eyes wide. Finally, she said, "No way, Jake. Let's go!" She took his hand and he led her out onto the crowded floor where they twisted and turned to the beat of Simply Irresistible and then Shakin' It Loose Tonight.

Once he was seen dancing with one Valdez female, the floodgates opened and a constant stream of them approached him on each subsequent song. He danced with Celia's sister, her aunt, her mother (who had moves that her younger relatives could only stand in awe of), and more cousins than he could count. Fortunately, he had recently come off tour and was still used to jumping around for more than an hour at a time without rest. He did not get winded but he did start to sweat pretty good after the first thirty minutes. By the time the first slow dance started up and Helen took her place on the floor with him, his undershirt was damp and he had discarded the overcoat and the bow tie.

"You're quite the hit with Celia's family," Helen told him as they moved slowly to the beat of the wedding band's version of How Am I Supposed To Live Without You? "I haven't seen nearly as many of them dancing with Greg or with Michael Stinson."

"I have international appeal," Jake told her, leaning in and giving her a brief kiss on the lips.

"I think you're gonna have a lot of Venezuelan females putting their hands in their panties tonight while they imagine your sweaty body against them."

"Any American females?" he asked innocently, earning a knee into his lower leg.

As soon as the slow song ended, the band launched into a particularly fast number that Jake knew well. It was one of his songs: Living By The Law from the first Intemperance album. It was strangely ironic that Jake himself would be in breach of contract if he were to perform the song for this crowd but that the marginal wedding band could do it with impunity.

"I am so out of here," Helen said as she heard the opening riff.

"Chicken," Jake called after her as she fled.

Helen was quickly replaced by another Valdez. This time it was Celia herself.

"My cousins have all been bragging about you," she told him. "So let's see what you got."

He smiled at her. "At least I'm familiar with the beat for this one."

Even in a bulky wedding gown and with awkward heels on her feet, Celia was an incredible dancer. She moved her body in exacting tempo with the rhythm of the song, all the while managing to keep the swell of her breasts exactly six inches from Jake's chest. The two of them touched hands a few times, shaking their butts, moving their feet, moving back and forth without ever running into another set of dancers. During the guitar solo (which the wedding band guitar player absolutely mangled — Matt might very well have kicked his ass had he been there to hear it), they turned away from each other, their backs together, their hands touching in the air above their heads while their hips shook in unison. This delighted the other dancers who saw them and they broke into spontaneous applause when the move concluded. The two singers turned back around to face each other and did a few more moves, including a spin and then a double reverse spin just as the final crescendo of the song began. When it was over they shared a brief hug.

"That was great, Jake," Celia squealed as they made their way off the floor.

"You weren't too bad yourself," he replied.

"My turn! My turn!" yelled one of the Valdez cousins, this one a sixteen year old who was very well developed for her age and who was wearing a dress that The Vatican probably wouldn't have approved of.

"Hon," Jake told her wearily, "I gotta rest for a few minutes. I promise you'll be next."

"Awww," she complained. "No fair!"

"Life isn't fair, Anna," Celia said to her. "Hasn't anyone told you that yet?"

Anna responded in Spanish. Celia looked shocked at what she said but got over it quickly and giggled. "No," she said, and then followed it up with an extended burst of rapid fire Spanish of her own. Anna giggled back, told Jake she would see him later, and then wandered off.

"What was that all about?" Jake asked.

"She asked me if I'd ever seen you naked."

"She did not," Jake said.

"She did," Celia insisted. "I told her 'no, I never have'."

"Uh huh. 'No, I never have' is four words. You said at least twenty back to her."

"Sometimes it takes more words to get across a simple concept in Spanish," Celia said.

"You're a horrible liar," he told her. "Give it up. What did you say?"

"Just what I said," Celia told him, smiling.

"I'll ask her," Jake said. "And you know she'll tell me. No teenage girl can resist my charms."

Celia blushed a little. "Okay," she said. "I told her, 'no, I have not, but if I wasn't married and he wasn't with Helen, that might've changed after that dance you just gave me'."

Jake laughed. "My my, Celia," he said. "It seems you're not the innocent little virgin the press likes to portray you as."

"I guess not," she said, giggling again. "Come on. Let's go get a drink. I think it's time I started tying one on."

Jake danced two more times with Helen, at least ten more times with various Valdez women (including Anna, who not-so-subtly suggested that she would be willing to slip away into a dark storage room with him somewhere), but no more with Celia. True to her word, Celia began pounding down Long Island iced teas like prohibition was going to be reinstated in the morning and was soon a giggling, happy drunk. She hugged anyone who walked within five feet of her, including one of the People magazine photographers.

At last, the final stage of the reception came. The happy couple was pelted with rice as they emerged from the reception hall. They climbed into the back of a limousine that had been decorated with Just Married signs and had cans tied to the back bumper. They were not going far, just to the other side of the resort where the honeymoon suite had been reserved for them. Early the next morning they were flying out of Logan to Zurich, where they would start a two-week tour of Scandinavia.

Jake watched the limo pull away, Helen at his side, his hand intertwined with hers. He watched until the taillights disappeared, feeling a strange sense of regret that he didn't understand.

Logan International Airport, Boston

June 16, 1989

Jake and Helen left the first class lounge and boarded the DC-10 at 10:27 AM the day after Celia's wedding. Jake was refreshed and well-rested but Helen was suffering from a nasty hangover. While Jake had been dancing the night away with Celia's relatives, Helen had been swilling down Dom Perignon and white wine. They were dressed in their casual traveling clothes of jeans and T-shirts, both of them with dark glasses on their eyes in the vain hope they wouldn't be recognized.

"You want the window seat?" Jake asked Helen as the flight attendant led them to their assigned places. They were in row one of the first class section, the two seats directly behind the cockpit area.

"No, you take it," she said. "I have a feeling I'll have to make a few trips to the bathroom."

Jake chuckled. "I told you never to mix drinks, didn't I?"

"Oh shut the fuck up," she replied, causing a well-dressed middle-age woman behind them to gasp in shock at the foul language.

Jake settled into the spacious and comfortable window seat, reclining it just a hair and stretching his legs, which were a little sore from all the dancing. Helen simply slumped down. She pulled her seatbelt tight around her middle and then leaned her head against Jake's shoulder.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked.

"Once this flight's over with I will be," she said. "Flying commercial is bad enough. Doing it with a hangover is even worse."

It still amazed Jake sometimes that Helen, though an experienced pilot, was scared of flying on jetliners. Though the two of them had flown first class commercial many times over the past year, on long hauls to New Zealand, Japan, England, and shorter hauls all over the European continent, she was always tense and nervous from the time she entered a large aircraft until the time it touched down at their destination.

"Too many parts in these things," she always said. "Too many things that can go wrong. Incompetent pilots, incompetent mechanics, incompetent air traffic controllers, or incompetent engineering. One little thing goes wrong, it can start a cascade that will bring the whole plane down. And you don't survive crashes in jetliners. Not very often anyway."

Jake had tried using logic with her. He had reminded her that more than ten thousand flights took off from United States airports every day of every year and that there was a spectacular plane crash maybe once every three or four years on average. Those were pretty good odds, about the best you could get in the travel industry. He tried to point out that far more small aircraft crashed — usually with lethal results — than large ones. None of that mattered to Helen.

"I know my mechanic," she said. "I know my air traffic controllers. Most importantly, I know me and my machine. If something goes wrong, it's my fault and I'll take responsibility for my death. Up in a jetliner, I'm nothing but a sheep strapped into a seat and hoping that everyone involved knows what the fuck they're doing."

"You want a drink?" Jake asked her when the stewardess began making her pre-flight rounds (this was one of the advantages of flying first class — you could drink while the coach section was still sitting in the boarding lounge). Drinking a few potent beverages was Helen's usual way of dealing with her fear.

She gave him an evil look. "Don't even mention alcohol to me," she said. "I'll just have to ride this one out. At least if the plane crashes it'll put an end to this damn headache and nausea."

Jake had to agree with this logic. "I guess every cloud does have a silver lining." He then ordered a double bloody Mary for himself.

Helen sat with her eyes closed and Jake sipped his drink while the rest of the plane boarded. It was just enough to give him a pleasant warmth in his stomach. After the plane was sealed up and backed out of the terminal, he opened one of the in-flight magazines and began to flip through it, paying absolutely no attention as the flight attendant went through her litany of safety instructions and demonstrations of the oxygen masks and the life jackets.

When they reached the end of the runway and the captain announced impending take-off, Helen reached over and grasped Jake's hand. Take-off was the part she hated the most, when the aircraft was full of fuel and one of any ten thousand things could go wrong.

The roar of the engines wound up and they began to lumber down the runway, slowly but surely picking up speed. The nose came up and there was a thump as the landing gear left the runway. The ground dropped away beneath them and they banked to the right, a turn designed to keep them from flying over a residential area and bothering the rich people who lived there with engine noise.

There was a whine from beneath them as the gear retracted. The turn leveled out and the nose came down into a less steep angle of descent, making it feel for a few seconds like they were actually descending. Jake glanced out the window to the ground below. He saw freeway interchanges and thousands of rooftops. His eyes, now experienced in the ways of flight, told him they were at about six thousand feet or so, and still climbing.

Suddenly the routine ascent became un-routine. From the right side of the aircraft a peculiar whine began, increasing in pitch until it was almost a scream.

"What the fuck?" Helen said, her eyes flying open, her body suddenly tense.

Jake opened his mouth to offer some soothing words — although the sound was definitely not something he'd ever heard a jet airliner make before — and closed it again when the entire plane began to shake and shudder.

An excited babble erupted from the passengers. There were a few mild screams.

"What's happening?" someone behind them yelled out. "What is that?"

A loud bang erupted from the right side. The plane jolted again and the nose dropped alarmingly. At the same moment, Jake felt the entire aircraft pull severely to the right. The cabin erupted into panicked screams this time.

"Jake! Oh my God!" Helen yelled, her hand squeezing his hard enough to cause pain.

Jake felt a burst of adrenaline go shooting through his body. He looked out his window at the wing and there, he saw the most terrifying thing of his life. The engine mounted to that wing was billowing black smoke and flame, leaving a trail behind it.

Son of a bitch, Jake's mind thought in horrified wonder. I'm going to die in a plane crash. Isn't that the most cliché way for a rock star to go?