Scene of the Climb (3 page)

A heap of clothes surrounded me as I glanced at the minimalistic orange clock mounted on Jill's concrete wall. Ugh. As always I was running late. I was due to meet the cast and crew of Race the States at a kickoff dinner at Shared Table. The restaurant had received accolades from all of Portland's foodies and most recently a write-up in the
New York Times
.

I was going to have to throw something on and fast. The last thing I wanted to do on my first assignment was start with a bad impression. Settling for a flared, knee-length black skirt, black tights, a maroon turtleneck and a silver scarf, I pinched my cheeks, grabbed a pinstriped raincoat and raced out the door. Although it was technically spring, April weather in the Pacific Northwest is like a teenage girl—a volatile mess of hormones one minute and sweet and serene the next. Today fell in the latter category, for which I was thankful.

Dusk was starting to usher itself in. The sky faded into periwinkle, and tiny cherry blossom buds peeked out along the river walk. I knew the rough vicinity of where the Shared Table was located, but kicked myself for not looking up the address.

I hustled between theater-goers in suits and sleek dresses, panhandlers begging for change and hipsters in knit hats. My first assignment and I was going to be late. I had no excuse. I left the office with plenty of time to change. But I'd whittled away my time trying to figure out what to wear and what to do with my hair. Typically I wear my short-pixie cut in a shag style. It makes for a fast morning. Throw in mousse and blow-dry upside down. This occasion called for something more upscale. After curling, flat ironing and flipping, I finally opted to tuck my blond bangs behind my ear with an antique silver barrette Gam gave me years ago. The effect wasn't half bad.

A block ahead I could see the Shared Table sign, an intentionally weathered brown sign with simple lettering. I picked up the pace, not bothering to wait for the red hand flashing in the crosswalk. Portlanders don't obey street signs. Nor do we honk.

The restaurant was darkly lit. The only light came from votive candles lining twelve-foot tables throughout one large room. Exposed wood beams stretched across the ceiling, and the last remains of daylight filtered in through paned windows. The Shared Table started a family-style dining craze in Portland. Privacy was not on the menu. Diners were seated together and food was served family-style. It smelled of fresh thyme, sweet honey and simmering wine sauce.

I felt a hand on the small of my back and turned to see Greg gazing down at me with his ebony eyes.

He let out a low whistle. “You're looking good, Meg.”

Thankfully it was too dark for him to notice me blush.

“I didn't know you were coming.” My heart skipped a beat as his hand guided me to the farthest table from the door.

“Have to schmooze, you know.” He caught the eye of a weathered gray-bearded gentleman. “Dave, how are you, friend?”

Dave rose to greet him in a huge hug, followed by a slap on the back. He wore an Australian outback hat with a mesh string wrapped under his chin. It looked like the hat had seen plenty of time on the trail. “Hey, mate! Good to see ya.” His jovial Australian accent reverberated through the room. Noticing me, he continued. “And who's the chickie babe ya have here?”

“Dave Shepard, may I introduce Meg Reed, our newest team member. She's going to be covering the race. Meg, Dave is the executive producer of Race the States and has quite the reputation for extreme sports himself.”

I stepped forward to shake Dave's hand. He grabbed mine firmly, pumping it rapidly. “Lovely to meet ya, Meggie.”

I didn't bother to correct him. The way he stretched the
e
in “Meggie” had a nice ring. Plus he reminded me of a grizzly, athletic version of Santa Claus.

Dropping my hand, he waved at the other two people sitting at the table. “Uh, bit short on our mates tonight. A couple of our racers needed a rest.”

I noticed the petite woman seated next to him shot him a look. He shrugged it off and offered introductions. “This here's Krissy Miles, my production assistant and right-hand lassie.”

She flashed a subtle smile and nodded to both Greg and me. Her gaze rested on Greg, who spoke in a hushed tone to Dave. I caught her eye and she winked.

Greg returned his attention to me as an odd expression crossed Dave's face. Gathering himself, he introduced his cameraman, Andrew, a shaggy, overweight sweaty guy in his early thirties, who stood to shake our hands. His grasp was clammy.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he wiped his hands on his cargo shorts. “It's roasting in here—eh?”

“Are you filming tonight?” I asked, pointing to the earpiece looped over his ear and camera on his shoulder.

“Nope.” He scratched his chocolate-colored goatee. Patting the camera he said, “This baby doesn't leave my side.”

I pegged him as Canadian with his signature, “Eh.”

Dave steered me to the open seat next to Krissy. Greg took the chair to Andrew's right. I watched him appraise Krissy and give her an appreciative nod.

“Wow. He's your boss?” Krissy's high-pitched whisper matched her tiny body. I thought I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke when she leaned closer. She didn't strike me as a smoker. More like a librarian with platinum hair curling in soft waves around her sharp face and thin black wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah, not too shabby, huh?” I said.

I drooled as I read the evening's fare. The menu was fixed: Duck confit spring rolls, fingerling potatoes with gorgonzola and fresh herbs, crab bisque, prosciutto and rosemary wrapped cod with lemon and greens and a caramel fig tart with vanilla bean sauce.
Oh my God, please let someone else pay the bill,
I thought in a momentary flash of panic. My bank account didn't have enough to cover the appetizers. I'd spent most of my meager pay from
Northwest Extreme
on reference books. The rest went into savings. My goal was to be off of Jill's couch by summer.

“Is he taken?” Krissy asked, moving her eyes in Greg's direction and circling her finger on an empty wineglass. “No ring.”

“Not as far as I know, but I haven't asked.”

“You should. But you're a bit young for him anyway.” She elbowed me with a chuckle.

Bottles of Spanish red wine arrived at the table. The entire restaurant erupted in applause as waitstaff delivered wooden trays with cheeses, marinated olives and spiced nuts to the tables and the head chef emerged from the kitchen. He rambled on about the evening's menu and how the food had been sourced from local organic farmers. No one at our table seemed interested.

“None of the contestants are coming tonight?” Greg asked, filling our wineglasses.

Krissy started to say something, but Dave jumped in. “No worries. I think Lenny's comin', and we'll see 'em all at the hike and bar-bie tomorrow.”

He raised his wineglass. “Cheers, mates! It's gonna be a fight to the finish.”

I tried not to grimace as I took a sip of the strong tart wine. If only I could order a beer.

Greg and Dave discussed how much access we'd have for individual contestant interviews while Andrew and Krissy gave me a rundown of the taping and production schedule. Appetizers were passed around the table. I bit into a delicate duck confit spring roll bursting with flavor and juice. It splattered on my chin and dribbled onto my scarf. I grabbed my napkin and inconspicuously tried to rub it.

While I was chiding myself for being so clumsy, a commotion broke out at the bar where the head chef was still rattling on. A man with badly bleached blond hair and a fake tan was yelling at the bartender. His gold chained jewelry glinted in the candlelight. I could hear his brash east coast accent spewing a trail of profanity.

Dave pushed his chair and jumped to his feet. “That ocker. Be right back.” He ran to the bar, clapped his hand on fake tan man's shoulder and said something in a low tone to the bartender.

“Ocker?” I asked Krissy. “Who's that guy?”

“Lenny Ray. He thinks he's a mobster, but he's really from the suburbs in Hoboken, New Jersey. Ocker is Australian slang for womanizer, which he most definitely is.”

“Yeah, but how does Dave know him?” I asked.

The scene appeared to be under control at the bar. I saw Dave hand his credit card to the bartender, who poured a round of drinks.

“Lenny is a contestant.” Krissy sighed. “As much as I hate to admit it, a good one. The man is an athlete and his personality is going to make for great television. Viewers are going to love to hate him.”

The hate part seemed like an easy sell from my vantage point, but loving him? That was a stretch. Greg must have caught the nervous grimace on my face.

“Don't sweat it, Meg.” He popped an olive in his mouth. “I know these types. A lot of bark. No bite!”

Dave steered Lenny toward our table. Lenny kept shooting his head in the direction of the bartender, I assumed in an attempt to intimidate him.

“Meggie, let me introduce ya to one of our finalists, Lenny Ray.” Dave was upbeat and chipper, as if the entire restaurant wasn't staring at our table.

Lenny jeered and flexed his pec muscles under his tight black T-shirt. “Hey, babe,” he said to me. He tried to fist bump with Greg, who didn't catch on quick enough. Lenny ended up hitting Greg's palm into the air and laughing.

The only empty seat left at the table was to my right. Lenny pounced on it and scooted his chair a quarter inch away from mine. I tugged on my skirt to pull it over my knees. The scent of his spicy cologne was overpowering. It reminded me of the pine tree air freshener Mother keeps in her car. His breath reeked of stale alcohol and his words had a slight slur to them.

“You're a magazine girl, huh? Means you're comin' along for the ride with Len the Con.”

Who was this guy? He looked and sounded like he was auditioning for
Jersey Shore
. He couldn't be for real. I shifted in my seat and inched closer to Krissy. “Uh, yeah, well, I'm hoping to be one. This is my first assignment.”

Damn. Why did I say that?

“Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll give you full private access to this,” he said, massaging his chest.

Ugh. Gross.

Greg cleared his throat. “Meg will be coordinating interview times with Krissy. Otherwise, I'm sure you'll want to focus on your training efforts for the finale.” Greg held his body steady. A firm gaze resting on Lenny. “This may be her first assignment, but I know from her résumé alone, that Meg is a skilled outdoorswoman.”

I choked on my wine a little.

“You okay?” Greg questioned before he continued. “She
and I
will be on site for the upcoming challenges.”

This was news to me. I had no idea Greg was planning to attend the events with me. It made sense. He didn't want to send a rookie out alone on an assignment this important, but one look at me trying to scale a mountain and he'd be on to my lie.

Lenny turned his attention to Andrew, the cameraman, sitting across the table from us. “Am I gonna get actual airtime this segment, man?”

Andrew twisted his napkin in his hand. Sweat beaded on his round, red face. “I'm not doing this here. How many times have I told you all contestants get the same amount of airtime?”

Lenny pounded his fist on the table, making my wine slosh in the glass. “Bullshit! Stop bustin' my balls. That tree hugger Leaf is getting more time than me.”

I could see sweat rings under the arms of Andrew's black Race the States T-shirt. He looked pleadingly at Dave, whose amicable face was lined with anger.

He gave a little shake and turned to Lenny with a forced smile. “Come on, mate, we'll work this out. See if we can't get ya a couple extra minutes. Right, Andrew?”

Andrew shook his head and looked away.

A new bottle of wine was delivered to the table. Greg smelled the cork and moved his glass in a circular motion. Tasting the blackberry-colored liquid, he nodded his approval to the waiter. The wine probably cost a small fortune, but was totally lost on me.

I tried to swallow another taste of the wine. “This is really good,” I said to Greg.

“The vintner's a friend of mine. I'll introduce you sometime,” he said. Then he leaned over the table and launched into an intimate discussion about Oregon wines with Krissy. She giggled and bit her bottom lip.

Dinner arrived. We tucked in to flaky cod and greens tossed in a lemon-butter sauce. After dessert and another round of drinks, my head was swimming from the wine. Dave paid the bill with fanfare and a final toast.

I needed sleep. I needed Jill.

Tomorrow we would meet at Angel's Rest in the Columbia River Gorge where Andrew could shoot b-roll of the contestants and landscape. It was a short two and a half mile hike one way—a warm-up for the endurance athletes competing in the race. But I hadn't hiked in years. And now Greg would be there. How was I going to get myself out of this? I was in way over my head.

Greg escorted me to the door. “You sure you're ready for this?”

“Of course! No worries, mate.” I winked and socked him playfully on the arm, his firm, ripped arm.

He laughed. “You familiar with Angel's Rest?”

“Sure, I've done it dozens of times.” Good God, what was wrong with me? “Remind me, how high is it again?”

“It's nothing. Maybe 1,500 feet of elevation gain.”

A wave of nausea swept over my body. Trying to act casual, I scoffed and said, “1,500—no problem.”

“See you tomorrow.” He leaned as if he was going to kiss my cheek. I backed up. But instead he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack behind me and gave me a funny look. Throwing the jacket over his shoulder, he thrust the door open for me. “Better get some sleep.”

I held my hand in a half wave that he didn't see.