Scene of the Climb by Kate Dyer-Seeley Page A

Jill, telling her I’d be late but was okay, grabbed my keys and headed to the office. Greg had invited the Race the States contestants and crew, key advertisers, as well as the entire staff to a welcome barbeque.
    It was risky to commit to any sort of outdoor event in April in the Pacific Northwest. Tonight the weather gods were on Greg’s side. Maybe Dave was right—Lenny was sending a message through the weather. The earlier clouds and rain made way for a clear purple evening sky. The sun was low on the horizon and illuminated the Willamette River as I drove to headquarters. Maybe it was the hour-long steamy bath I’d taken prior to crashing on Jill’s couch, but the air felt surprisingly warm. I cranked the window and blasted “Mambo Italiano” by Rosemary Clooney.
    When I pulled into Northwest Extreme ’s parking lot, it was jammed with cars. A fifty-foot tent stretched across the grassy area in front of the building. Twinkle lights were strung along its edges and portable heaters hummed in each corner. Bistro tables and chairs were clothed in black and six-foot tables lined the edge of the tent.
    Are we really having a party? Lenny just died. I shuddered. This is wrong.
    When Greg took over as editor in chief at the magazine, he moved the operation from a drab downtown office to the converted brick warehouse next to the Willamette River. A walking path from the building’s front doors wound for miles along the riverfront. Tonight, a jazz quartet played softly on the path. White and pink flowering cherry trees lined the river.
    Hickory-scented smoke billowed from four enormous black barbeques at the far side of the tent. Waitstaff in crisp white aprons circulated platters from the barbeques to the tables at the back of the tent. Others circled with trays of appetizers mounted on their hands. A line snaked to a fully stocked bar where bartenders were pouring wine and pulling frothy glasses of beer from microbrew taps.
    Dang, Greg knew how to throw a party. I hoped I wasn’t underdressed. Scanning the crowd, I waved to a group of my coworkers all dressed casually as well—whew.
    I hightailed it to the drink line. Armed with a pint of IPA, I circulated the tent. No sign of Greg, but Krissy and Alicia who were seated at a bistro table waved me over. I set my glass on the table and said, “Be right back, I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Either of you want anything?”
    â€œWe’re good,” Krissy said, motioning to the plates in front of them.
    My stomach lurched with hunger. I meandered my way through the crowd to the food tables and piled my plate with lemon-grilled chicken, strawberries, grapes, white cheddar cheese cubes, a green salad, a sourdough muffin and a chocolate cream tart. I had to carefully balance it back to the table.
    â€œHungry?” Alicia snarked. Her plate looked like she barely nibbled on anything.
    â€œYeah,” I said, not caring as I dug into the juicy chicken. “It’s been a long day.”
    I noticed her right arm was covered with scratches.
    â€œWhat happened to your arm?”
    She held up her arm. “This? It’s nothing. Ran into a sticker bush on the trail.”
    â€œIt looks like it hurts.”
    â€œNah. It’s fine.”
    â€œWe were just talking about what happened up there today,” Krissy said, twirling a glass of white wine in her hand. “I still can’t believe Lenny of all people fell.”
    â€œThat’s called karma,” said Alicia, twisting a black cloth napkin in her hand. “Constantly bragging about how skilled and tough he was.”
    I swallowed a bite of sharp cheese before asking Alicia, “Did you hear anything up there?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhen Lenny fell. You couldn’t have been far ahead, right? Did you hear him scream?” I pulled the stem off the top of a strawberry and popped it my mouth. The cold juice hurt my