Blue Skies (21 page)

Heavy sigh. “I don't have a closet back there, dear. I have all the available drinks right here.”

“Well ask someone else!” she snapped.

“Ma'am, I simply don't have one. What's your second choice?”

“For what I paid for this ticket, with no meal to speak of, I should at least be able to get a ginger ale!”

“For what you paid for your ticket, I should be pushing you out over Albuquerque.” He turned to the man across the aisle and asked him what he'd like. Behind him the woman was loudly yapping that she'd been insulted, and demanded to know his name at once.

He wrote it on a cocktail napkin for her, thinking,
Swell—on top of egomaniacs demanding a flight in the middle of a windstorm and a perv showing me his bo-bo, I'm going to get written up by this malcontent with the voice box.
“There you go, madam. Now, have you changed your mind about a beverage, or do you choose to be unhappy
and
thirsty? Hm?”

She snatched the napkin out of his hand. “Give me a cola,” she said. “Not diet.”

“God forbid,” he replied, snapping the top of the can and pouring the bubbly drink over ice.

A while later, strapped in for landing in the flight attendant jump seat, Salads said, “You're a little short today, huh?”

“I know it,” Carlisle sighed, as if exasperated with himself. “They all think they're the only ones who get a little bent out of shape when the flights are late or oversold or like riding a bronco through the sky. And
that one,” he said, jutting his chin toward the planeload of passengers. “The woman with the candy floss on her head? Did you hear that voice? That demanding, demeaning voice?”

“They heard it in Buffalo,” she agreed. “But if anyone can handle that type, it's usually you.”

“Yeah. But not when we're going up and down, up and down, two hundred and fifty people on board, all either pissed or—”

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than he heard a terrible retching noise followed by a
splat.
He didn't want to look. He leaned to the side and glanced past the bulkhead down the aisle. Ew, not good. “It's 2A,” he said to Salads.

“Damn. That's gonna start a chain puke. I'm just not good with things like vomit.”

“Oh, how does that not surprise me?” Carlisle said.

Bing, bing, bing went the flight attendant call buttons; people started rustling around. There was the telltale sound of seat belts unsnapping, and Carlisle grabbed the PA speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing momentarily and taxiing to the gate. Please use your flight attendant call buttons for emergencies only. And remain seated. The flight attendants will come back into the cabin to help you as soon as it's safe to do so.” He clicked off. “I hate wind,” he muttered.

As the 767 eased into its parking spot and the jetway moved toward the door, passengers sprang to their feet, popped open overheads and filled the aisles before the captain had turned off the seat belt sign. It just infuriated him. He was already in a bad mood that was getting worse by the second. He grabbed the speaker again. “Clear the aisle so that flight attendants can assist the
sick passengers!” he ordered. No one moved. “Please!” he nearly shouted into the PA. No one moved.

“Bastards,” he muttered.

“Come on,” Salads said. “It'll be easier to get them off the plane and then help any sick passengers. You get the club soda and paper towels, I'll get the door.”

“Swell. That'll be such a great help,” he said sarcastically.

Salads patted his knee. “No problem, sweetie.”

“People are just so damned inconsiderate,” he pointed out.

“We better load more club soda,” she said, ignoring his futile bitching. “We're going to be bouncing all over the country.”

“And ginger ale,” he added tiredly.

 

Carlisle was getting himself a little more worked up with every leg of the trip, until finally Thursday morning came and he was headed for the town house he had shared with Robert. His attorney was to drive him there; Ross Levine was just a little guy in his sixties—not exactly what Carlisle would term protection. And he'd only found one person to help, a guy he worked with who promised to show up at about noon.

“Have you decided exactly what you want to take?” Ross asked him. “Because I really don't plan to stay all day while you pack your house. I just want to be certain Robert understands the legal situation and isn't likely to give you any trouble.”

“Likely,” Carlisle said. He felt sick to his stomach.

“As long as you feel vulnerable, I'll stay,” he said. “But I have other—”

“It's all right, I understand. You have other clients. And I'm not as prepared as I should—”

“Try not to worry too much. It's been my experience that once the boundaries are established and the law is clear…”

He continued talking, but Carlisle wasn't really listening. Hang experience, this was battery, domestic violence. Once you finally named it and came to terms with it, you knew the beast for what it was. Robert was dangerous.

He knew he should have had a plan. He should have hired a moving company to meet him at the town house. What had stopped him was frazzled nerves and denial. He was watching the clock tick, the calendar pages slip off one by one, knowing he was running out of time. He was going to end up doing what so many before him had done—he'd leave much of his stuff behind just to get away clean. He'd probably never get his half of the equity….

His thoughts were distracted as they pulled into the neighborhood and found it as crowded as a block party. There was a big U-Haul truck backed into the drive, though the garage door was not open. He'd booked a U-Haul for later, after his friend arrived to help, so where'd this one come from? Cars and pickups were parked along the curb; people were standing around. Carlisle was totally confused. His first thought was that Robert was moving, stealing the furniture. But then he recognized Buck. Buck? A man of equal size stood on either side of him. And Nikki? And there was Dixie talking to some women. Mexican women? Who the devil were they?

His legs were like lead as he experienced that dreamlike inability to move. The scene started to slowly come into focus as he recognized Lydia, Drake's former cleaning lady. Nikki started to walk toward Carlisle.

“Hi. We thought two things could be accomplished here today, with some help. One—we can get everything that belongs to you out of here and up to Las Vegas, where you'll need it, and two, Robert will come to understand you're not kidding, and you're not alone. Not by a long shot.”

“You all came? How did you manage it? You work days, nights and weekends as it is.”

“Yeah, I know. This is going to be a treat. I called Lydia and she brought some friends. We'll get them packing. Dad brought a couple of guys from Burgess Aviation to help load up the furniture. I'm guessing we're out of here in two hours. After we get in, that is. That might be the most time-consuming part of this event.”

Carlisle glanced at the house. Ross Levine was walking up to the front door with his briefcase in hand.

“He's home,” Nikki said. “He's seen us all.”

“We had to tell him when we were coming,” Carlisle said. And then a slow smile spread across his lips as he saw the front door open and Ross begin a conversation with Robert. “Why do these things never occur to me?” he asked himself aloud. “Why didn't I just do this myself? Gather up a small army to converge on him? Because if I end up suing him, which I will surely have to do, all these people will have witnessed him denying me entry to my own house. Denying me my possessions, which I have a legal right to.” The front door closed, Ross Levine came back down the walk, and within seconds the garage door lifted. “Why don't I think of these things?”

But he knew the answer. The pathetic answer. When it came to this relationship, he acted like a victim.

But here were ten people backing him up. It gave him tremendous confidence. He walked into the open garage and through the door into the kitchen, where he found Robert. He couldn't deny a slight wave of fearful nausea, but he was determined that it wouldn't show. Nikki was beside him, and Buck quickly brought up the rear to stand behind him.

“Thanks for letting us in, Robert,” Carlisle said. “We'll be out of here in no time and I promise we won't leave a mess.”

Robert snorted and turned away. He took the cordless phone out onto the patio.

“That wasn't too bad,” Nikki said.

“I so hope he stays on the phone out there till we're ready to leave,” Carlisle told her.

“Why? He doesn't seem too surly.”

“I'd like my last act to be plucking it out of his hand as I wave goodbye. It's my phone.”

 

In a choreographed dance, Carlisle's presence was removed from the town house. He pulled kitchen items that belonged to him out of cupboards and placed them on the table for Lydia and her friends to pack. In the bedroom, Nikki and Dixie packed his clothes in boxes. Given Robert's meanness, it was amazing that he hadn't thrown away these things, but then he never expected Carlisle to show up with a team and a truck. Truth be told, if this move had been up to Carlisle, it wouldn't have happened with such smooth efficiency. In these circumstances, he had no objectivity, no courage.

It was not yet noon when the furniture and boxes were in the truck, which they also used to tow Carlisle's car. Lydia and her friends left, and one of the guys from Burgess Aviation would drop Dixie and Nikki at the
airport so they could get right back to Las Vegas. Behind the wheel of the truck was Buck.

Carlisle looked around the interior of the town house from the kitchen. He had taken the living room furniture, big-screen television, pictures, bedroom suite, most of the kitchen accoutrements.

Robert came in from the patio, a hangdog expression on his handsome face. Carlisle held out his hand for the cordless. He placed it on its base, unplugged it from the wall and wound the cord around it.

Robert's hands were plunged deeply into his pockets, and that errant lock of dark brown hair flopped onto his brow. “Well,” he said. “Looks like you've taken almost everything. Even my heart.”

Carlisle surprised himself by laughing out loud. “Oh, kiss my ass, Robert. There's a lien on the house.” And then he got the heck out of there.

He jumped in the truck beside Buck. “You know, I can get to Las Vegas just fine. You don't have to—”

“I promised the girls,” he said, putting the truck in gear and moving slowly forward.

“It's really nice of you,” he said. “I know where they're coming from. Even I would have expected me to be falling apart, a basket case, but oddly enough, I've never felt more—”

“Listen, buttercup,” Buck said, cutting him off. “Don't tell me too much, okay? Because…You know.”

It was a five-hour drive. Carlisle was going to make him say it. “Because what?”

Buck let out a ragged sigh. “I'm sixty-six. Not only don't I get the whole gay thing, I don't much get the regular stuff.”

“That a fact?”

“Here's what I get. You're Nikki's good friend, you
treat the kids like they're special, you have that occasional drink of Scotch with me and you seem to be a good person. Good people should catch a break now and then. That asshole should never have hit you, and you need to go to Las Vegas with your friends.”

Hmm, Carlisle thought. And he says he doesn't get much.

 

Dixie and Nikki were using a couple of old standby passes for perfect attendance that Dixie hadn't given away before taking her leave of absence from Aries. Because of this, they couldn't travel in the jeans and tennis shoes they'd worn to help Carlisle move. They headed for the airport bathroom to change into the required business attire.

While Nikki finished fluffing her hair and putting on new makeup, Dixie waited in the gate area for the standby's to be called. A man sat down beside her.

“How you doin'?” he asked in a thick New York accent.

She edged away a little. “Fine.”

“Heading for Vegas?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Small world, ain't it? I was just thinking about getting a drink. This flight isn't going to board for a long time. Wanna join me?”

“Ah, thanks, but no. I'm travelin' with someone.”

He chuckled. “Don't it just figure? I finally get to fly for pleasure, and the most beautiful woman on the flight is already with someone.”

“You're a pilot?” she asked.

He nodded. “Triple seven,” he said smugly. “American.”

She half smiled. He thought his prowess as a pilot
was going to get him laid. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Boy, had he got a wrong number.

“Any chance I can get you to ditch him?”