Flying (10 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It’d been a completely different experience, traveling to a destination for an actual reason. First of all, the price of the ticket had astounded her, even though it was being reimbursed by the company. Second, Stella was far too used to breezing through security with only her carry-on bag. Dragging her huge suitcase behind her and waiting to check and pick up baggage had been an unpleasant surprise. And third, on her weekend turnarounds she never had a schedule that could be derailed by something as stupid as weather or mechanical failure. If her plane was delayed or late or even canceled, she simply took another one or didn’t go. Sitting in the terminal with a couple hundred grouchy strangers, watching the news and seeing the announcement board blipping planes one after another, Stella understood now why so many people hated to travel by air.

She’d already voluntarily given up her seat because of being overbooked when she had a few extra hours of leeway, but now she was barely going to get home in time for Tristan to get back from his trip, and that was if she was lucky and he left later than he’d told her he was going to. Knowing her son and his friends, she’d counted on that, but even with that extra hour or so, she was still going to be late. She watched an irate man, his face getting redder and redder as he waved his arms and shouted, demand to be put on a plane leaving
now.
No point in that; the icy rain was making everything slow or late.

“Hey,” she said suddenly when there was a break between the guy’s sputtering threats and the gate clerk’s apologies. “Give the girl a break. She can’t control the weather.”

It wasn’t as though Stella made a point of being a champion of the weak or anything, nor was it that she’d never experienced her share of frustration with incompetent people who were supposed to be helping her. But losing your shit never helped. It only made people less interested in helping you. More than that, this guy was giving her a headache.

He turned on her. “This is a private conversation.”

She made a point of looking around at all the staring faces. “Your voice level is making it very public.”

“I’m not talking to you!”

“I know that,” she replied patiently. “But we’re all in the same place you are. We all want to get home on time. And I’m sure if you’ll just let her help you without shouting—”

“And I’m sure,” he snapped, “you should just shut up and mind your own business.”

“Sir, if you’ll just let me see what other flights I can find for you—” the clerk tried.

“I don’t want another flight!” Spittle flew. The cords on his neck stood out. He leaned over the counter, getting in the clerk’s face. “You obviously didn’t hear me the first time!”

“I heard you, sir. But I can’t make the rain stop.” She shot a brief glance at Stella. “I’m sorry. I can only do my best to—”

“Your best is shit.” The man slammed both hands on the counter, making the clerk and several other waiting passengers jump. “Your airline is shit.”

With that he turned on his heel, presumably to stalk off in a snit. The toe of his shoe caught the edge of Stella’s carry-on, but the impetus of his movement wasn’t enough to send it flying as far as it went. He’d kicked it. On purpose.

“Hey!” She stood.

The man whirled on her, speaking through gritted jaws. Sweat stood out on his forehead. “I have to get home. On that plane.”

Stella didn’t bend to move her bag out of the aisle, not wanting to put her face near his possibly kicking foot. She nodded at the young guy who put it on her molded plastic seat, but didn’t take her eyes off the asshole in front of her. “Yeah, I get it. We all do. But you’re being a real jerk about it.”

Some people were probably engrossed in their magazines or sequestered with their earphones blocking the shouting, but most everyone else at the gate was watching the drama. Sick sweat tickled her spine, and her fingers curled defensively. This guy looked crazy, and crazy people did crazy things. Like punching women who called them jerks in the face. She lifted her chin, sort of daring him, sort of caught up in the moment and crazy herself.

“I don’t care about anyone else. It’s very important I get home. That’s all I care about.” He looked her up and down with a sneer.

“I get it. You think you’re more important than the rest of us.”

“I
am
more important!” he shouted.

Stella sighed, no longer interested in this drama, not wanting to engage, wishing everyone would stop staring so she could sit down and stop being some kind of rom-com heroine. “Whatever. Do you see the enormousness of the fuck I do not give?”

He blinked rapidly, his chest rising and falling. Shit, was he pushing himself into a heart attack? She’d be forced to be some kind of freaking first responder, saving his life after she goaded him into a near-death experience. Stella cut her gaze from his and took up her carry-on so she could sit, praying he’d give up. Go away.

“My son is dying,” the man said.

Stella froze. Around them, there was a collective intake of breath. A sense of waiting.

“He has terminal cancer. We thought he’d have another few months. My wife called to tell me they moved him to hospice care last night. He’s going. I have to get home.” His voice broke, but not in grief. Rage drove this man, evident in every droplet of sweat, every clench of his jaw, in his fists.

She waited for sympathy. For empathy. It should have come, swift and sure, to her of all people after hearing his words. Instead, all she found was anger of her own.

“Using your dying son as an excuse to treat anyone else like crap only makes you an asshole.” She spoke quietly because she really wanted to open up her mouth in a siren-strength scream. Because she wanted to shatter him with the force of it like an opera singer breaking a glass.

“I just want to get home,” he said.

“Sir?” The clerk’s hesitant voice turned him away from Stella. “If you step over here, I’ll be able to help you.”

He leveled a stare at Stella. She waited for more anger. He shot her a look of triumph that turned her stomach so fiercely she thought, instead of screaming, she might spew hatred and bile all over his expensive, kicking shoes.

Everyone was staring at her and pretending not to, and she did them all the courtesy of letting them think she didn’t notice. Instead, she stared at her feet so intensely she thought she might rupture something vital. She stared so hard she didn’t hear the clerk calling to her until the little old lady sitting behind her tapped her shoulder and pointed it out.

Warily, Stella hefted her bag onto her shoulder and went to the desk. The plane had already been canceled, and she knew they were going to try to put her on another just as she knew she was going to be polite about whatever they offered no matter how irritated she was. The clerk smiled at her, and Stella managed to smile back.

“Thanks,” the clerk said in a low voice. “For... You know.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, but your flight’s been canceled, as you know. We were able to book you on a 5:00 p.m. flight and upgrade you to business class for your trouble.” The clerk smiled and again lowered her voice. “And for what you said.”

It did pay to be nice to people. “Five will be okay. Business class is great, thanks.”

“No problem.” The clerk busied herself with making the arrangements, then handed Stella the updated paperwork with a small frown. “Though, with the weather...”

Stella put a finger to her own lips. “Shh. Don’t jinx us!”

They shared a laugh. Five o’clock was a few hours away, and Stella didn’t feel like sitting at the gate for that long. She pulled out her phone and sent Tristan a text message telling him she’d be home later than she’d thought and for him to send her a message when he got in. Typically, he didn’t answer. She tried telling herself he was busy with his friends, that it didn’t mean anything, that the bad weather keeping planes on the ground in Chicago didn’t mean bad roads in Pennsylvania. It didn’t mean their car had spun off the road into a ditch or any of the other hundred bad things her mind wanted her to imagine.

She found a bar the way she usually did, this one more crowded than usual. Probably because of the weather. People tended to seek out liquid refreshment when they were forced to wait longer than expected. That’s why she ended up sitting at the bar instead of at one of the heavy round wooden tables set with chairs that looked like wagon wheels. What the hell? Since when was Chicago the Wild, Wild West?

The bartender looked vaguely familiar, but then they all sort of did. White shirt, black pants, black bow tie. He gave her a smile that made it seem as though he might know her too, but only if she was willing to acknowledge him. Shit. Had she slept with him? Stella eyed the dark, slightly too long hair, the crooked smile. It was entirely possible. Sometimes she couldn’t find a businessman.

Of course she’d showered this morning at the hotel, but she hadn’t straightened or even blow-dried her hair, and she’d barely bothered with makeup. Just a swipe of mascara and some powder. Her lipstick had long ago worn off on the rim of her coffee cup. Her slim-cut jeans and oversized cardigan were clean and comfy, but in no way anything close to the outfits she would wear on her turnarounds. Even if she had fucked this guy now sliding a paper napkin and a bowl of pretzels toward her, even if she looked as vaguely familiar to him as he did to her, there was no way he was going to remember her exactly.

Still, he kept staring at her even after she’d ordered her unsweetened iced tea and a plate of cheese fries. He wasn’t subtle about it either. No cutting eye contact or anything when she caught him.

Finally, when he came over to freshen her tea, she said, “Do I know you?”

The bartender grinned. “No. But I think I know you. Diane Lane, right? You were in that movie with Richard Gere.”

“And
The Outsiders,
” Stella said after a pause. “Don’t forget that one.”

“Wow! Wow, that’s right!” He did a small, shuffling dance of excitement.

“I’m not Diane Lane,” Stella told him, half wishing she was.

“No? You sure?”

She laughed, giving him credit for trying...whatever it was he was trying to do with the comparison. “I’m sure.”

“You look just like her.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, though sometimes she got Julianne Moore and sometimes she got Kate Winslet, “that girl in
Titanic.
” She supposed it was better than only being compared to Lucille Ball. “It’s the hair. We both have red hair.”

“Huh.” He wiped at the counter, not looking convinced, as if maybe she really was Diane Lane and was just trying to trick him. “Well. You really look like her.”

“Thanks.” Stella lifted her glass.

The bartender moved to take care of another customer. Stella sighed and dipped a fry in the cheese sauce. It was disgusting, and she grimaced. Served her right for ordering junk like that in an airport bar. She should’ve stuck to the onion rings.

“You don’t look like Diane Lane.”

Stella turned to the man on her left, who had a whiskey glass in front of him that hadn’t been empty since she’d sat down. “Sorry?”

“You don’t look like her,” he said. “Not really.”

Half a laugh snuck out of her. “I wouldn’t mind if I did. She’s gorgeous.”

He hadn’t looked at her when he spoke, both his hands wrapped around the glass and his gaze focused on it. Now he twisted, just a little, to settle his gaze on her face. It moved over her hair, tied in a messy bun. Briefly over her body. Then back to her face.

“So are you,” he said.

Heat, all through her, just like that. Stella opened her mouth to speak but found no words. Her breath hissed out like a slow leak.

“I’m Matthew.” He held out his hand.

She took it. “Stella.”

Her real name slipped out without thinking, surprising herself.

He didn’t seem to notice. He smiled. “Stella, can I buy you a drink?”

This was far from the first time a man in a bar had offered to buy her a drink. She almost always said yes. But that was when she was someone else, some other woman with a different name and hairstyle, a woman in stockings and garters instead of a stretched-out sweater and cotton granny panties, one who had a man at home waiting to take her to dinner and a movie sometime.

“I have a drink, thanks.”

Matthew lifted his glass and tipped it toward the bartender for another. He looked at her again. He might’ve been drunk, but it was hard to tell. His eyes had a hint of red around the rims, some lines in the corners, but it could be exhaustion. She was sure she looked more than a little travel-weary herself.

“Your flight’s canceled. If you’re going to stay in the airport all night, you should have something more to fortify you than iced tea.”

Stella turned her glass around in her palms and looked at the glisten of moisture it left on the bar. “It won’t be all night. They booked me on a five o’clock.”

Matthew shook his head as the bartender refilled his glass. He pointed at the television set, tuned to some news station. A blonde woman was talking, but silently, while her words scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “All flights will be canceled today and into tonight. I guarantee it.”

She’d suspected as much herself, but hearing it said so firmly, no hint of doubt, set her back a little bit. “How can you know that?”

“I’ve flown a lot.” He shrugged and sipped at his drink. Cut his gaze toward her again. “Hope you don’t have someplace important you have to be.”

“I have to get home to my son. He was away with some friends on a ski club trip. He’ll be coming back tonight....” She pulled out her phone, but Tristan hadn’t replied. She thumbed Jeff’s number and typed a quick message telling him her flight had been canceled and to check in with Tristan. He didn’t answer her either. When she looked up, Matthew was watching. “How about you?”

“I have a flight to New York. But it will probably be canceled, and I’ll just go home.” He swirled the whiskey for a second before downing it and gesturing at the bartender. “One more.”

That made at least his third, by her count. Not that it was any of her business how serious he got with his liquor. Stella studied him, though, with her practiced eye. He had a businessman’s haircut, dark hair cropped short with glints of silver at the temples, but he wasn’t dressed like one. No suit, no tie. He wore a pair of jeans and a plain blue T-shirt that clung to a nicely muscled back and showed off arms just as nice. She couldn’t see his shoes, but his leather jacket hanging on the back of his chair looked beaten and worn by real use, not prefab distressing.