by R. D. Kardon
But the very next day that blackout curtain Warren pulled over my heart just parted. Because the very next day, Erik, you said you loved me.
Twenty-One
The bedroom smelled different. The morning aroma of sleep and warm feline now included a new, musky scent. Tris rolled onto her back, and there was Mike. Her Wedgewood blue comforter flowed in time with his easy, rhythmic breathing. How long had it been since she hadn’t woken up alone?
Mike stirred, and in those soft moments between asleep and awake, he reached for her. His eyes stayed closed and his hand fluttered in the air until she grasped it. They both lay there, hands clasped between them. He squeezed a gentle acknowledgement, confirming that the promise of the previous night was, indeed, for real.
They’d ordered pizza, watched The Thomas Crown Affair and talked. Conversation was steady, but not forced. The rights, wrongs, rigors, successes, and disappointments of their lives, their careers, would be fodder for future evenings together.
The two were as comfortable together as long-time partners, not like relative strangers on a second date. Touch came easily, and rather than shy away, they moved into each other, as longing filled the spaces between them. They took their kisses and caresses to her bed, murmuring together late into the night.
When conversation slowed, they simply went to sleep. Tris slept better than she had in months.
Having Mike sleep over was a natural end to the evening. There were no clunky transitions from date to overnight marked by oblique suggestions or implied want. They didn’t have sex, and that felt right.
Tris smiled at Orion, lying on his back at the foot of the bed, four legs in the air, waiting for someone to scratch his belly; the ultimate sign of his approval.
What looked and felt right in the dark sometimes warped in the light of day. A slip of sunshine peeked through the curtains. Mike was in her bed. The familiar alarm in her chest—anxiety stoked by the unknown and unwanted—was not.
Tris sat up and swung her legs over her side of the bed. She yawned and stretched, wearing only an oversized t-shirt and a smile born of nascent intimacy.
Then her shoulders dropped, and her torso sank on top of her knees. In a few hours, she’d have to tell Bruce she wasn’t going to continue his upgrade training. First, she’d explain to Woody that Bruce wasn’t quite ready to be a captain. Woody had his doubts anyway, so she wasn’t concerned about what he’d say.
She hated to give bad news, to say no, to disappoint anyone, let alone Woody and Bruce, both of whom she liked and respected. Bruce’s hopes, his confidence, would be crushed. How do you tell someone they’ve botched a huge career opportunity, yet leave them feeling valued?
Distracted, Tris squealed in surprise when Mike’s strong arms grabbed her and pulled her back down on the bed. Without a word, he kissed her cheek, and held her. Her body’s warning signal never came.
“Okay, buddy,” she said, wriggling out of his grasp. “I need coffee. Want some?”
“Mmm,” he mumbled as he moved back to his side of the bed. “Yes. I do.” Tris grabbed her robe from a hook and slid into it, then donned her moose-head slippers. She flexed the stuffed nose and big ears that protruded from the front of the threadbare footwear. They hardly kept her feet warm anymore, but she loved those slippers.
“But then I’ve got to go. I’m talking to someone about a job this morning.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that last night. So, what airport? What equipment?” she asked, but he’d already stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light and fan. Tris went to the kitchen and pressed the start button on her old Mr. Coffee.
“What are you up to today?” Mike called to her a few minutes later. She waited, mug in hand, for the full pot to brew. Someday, she’d remember to buy a new coffee maker that had a pause function.
“Errands this morning. Later on, I’m headed to the airport to sit down with Woody, then Bruce.” Mike didn’t say anything, so she wasn’t sure he’d heard the last part. It was just as well.
She poured coffee into two mugs. Maybe Bruce had discussed his recent flying difficulties with Mike, given their family connection. No, probably not—pilots didn’t discuss their shortcomings with other pilots.
Mike entered the kitchen, his hair wet and combed back, dressed in the jeans, button-down chambray shirt, and lace-up boots he’d worn last night.
“Well, I’m going to take my coffee to go if you don’t mind.” He grabbed the mug she’d set out for him. “So, I guess we’ll have to find a time for me to give this cup back to you, eh?” He hugged her and kissed the top of her head. She caught the faint scent of black cherries. “Tonight, perhaps?”
“Sure. Stay in or go out?”
“Oh, I think stay in.” He gave her a squeeze. “I’ll pick up Chinese. Up for it?”
“Perfect.”
Mike was out the door in seconds, her question about his interview unanswered.
I’ll ask him later. Lifting her steaming mug of coffee with both hands, Tris inhaled the aroma of French roast mixed with Mike’s black cherry scent. Man and mug both smelled like peace.
The gravel patch that bordered the Westin Charter hangar was muddy from last night’s rain. None of the regular crew of homeless people that usually lined the hangar walls was around, although their bags and shopping carts stood in a disorganized array. The stink of wet garbage coming from the dumpster was so potent that Tris pinched her nose and breathed through her mouth.
She’d parked next to Woody’s car. Luckily, Bruce hadn’t arrived. This wasn’t the first time she’d have to have a tough conversation with a pilot about training. And as Chief Pilot, it would surely not be the last.
Inside the hangar, one of the mechanics was checking the Royal’s engines. He waved at her as she walked by, taking care not to trip on electrical cables or various tools and airplane parts that were strewn in a semi-circle around a large multi-drawer toolbox.
When Tris entered the office area, she found Phyllida pouring herself a “cuppa” from the Bunn, the Westin Charter schedule pressed securely under her arm.
“Hallo Tris,” she said, “stopping by for a wee chat?”
Tris thumbed toward Woody’s windowless office.
“Yep. With the gaffer.” Tris jumped at any chance to use the British slang Phyll taught her.
Phyll’s brow furrowed. “Well, take care then. He’s in a bit of a snit.”
“Why?”
Before Phyll could answer, Woody poked his head out. “Hey Tris. C’mon in.” When she stepped inside the tiny office, Woody shut the door behind them.
“Go ahead,” he said, sitting at his desk. “It’s your meeting.”
She unfolded the metal guest chair and sat. “Woody, we need to talk about Bruce . . .”
“Oh, yeah,” he interrupted. “That training outline you did is very good. I meant to tell you. How’s he doing?”
“Well, thanks. About that. I don’t think he’s ready for upgrade.”
Woody tapped a paper clip on the desk. “No?”
“No. Honestly, I think he’s a bit overwhelmed with everything that’s been going on with him. First, you know, the baby’s coming. Then Lemaster. What a horror show that was. He took it hard. As part of his training I’ve given him the left seat, had him make some judgment calls.” She paused, internally questioning her well-rehearsed speech. “And he’s fine on the ground—great on the ground. His planning and preparation get four stars. But, on the last few flights, his airmanship . . . he has simply not been himself.” Her voice trailed off. She wriggled in her chair and looked away from Woody before continuing. “He will not be ready to upgrade in time for the angel flight. He’s not ready to be a captain.”
Woody unbent the paper clip, pulling it open. “And more training won’t help?”
It was a fair question. “I don’t think his physical skills are the problem. I can’t trust his judgment. He’s become . . . unpredictable.”
“Really? Have you talked to him ab
out it?”
There was no way to talk a pilot out of freezing in the cockpit. Tris shivered as she recalled the departure out of Jackson Hole. “I’ve debriefed him after every flight, of course. But I haven’t told him that I’m recommending his upgrade training be suspended. Just for a little while. Maybe until after Heather delivers. I wanted to tell you first.”
Woody nodded. “So, you’re withdrawing your recommendation that Bruce upgrade, eh? We’re close to a deal on that second airplane. You know this’ll leave me with only one captain now. Who’s gonna fly the trips I want to book to pay for it?”
“I know. And I’m sorry. As your Chief Pilot, I can interview new captain candidates right away.”
Woody spun the twisted piece of metal between the thumb and forefingers of both hands, eyes fixed on the dexterous operation. “Okay. So, let me see if I’ve got this. In your best professional judgment, a few weeks ago, Bruce was ready. And now, you tell me, in your best professional judgment, he’s not. Have I got that right?”
The blow struck right at her pilot-in-command authority. She hoped it was just his frustration, that Woody wasn’t intentionally trying to be mean.
“That’s what I’m saying. I’m so sorry.”
Woody lifted a piece of paper from his desk. “This kind of screws me a bit, Tris. You have to know that. I mean, we’re almost ready to pull the trigger on that second Royal. And now I’ve got a crew problem. Is Bruce good to fly as co-pilot, or do I have to go out and get another one of those too?”
Tris willed herself to stillness, calling on the many times at Tetrix she’d forced herself not to react; to stay calm for the good of the airplane, her passengers, herself.
She kept her response brief and monotone. “As long as he’s flying in a supporting role, he’s been fine.”
Woody lifted a piece of paper from his desk. It looked like a resume, but she couldn’t be sure. “That’s it, then. When do you tell Bruce?”
Tris looked up at the clock on the wall behind him.
“In about ten minutes.”
Twenty-Two
In a little-used anteroom in the Westin hangar, Bruce listened to his dream of flying for Legacy dissolve.
Bent over in his seat, forearms on his legs, hands dangling between them, head bowed, he forced himself not to cry.
Tris hesitated, breathed in and out slowly. “Based on what I’ve seen on the last couple of trips, if I continue to push you toward upgrade right now, it’ll be too much. You won’t make it.”
“Tris, look. I know I’ve been distracted lately. I’ll do better. I know I can do better. I have to have this. I—” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes.
When they opened, Tris was rubbing her forehead. Bruce could see this was killing her. She offered a whiff of hope. “We’ve got the trip to Manchester coming up in a couple of days. It’s not Bangor, but the route will be close to the one we’re doing on the angel flight next month. I’ll have you plan and fly both legs. We’ll see how it goes. But Bruce . . . no promises.”
He couldn’t look at her. His shoulders trembled as he fought back tears.
“Bruce, you’re going to be a captain someday. And you’re going to move on to whatever next step in your career you choose. It’s all going to happen. Maybe not at the speed, or in the order that you think it should, but it will happen. You’re so smart, and such a great pilot. But you’re carrying too much right now. You’ve got to offload some stuff, buddy.” She tried to give him a friendly pat on the leg, but he rose abruptly and backed away.
“Okay, Tris. I get it.” He hesitated, and his entire body went limp. He dropped back into the chair opposite her again. “You talked to Woody?”
“Yes. I had to.”
“What did he say?”
“That you’d stay in the right seat until you were ready to upgrade. No one is forcing you out, Bruce.”
Bruce nodded his head. “Thanks, Cap.” He tried to smile. “And your Chief Pilot training? How’s that going?” Sarcasm crept into his voice. He couldn’t help it.
Tris twisted in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, so far I haven’t heard back from Woody about my training proposal. He still has to approve it. And, the plan is still to have it done before the angel flight. Hopefully, by then, Woody will know something more about . . .”
“Okay. I get it. Thanks, Tris. Hope things work out for you.” Bruce pulled his keys out of his pocket and headed for the exit.
Outside, he stood by the driver’s door, and let his fingers locate the familiar boxy house key. He pinched it while the remaining keys dangled on the chain. His own key ring felt unusual in his hand, like it belonged to someone else. The car key, the heaviest and largest one he had, sat between the one that opened the storage shed at his apartment complex and the grocery store hangtags Heather had put on there.
Heather. He had to come up with a story that made this whole disaster seem like a big mistake. He looked over at Tris’s car. Tris.
That girl has not a care in the world. No real responsibility. Nothing like the ones I have waiting for me at home. She has the Chief Pilot job to look forward to, and a new boyfriend. At least for now.
What did he really know about her? She had been Woody’s Chief Flight Instructor before he started the charter company. Before that, she’d flown a jet for Tetrix. How in the hell did a pilot go from that to this? Early on, he’d heard some rumors floating around that she’d been fired for failing a check ride, or that some guy there tried to sleep with her, and she bitched about it. He’d never had the nerve to ask her what really happened. When she’d plucked him out of the scrum for the prized position of co-pilot on the Royal at shiny new Westin Charter, he was so grateful he forgot about it. What did he care?
He had needed this co-pilot job; it was a big step up for him. Boy, that seemed so long ago, but it was only, what, a year? He had been about to marry Heather. The timing made sense.
Heather had never liked that he was a pilot—not at all. His parents lived next to a pilot and his family; he flew out of Exeter, was the pilot on some corporate jet. Every time the guy went on a trip, the wife went over to his mother’s house and bitched.
Heather didn’t care for Bruce’s mother either. He didn’t blame his wife for that; no matter how neutral his mother’s conversation started out, it always degenerated into frustration at how hard her life was, how badly it’d worked out. Bruce had warned Heather about his mom before they were married, warned her about his dad, too. Both his parents had a way of sucking people into their bitter, disappointing point of view.
Heather had said she didn’t care. But once the glow of being a newlywed wore off, Heather avoided her in-laws.
Bruce had assured Heather that the two of them would never become like those neighbors, or his mother and father. Westin Charter was the perfect compromise. He took the job at Westin, got a week’s vacation to get married, and four months later had a bun in the oven.
Bruce never told Heather about his first interview at Legacy, which came a week after their honeymoon in Oahu. She was so happy, opening boxes of wedding gifts and decorating their freshly painted two-bedroom rental home. He’d hoped to surprise her with news of the new job, the career position that would set them up for life. So, luckily, he was spared that awkward conversation.
The wind picked up and cut through his flimsy Westin Charter windbreaker. Idiot. It’s twenty-five degrees out with the wind chill. Why’d you leave your parka at home?
Despite the refuge the inside of the Bronco promised, Bruce couldn’t seem to stick the key in the lock, turn it and open the door. Every time he tried, his right hand flopped down on his thigh. What if the engine exploded or caught on fire? There was no checklist for this, for a car. What would he do if it burst into flames?
No, no that won’t happen. That’s insane.
Thinking how he must look, standing there, Bruce opened the Bronco’s cargo bin and huddled over his golf clubs. He slowly removed them from his golf b
ag one at a time, as if to make sure they were okay. They were made of the finest tungsten steel. His Big Bertha had its pom pom cover on it. Nothing had changed.
Bruce pulled the bag out of the trunk. A pilot who pulls their clubs out of the trunk is reorganizing. Lake-effect snow began to swirl around him as the wind speed increased. He clasped his hands together and blew into them.
If he got a job at Legacy, he’d need a bigger car, because he’d need a larger overnight bag. He had to get the job at Legacy. Once he did, he could buy a bigger car. There’d be room in his trunk for everything he needed. He hefted the bag back in.
They’d hired Danny. Christ, if they hired that guy, Bruce should have no problem. But Danny had all that command time from his captain days at Clear Sky. Bruce’s smile dropped into a scowl. His chance to get that same experience was in serious jeopardy.
Tris had given up on him. Maybe she didn’t have the chops to train him.
He looked over at her car, parked just a few spots away. For a moment, he imagined swinging Big Bertha against its front windshield, glass flying. She wouldn’t be hurt, just inconvenienced, the way she had inconvenienced him.
That’s ridiculous. What are you thinking?
There were still options. The Chief Pilot job wasn’t filled yet. Hadn’t Mike met with Woody again today? It was a flicker of hope. After all, Mike had so much experience in the Royal. Surely, he’d catch something she couldn’t, teach Bruce some tricks, give him the right push. Maybe Heather had been right about Tris after all.
Glad I suggested Mike talk to Woody about a job.
It’s not over.
Another strong gust of wind blew through his windbreaker. Finally, he could unlock the Bronco, stick his key in the ignition, and start it up.
Twenty-Three
Tris nudged Mike’s foot out of her way and plopped down next to him. “Hey. Don’t be such a couch hog,” she joked.
This was only her second time at his place, though it turned out he lived less than two blocks from her. She could see her patio from his bedroom window.