by K. A. Tucker
His response? Yeah, I was thinking the same. Take care of yourself. Safe flight. It’s like he was waiting for an out. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. He dances around sticky situations with the best of them. The best being me.
And thus, the official end to my fourteen-month relationship.
Via text, minimal confrontation achieved.
Mom eases off my bed. “It’s late, Calla. You need to get some sleep.”
“I know. I’m just gonna grab a shower first.”
She reaches for me and gives me a tight hug that lasts several beats too long.
“Oh my God, I’ll be back next Sunday!” I laugh, squeezing her slender frame back just as hard. “What are you going to be like when I move out?”
She peels away to stroke the long strands of my hair off my face, blinking against her glossy eyes. “Simon and I have discussed it and you’re never moving out. We’ve begun building a dungeon for you downstairs.”
“Next to his secret money vault, I hope.”
“Across from it. I’ll remove your collar when it’s time for our shows.”
“Or you could just put a TV in my dungeon.”
She mock-gasps. “Why didn’t I think of that! We wouldn’t have to listen to Simon’s whining in the background.” Simon detests our mutual love of cheesy reality TV and violent Viking shows, and he can’t help but pass through the living room while we’re watching, sometimes dropping witty but mostly annoying commentary.
Finally releasing me, she moves languidly to the doorway. She lingers, though, studying me as I kneel on top of the second stuffed suitcase and tug at the zipper. “You should probably bring a book or two.”
“You meant MacBook, right?” I can’t get past a chapter in a book without falling asleep and she knows it.
“I figured as much.” A pause. “I hope they have internet there.”
“Oh my God, you’re kidding, right?” Panic hits me as my mind begins to spin with the possibility that they don’t. I spent a long weekend at a cottage near Algonquin Park once and had to drive fifteen minutes up the road to get enough bars on my phone to retrieve my texts. It was hell. But no . . . “Agnes answered her emails right away. They totally have internet,” I say with certainty.
Mom shrugs. “Just . . . prepare yourself. Life out there is different. Harder. And yet simpler, if that makes any sense.” A nostalgic smile touches her lips. “You know, your dad used to try and get me to play checkers. Every single night he’d ask, even though he knew I hate board games. Used to annoy the hell out of me.” She frowns. “I wonder if he still plays.”
“Kind of hoping he doesn’t.”
“You’re going to be bored out of your mind within a day and looking for things to do,” she warns.
“I’m sure I’ll be hanging out at the airport a bit.” I heave the second suitcase to its wheels. “You know . . . watching planes crash.”
“Calla!”
“I’m kidding.”
She sighs heavily. “Just don’t make the same mistake I did and fall in love with one of those pilots.”
I chuckle. “I’ll try my best not to.”
“I’m being serious.”
“It’s not a firehouse, Mom.”
She holds her hands in the air in surrender. “Fine. I know. But there’s something about those guys that work up there. I can’t explain it. I mean, they’re crazy, landing on glaciers and mountain ridges, flying through whiteouts. They’re like . . .” Her eyes search for words within my walls. “Sky cowboys.”
“Oh my God!” I burst out laughing. “Do I seem like the kind of girl who’d fall for some Alaskan sky cowboy?” I can barely get the words out.
She levels me with a flat look. “Do I?”
Fair point. My mom has always been glamorous. Her earlobes are never without diamonds and she could make a pair of leggings and a worn concert T-shirt look sophisticated. She’d set herself on fire before sliding on a pair of “mom” jeans.
I carefully navigate around my furniture, wheeling the two enormous suitcases to the landing outside my door.
“Those look back-breakingly heavy,” Mom murmurs.
“They are back-breakingly heavy.”
We eye the steep flights of oak stairs that wind all the way to the ground floor, recently stained a dark walnut, the spindles and risers painted a warm white.
And then holler in unison, “Simon!”
Chapter 5
“Yeah . . . there’s only a couple carriers that work well enough up here.” The middle-aged cab driver flashes a crooked-toothed grin over his shoulder as I scowl at the lack of bars on my screen.
“I guess mine isn’t one of them,” I mutter, tucking my phone away. So much for the US international plan I purchased this morning, while waiting for the first of my flights to board. I’m praying that my dad has Wi-Fi at his house or this week will test my sanity like never before.
The driver smoothly navigates the van along the road toward the small regional airport where my fourth—and last—plane awaits me. I found him standing at the baggage carousel, holding a sign with “CALLA FLETCHER” scrawled across it. After fifteen hours of traveling, thanks to a delay in Seattle, I’m grateful for the prearranged ride.
I shift my focus to a small ski plane as it climbs into the sky over us, its red paint vibrant against the bright blue canvas. How does it compare to the one I’m about to fly in?
“First time in Anchorage?”
“Yeah.”
“What brings ya here?”
“I’m visiting someone.” The man is just making conversation, but right now my stomach is rolling. I try to calm myself by taking deep breaths and concentrating on the scenery—on the tranquil cobalt water ahead, the lush evergreens in every direction, and the snow-capped mountain range in the far distance. This is the landscape that Diana assumed when I said Alaska. On the last flight, I had a window seat for the descent and I spent all of it pressed against the glass, mesmerized by the vast mosaic of treetops and lakes.
How different will my end destination look?
“Is Bangor far by plane?” It’s early evening and the sun is still high, with no hint of it going down anytime soon. Will we get there before dark?
“About four hundred miles. An hour’s ride. Somewhere in and around that, anyway.”
I release a shaky breath against this odd mix of eagerness, dread, and fear. An hour and a bit until I meet my father.
“I take it that’s where you’re going, then? Bangor, I mean.”
“Yeah. Have you been?”
“Not in years. But they’ve got them Dash 8s flying out that way a couple times a day. So who’re you flying with?”
“Alaska Wild.”
He nods. “Fletcher’s planes. They’re good. They’ve been around a long time.”
There’s something familiar in the way he says my last name, a way that pricks at my senses. “Do you know him? Wren Fletcher, I mean.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The driver nods for emphasis. “I’ve been doin’ this job for twenty years now. You recognize faces after a while, and Wren’s come out to Anchorage enough times for me to get to know him. In fact I gave him a ride to the hospital not that long ago. He had a nasty cough he needed looked at. Some sort of bug.”
My stomach tightens. Yeah, a bug. One that will slowly kill him.
“Hey, wait a minute.” He frowns as he lifts the clipboard with the sign he was holding at pickup. “You related?”
I hesitate. “He’s my dad.” Why does it sound deceptive to say that? It sounds like I know him, like I’ve seen him since leaving this very city twenty-four years ago. But the truth is, this shuttle driver knows him better than I do.
“You’re Wren Fletcher’s girl?” His murky green eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror and I see the incredulous look in them before he
refocuses on the road ahead. “Didn’t know he had one,” he mumbles under his breath, but I hear it all the same.
I stifle my sigh. I’m not sure he remembers he does.
“Will we be taking off over the water?” I pause to give my foot a shake. The loose stone caught between my toes tumbles out.
“Nah. We’ve got a gravel runway, too.” Billy, the short, twenty-something grounds crewman who met me at the main door of Lake Hood Seaplane airport, drags his work boots along the ground, my suitcases wheeling clumsily behind him. “Jonah flew in with his Cub.”
“Is that a smaller plane?” I ask warily. And is it normal that everyone talks about planes in terms of models around here?
He looks over his shoulder at me, doing a quick head-to-toe—his seventh since I met him—and grins. “Why? You scared?”
“No. Just curious.” I scan the row of planes to our left, and the people milling about them.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Jonah’s one of the best pilots around. He should be done refueling by now. He’ll have you on your way soon.”
“Great.” I inhale deeply, enjoying the crisp, fresh air after hours of breathing in who knows how many germs circulating in the cabins. It’s an even more welcome change from the smog from back home.
Another sharp stone catches under my toe, one that doesn’t easily shake out. I have to bend over and pick it out by hand, my other hand pressed against my Brixton to hold it in place. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat probably wasn’t the smartest move for this many plane rides, but it’s not like I could pack it. Maybe I should switch to my Chucks. But these three-inch strappy wedges are surprisingly comfortable and, more importantly, they look amazing with my ripped jeans.
“This way!” Billy hollers.
I look up in time to see him slow next to a blue-nosed plane with several portal windows. I quietly count the rows. It must seat at least six people. My mother had nothing to worry about. I pause to take a picture of the plane with my phone, and then one of the airport behind me, capturing the glassy lake and the mountainous backdrop beyond.
It’s not until I’ve rounded the corner that I realize Billy hasn’t stopped at the blue-nosed plane. He’s past it, heading for one parked farther down the line.
“Oh my God. Is this for real?” I blurt out, gaping at the tiny yellow-and-orange thing. A toy plane, more wings than body.
Billy looks back to smile at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, there isn’t even a seat for me!”
“Yeah there is. It’s behind the pilot. Hey, Jonah!” Billy hollers in between his laughter, at the man whose broad back is to us while he fusses with something on the propeller. “I think you’ve got a nervous flyer!”
“Fantastic,” the man grumbles in a deep baritone voice, tossing a tool into a bag on the ground beside his feet before he turns with obvious reluctance to face us.
Diana would have a field day with this one, I note, taking in the thick, shaggy, ash-blond beard that covers the bottom half of his face, jutting out at all angles. Between that, the reflective aviators, and the black USAF baseball cap that’s pulled low over his forehead, I can’t see his face. I can’t even guess at his age.
And he’s big. Even in my three-inch heels, he towers over me. It’s hard to tell exactly how bulky he is beneath that checkered emerald-green and black jacket, but his wide shoulders make him look hulkish.
“Jonah . . . this is Calla Fletcher.” I can’t see Billy’s face from this angle, but I don’t miss the hidden meaning in the way he says that. An answer to a previous conversation. One I’d probably blush at if I overheard.
But I’m suitably distracted from wondering too much about any crude guy jokes, more focused on the plane that’s supposed to carry me through a mountain range and on the yeti who’s going to fly me there.
How the hell did he even fit into that plane?
I take a deep breath as I close the distance, trying to calm myself. To remind myself that it doesn’t matter, that this giant got here in that plane and he’ll get me back in that plane.
“Hey. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Aggie didn’t give me much choice.”
“I . . . uh . . .” I stumble over my tongue, searching for a suitable reaction to that response. And Aggie?
Jonah studies me from behind those impenetrable lenses for a long moment, and I get the distinct impression that he’s doing a head-to-toe once-over. “What are you? One-oh-five? One-ten?”
I feel my brows pop. “Excuse me?”
“How much do you weigh?” he says slowly, enunciating each word with irritation.
“Who asks that as soon as they meet someone?”
“Someone who wants to get his plane off the ground. I can’t take off if there’s too much weight, so I need to do the math.”
“Oh.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment, suddenly feeling stupid. Of course that’s why he’s asking.
“So?”
“A hundred and thirty-five,” I mutter. I may be thin, but I’m muscular.
Jonah reaches into the plane and pulls out an empty black nylon track bag. He tosses it to me and I instinctively reach to catch it, dropping my purse in the process. “You can use that for your things.”
“What do you mean?” I frown at it and then at him. “My things are in these suitcases.”
“Those suitcases aren’t gonna fit in here. Billy, didn’t you tell her that already?”
Billy merely shrugs in answer, earning an annoyed head shake from Jonah.
“But . . . I can’t leave my things behind! There’s thousands of dollars’ worth here!” Clothes, shoes . . . I had to pay two hundred bucks in overweight fees to get them here!
“If you want to fly with me, you’ll have to,” Jonah counters, his arms folding over his wide chest as if getting ready to stand his ground.
I stare at my luggage with growing panic.
“I’m sure we’ll have a cargo plane flying to Bangor tomorrow. I’ll get the bags on the first one that can carry the extra weight,” Billy offers in a placating tone.
My shocked gaze drifts between the two of them. What choice do I have here? If I don’t go with Jonah now, I’ll have to find a hotel room and stay in Anchorage until I can get a regular flight. Agnes said it’s high season. Who knows how long that will take? “Why didn’t Agnes send you here in a bigger plane?” I grumble, not really looking for an answer.
“Because the bigger planes are out making money. Plus, no one knew you were planning on moving here.” His voice drips with sarcasm.
I’m quickly getting the impression that Jonah doesn’t want to be flying me anywhere.
And that he’s a giant asshole.
I make a point of turning my back on him to face Billy. “Will my things be safe here?”
“I’ll guard them myself,” he promises, crossing a finger over his chest for added impact.
“Fine,” I grumble, tossing the track bag to the gravel, wishing that Billy were my pilot. Whether he can even fly a plane is of little concern to me at this point.
“And make it fast,” Jonah adds. “There’s heavy fog rolling in tonight, and I’m not getting stuck somewhere.” With that, he disappears around to the tail of the plane.
“By all means, feel free to leave without me,” I mutter quietly, because finding my own way to Bangor is sounding better with each passing second.
Billy scratches the back of his shaved head in wonder as he eyes the surly pilot. “He’s not usually this grumpy,” he murmurs.
“I guess I’m lucky, then.” Or maybe I’m the reason Jonah’s in such a foul mood. But what did I do to earn this hostile attitude? Besides pack too much, that is. I drop to the ground to begin rifling through my suitcases. Acutely aware of Billy standing over my shoulder, watching me as I consider my must-needs. This nylon bag is a
weekender—just big enough to fit two or three days’ worth of clothing. Less, when I include my cosmetics and toiletries bags, along with all my jewelry. There’s no way I’m leaving any of that behind.
I glance up in time to find Billy’s eyes perusing my collection of lace panties.
He quickly averts his gaze. “Ah, don’t worry about Jonah. Something must have crawled up his ass.” Billy pauses. “Something big.”
“I hope he made sure to get its weight for takeoff,” I mutter, reaching for my running shoes.
Billy’s barking laughter carries through the cool breeze.
Chapter 6
“It’s gonna get bumpy on the way in,” Jonah announces from his seat in front of me, his deep voice through the headset competing with the roar of the plane’s engine.
“Worse than what we’ve been going through up until now?” Because my brain is rattling inside my head from the turbulence over the past hour.
“You thought that was bad?” He chuckles darkly as we cut through a low-hanging cloud. We may have taken off in blue skies, but on this side of the state a thick layer of gray drapes the horizon.
I tug my cable-knit sweater tighter around my body for comfort as much as to ward off the chill. Every jolt sounds clunky and hazardous, as if metal panels might pry right off the body of the plane at any moment.
Jonah probably wouldn’t be so amused if he knew that I fished out a plastic bag from my purse and have been holding it open in front of me for the past fifteen minutes. How I’ve kept down the chicken tacos that I devoured in Seattle this long is no small miracle, but they’re churning in my stomach now.
The plane’s nose suddenly tips downward. I brace myself and yank on my seat belt to make sure it’s snug. Then I concentrate on taking deep breaths, hoping that will soothe my frazzled nerves as well as my guts. What the hell was Agnes thinking, sending Jonah to get me in this death trap? I can’t wait to phone my mother and tell her that she was right, that I’m so not fine with weaving around mountains while packed into a tin can like a sardine. That no sane person would be fine with this, ever.