by Kim Pritekel
"It's going to be okay," the brunette murmured, smiling at Michael. "We're all going to get home."
Michael nodded, absorbing the warmth and compassion like a mother's embrace.
"In face, when Rachel over there spotted you, we were all trying to get organized. Come on, let me introduce you to the clan." Denny stood, holding down a hand for Michael. Once on his feet, the mechanic leaned on the brunette until he got his balance, then turned to face the others. "What is your name?"
"Michael Dupree," the Texan said, shaking Denny's offered hand.
"I'm Denny, that's Rachel over there, Pam, Dean, and Mia."
Michael nodded. "Good to know ya'll. I can't thank you enough for your kindness." He looked at each and every face, mentally tallying who he was with, trying to figure them out with their stance, facial expressions or just the way they looked. The blonde looked to be a quiet sort, her body language closing her off from everyone else, her eyes watchful, taking everything in. The brunette with the blue eyes, her eyes were open, accepting and extremely expressive. He sensed a genuine presence there. The older woman Denny had called Pam studied him with open candor, sizing him up, looking him over. Her face was hard with lines bourn of a hard life and hard work. She didn't trust easily. The young girl, standing not to far from Pam, looked like a deer caught in very big headlights. The girl didn't look as though she knew where she was, or why she was there. Then there was the guy, standing over by Rachel. His clothes and stance said more than his words could. Though ruined, it was obvious his duds were fine and expensive. His chin was raised ever so slightly, giving him an air of superiority, whether imagined or real. One arm was crossed over his stomach, the elbow of his other arm resting upon it, a finger absently rubbing against his lips.
"Well, why don't you relax here, Michael Dupree, and the rest of us are going to get back to trying to get some food and shelter, okay?" Denny slapped the man on the back lightly, then walked back over toward Rachel, both heading back into the foliage.
* * *
The light came in through the fluttering curtains, white lace. Dark eyes blink several times, trying valiantly to hold back a new onslaught of tears. She hadn't been successful yet, but maybe this time. A soft knock sounded at the closed bedroom door.
"Entrato, Nonna."
The door slowly opened, squeaking slightly, then closed just as softly. "How are you, my child?" Lizbeth Vinzetti asked, setting down the tray of tea with lemon she'd brought. She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, placing a worn, but soft hand on a cotton-clad shoulder. She looked at her granddaughter's back, shoulders hunched and head tucked slightly. The light shining in through the window made the black hair lying against the pillow, shine.
"I feel dead inside," Gloria said, feeling the tickle of a tear running down the side of her nose and slipping down across her lips.
"My dear, dear quello piccolo."
Gloria's eyes slid closed as her grandmother's fingers ran through the short hair at the back of her head, more tears squeezing out. Lizbeth could see Gloria was falling apart, and leaned over, hugging the younger woman's slender shoulders to a plump bosom. She whispered comforting words to her distraught granddaughter, her own pain pushed aside to ease that of Gloria. She and Paolo had flown to New York when they'd gotten the word of the amazing rescue of the three survivors from flight 1049. It was unheard of, and the rescue had made news all over the world. They had been with their granddaughter at her Brooklyn apartment for three days, watching as doctors came and went, as well as well-wishers and mourners. Gloria refused to see any of them, except the doctors, though that had been a fight. The tiny apartment was littered with flowers and cards, the fridge filled to capacity with mainly uneaten offerings of condolences and support.
"Why did this happen, Nonna? Have I not lost enough in my life?" Gloria's words were whispered and shaky. "I have to lose my parents, now my own daughter? Papa is sick, and will soon leave me, too." Fresh sobs wracked the woman's body, her grandmother holding on tighter, knowing there was nothing she could say, no explanation, that would make any more sense than the insanity and unfairness of the situation. Gloria just needed to know that she was loved, for as long as that love lasted, it was there.
"You have to trust that she's in a good place, my Gloria. She is now with my Carmina," Lizbeth whispered, thinking back to her own daughter, knowing full well the depth of Gloria's pain. "We will get through this. Maybe you come back to Milano, yes?"
Gloria sighed. She had no idea about anything anymore. She didn't know if she could leave the apartment, all of Mia's things still tucked neatly into her bedroom across the hall, the bedroom where Gloria's own grandparents were staying.
"I don't know, Nonna. I just don't know."
* * *
It was dark. And cold. Mia stared out over the ocean, the moonlight glittering across its waves. It would be beautiful under different circumstances. She stared out over the water, knowing that her mother was under the surface somewhere, not even a grave marker, nor a grave, for the teenager to visit. But then, as long as she were on the island, she'd be able to visit every day.
The sixteen year old brought her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. Glancing up into the pitch black sky, Mia was amazed. Living in the busy, bustling city, she never got to see such an incredible night sky, so completely velvet, colors true and in amazing contrast- black sky, silvery, twinkling stars. Someday she'd like to put tat sky on her bedroom ceiling, able to look up into the purity of it every night.
It was amusing, six people, and none of them could figure out how to get a fire started. The rain hadn't helped things, either. Any wood gathered by Dean was still too wet, and all of their efforts, mainly Pam and the new guy, Michael, had resulted in nothing but a lot of foul-smelling smoke. So, ultimately they'd all gathered under the shelter Pam and Mia had managed to make, crude at best, and more of a lean-to than great shelter, trying to stay warm. The shared body heat had helped for sure, but everyone was still squeamish with each other, all virtual strangers, and tried to keep polite distance. It was amusing to the girl, though sad. Even in a dire situation, propriety won out over necessity. She wondered how long that would last.
Everyone seemed nice, and that was good. Mia hoped they all could get along until they managed to somehow get off the island. That inevitable brought her thoughts to her new life without her mother. Where would she go? She had no family in America, and figured she could go with her great-grandparents, but she had no desire to leave New York, and besides, her great-grandfather was terminally ill, and no doubt her great-grandmother would follow soon after. Then what?
"You okay?"
Mia glanced over her shoulder to see Rachel standing just behind her, her blonde hair turned silver in the moonlight. The teenager turned back to the water, nodding. Suddenly she realized she didn't want to be alone, and patted the sand next to her. She felt more than heard, the author sit.
"Beautiful," Rachel commented softly. Yet another scene to commit to memory. She glanced at the girl to her right. The look in the dark eyes said it all, but Rachel thought it might help Mia to talk about it. "Want to talk about it?"
Mia shrugged. "I'm just so sad. I know it may sound naïve, but I never thought I'd have to live without my mom. I guess maybe I thought she'd be around forever. Stupid, I know."
"It's not stupid, Mia," Rachel said gently. The warm gaze of the teenager met her own. She thought that some day, when Mia found out who she really was, she would be stunning. Her dark eyes were almond-shaped and gave her the appearance of the exotic. Her long, dark hair was long and healthy, looking thick and soft to the touch. "I lost my sister and best friend a year and a half ago. To this day I still think of ways I could have let her know how much I loved her. Things we should have done, if only I'd know we had such little time."
"Yeah! Exactly. I shouldn't have fought with her so bad." Mia looked back out to sea. "Maybe this is my pun-"
"Don't!" Rachel f
elt anger flare to life for this sweet, young girl who would dare take this tragedy on as her own doing. "Don't say that, don't even think that." She turned so she was fully facing the teen, her knees almost touching the girl's side. "Mia," she said, her tone gentle, a hand resting on Mia's shoulder. "what happened was a terrible, terrible accident that we may never fully know why it happened. But it was just that- an accident. Your mom's, well, what happened to your mom was just part of that accident. I don't mean to deny you your pain, because I know first-hand just how real it is, but Michael lost his wife, and Pam lost her boyfriend. Those people died because of something larger than all of us, and beyond any of our understanding and comprehension."
Mia turned to look into intense green eyes, turned gray in the darkness. "Do you really think so?"
"I know so, sweetie." The blonde smiled, squeezing the shoulder she still cupped.
Mia smiled slightly, looking down at her hands, which now fidgeted atop her knees. Rachel was so nice and beautiful. Her and Denny both. Mia felt shy and uncertain around them, both just enough older than her to make her feel really young. The feeling quickly faded as another admission escaped her lips.
"I feel like I should have died with her, Rachel. Maybe I still should."
Rachel wasn't surprised by Mia's words, knowing that she felt the same way after Daisy was diagnosed, then died. She kept her voice even yet firm. "Do you think your mom would want that for you?"
Mia shook her head, not even having to think. She could almost hear her mom's voice encouraging her to continue on. She knew in her heart that Gloria would want nothing more than for Mia to make the best of her situation until she could make it better. After all, that's what her mom always said she was doing back home in Brooklyn.
"Make your mom proud, Mia. Do justice to the lovely young woman she's raised." When Rachel saw she had the shy gaze of the teen, she smiled. "Okay?" Gently playing with a strand of the dark hair, the author waited for a response. Finally Mia nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. Without warning, Rachel found herself with a bundle of teen hugging her enthusiastically.
"Thanks, Rachel," Mia whispered into the blonde's shoulder.
PART 4
LIKE A GODDAMN tennis match! Blue eyes followed back and forth, back and forth. Finally Byron Timmons had enough. “What else can I do for you, Mr. Ash?”
“What do you mean, what else? You haven’t done a damn thing for me yet.”
“Mr. Ash-“
“Do something!” Will planted his hands on the police sergeant’s desk, leaning on his arms as he stared the officer down. “What are you going to do?”
“Mr. Ash, we’ve done everything that we can. It’s not in our hands. You need to speak with the coast guard, the airline-“
“I’ve done those things!” Will pushed off the desk, running his hands through his hair, frustration making him nearly burst out of his skin and throttle the officer before him.
Timmons sighed heavily. “Look, Mr. Ash, I feel for you, I really do-“
“Do you?” Will turned on him, noting the gold band on the officer’s left ring finger. He turned back to the desk the sergeant sat behind. “If your wife went down in a plane crash, Sergeant Timmons, and you were left behind, would you not want to do everything you possibly could to find her?”
Byron sighed, understanding fully what the distraught man was saying. “Look, Will, I understand what you’re going through-“
“No you don’t! How dare you say you have the first damn clue what I’m going through? My partner is out there somewhere, all alone.”
Sergeant just didn’t know what to say anymore, other than Will Ash needed to realize that his partner was dead, lying at the bottom of the ocean somewhere, and no matter how badly he wanted it, the man wasn’t coming back.
Will felt like screaming in his frustration, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing the cop behind the desk was going to do for him. Snatching his suit jacket from where he’d laid it in the second chair in front of the desk, he turned to leave.
“Mr. Ash,”
Will turned, seeing Byron Timmons scribbling something on a piece of paper. He stood, extending his hand to the architect. Eyes narrowed in suspicious curiosity, Will snatched the paper from Byron’s hand, glancing down at a name and phone number. He looked at the officer with a raised brow.
“We grew up together. She’ll give you a deal.” Byron looked the tall man in the eye, giving him the best smile he could under the circumstances. The officer was truly touched by the level of grief and desperation he saw in Will’s eyes. Byron never thought about fags before, or gave them a whole lot of credit, but seeing this man before him try to keep it together, he had to admit he was touched, and really hoped the guy found what he was looking for.
“Thank you,” Will said, unsure what this Garrison person did, exactly. As if his mind was read, Timmons explained.
“Garrison owns Davies’ Hangar. She flies mostly cargo trips, but can help you out. Tell her I sent you.”
“I’m very grateful. Thank you, Sergeant.” Will extended a hand, the cop taking it in his warm one. They shared a brief bonded moment in time, one human being trying to help another, then it was gone. Will gathered his jacket and tucked the paper into his pocket, walking out of the police station with as much dignity as he could muster.
It had been two weeks since the crash, two weeks since he’d spoken with Dean, two weeks since he’d seen or kissed him, or told him he loved him. At least to his face. Every morning and every night before sleep, Will hugged Dean’s pillow against his chest, the Egyptian cotton, 400 count, still smelling slightly like the smaller man- his shampoo, scent of his skin and cologne.
Will’s boss had tried to make him take time off, but he couldn’t do it. He needed to work, needed to keep busy. Naomi was helping him to put together a memorial for Dean, something for their friends and scattered bits of family. Naomi didn’t share Will’s insistence that Dean was alive, but she supported him nonetheless. She had been wonderful, and more than a rock for him, which was amazing considering she’d lost her only brother. Hell, he was her only sibling. The service would be Saturday afternoon, followed by a small get-together at Will and Dean’s loft, catered.
Stepping out into the hot day, Will takes in the sounds and smells of the city his man loved so much. Dean would step out onto their balcony, hands crossed at the wrist as they dangled from the wrought iron rail, looking down over the streets and people. The softest smile would grace his full lips as he watched.
Will was filled with a lot of guilt, knowing that he had put Dean on that plane, a trip the attorney never would have taken of his own volition. If Will hadn’t been so damned pushy about getting out of the city for awhile, and seeing something new, something different.
Taking a deep breath, the architect hailed a taxi and pushed those thoughts from his mind. He knew they’d do him no good, and would only serve to hurt him. He hurt enough and didn’t need any more.
He was glad, however, that Jane and Peter Ratliff were actually involving themselves somewhat in the goings on of cleaning up Dean’s life. The attorney’s parents had been to the loft the previous weekend, helping Will go through Dean’s things. Jane had insisted on having something of her little boy’s, and Will had agreed, allowing her to take any one things she wanted. It had nearly broken his heart when she’d chosen Dean’s college class ring. Dean had been very old fashioned when they were dating, and had given that large, chunky ring to the young architect to wear, a symbol of how serious he was about their relationship. It wasn’t until the two men had exchanged rings four years ago that Will had stopped wearing it. There was no way he could deny Dean’s mother that.
* * *
“Has he said anything yet?”
Jenny Dupree shook her head, strawberry blonde bangs falling into her eyes and tickling her freckled nose. She still sat on the folding metal chair, knees together, skirt covering her legs just so, just like her Mamma taught her. Meredith Adams s
ighed heavily, glancing over at her youngest grandchild, who stood by the tree, away from everyone else. His suit-clad shoulders were slumped, light-colored brows drawn. She’d always fancied that Conrad Dupree looked kind of like Prince Harry of England, just much less rich.
“We’ve got to do something,” Meredith said absently, turning her attention back to the two matching white coffins before her, empty of course, though the kids had all picked one thing each to put inside to symbolize their parents. The grandmother had no idea what had been chosen, and it wasn’t her business to know; that was private between children and their mother and father.
Meredith worried about the children. She knew how angry Conrad was, though at twelve years old, he had no idea where to put that anger, just knew that he felt it, and that it was because his Mamma and Daddy were dead. They were all angry, angry at the good Lord, at the pilot, and the grass at their feet. None of it made any more sense than the other, but was there all the same. Walter almost hadn’t made it through the ordeal of the past two and a half weeks. Meredith shivered at the memory of that night, when Walter had fallen down nearly dead on their kitchen floor, his heart unable to take the grief that had stricken him in the moment he realized his little girl was dead. Trying to keep the family together was the only thing that was keeping Meredith sane. What Walter and the kids didn’t know was during her nightly baths, the grandmother of six, cried herself nearly silly, the tears splashing in the hot water. If she didn’t have to run after those kids all day, school being out for summer and all, she would have fallen apart long ago. A mother shouldn’t have to arrange her own daughter’s funeral. It just wasn’t right.