by Kim Pritekel
"After you." Garrison smiled sweetly at her guest, waiting for him to enter the small office she had shared with her father, Frank, before he died ten years earlier. Will straightened his tie and jacket before sitting stiffly in the metal and vinyl chair, avocado green, crossing one ankle over his other knee. "So," Garrison said, flopping down in the squeaky chair behind the desk, her focus on the man across from her. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, as I explained on the phone, my partner, Dean, was on flight 1049, that went down a month ago. Officials won't give me much to work with, other than it went down somewhere in the Caribbean, woefully off course from its route to western Europe."
Garrison nodded, sitting back in her chair and rocking slightly. She had remembered hearing the story about the plane that had taken off from BUF. She had used the airport several times over the years in her cargo business, and knew it well.
"The coast guard and every other agency has done their part, but I want more."
"What kind of 'more'?"
"There were three survivors, Miss Davies-"
"Garrison."
"- and I believe there were others."
"Why do you believe that?" The pilot sipped from her coffee, brushing a few strands of golden hair out of her eyes.
"Well-"
"Garrison?"
Both looked at the door and the cute teenaged girl that stood in the doorway. Her blonde, curly hair fell into her eyes, big, blue eyes looking from one to the other.
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"It's okay. What's up, Parker?"
"Can I go? Did you talk to Keller?"
"We did talk about it, and you can, but you will be home by ten!" Garrison held up a single finger to emphasize her statement. The girl, no older than fifteen, squealed, launching herself at the seated pilot for a tight squeeze, then with an apologetic smile to Will, bounded back out of the room. "Sorry. My daughter." Will raised a brow, as Garrison didn't look old enough to have a daughter that age. "Long story." The pilot grinned, waving it off. "Continue."
Will swallowed, now wishing he had taken the pilot up on her offer of coffee, his throat suddenly dry. He knew what he was about to tell the pilot was crazy, and didn't always understand it himself, but he refused to let his nerves show. Sounding confident and believing every word he said, the architect met the pilot's frank gaze. "My gut tells me Dean is still alive. I can't explain it, but I won't accept the lame answers I've been given."
Garrison Davies studied the man for some time, gauging his sincerity, and making sure this wasn't just the desperate effort of a man who couldn't get over his grief. All she saw in his eyes was an intelligent man who knew what he was doing and asking. She thought about it for a moment, thinking what if it were Keller out there, lost at sea? And with their business, that could happen. Would she ever give up looking for her? For Parker? Not on your life.
"Alright, Will. I'll help you."
For the first time, Will Ash's composure slipped, and his hands came up to rub his face, deep breaths hidden behind them. Finally his hands landed in his lap, and he smiled. "Thank you, Garrison. Thank you."
* * *
"Here."
Reenie took the cup of coffee from Beth, able to smell the touch of bourbon the actress had put in there. The tall woman sat next to the editor, immediately curling her legs up under her. She sipped from her own mug, wincing as the hot liquid burned her tongue. Cursing under her breath, Beth set her mug aside, turning to face the editor.
"How did it go?"
Reenie sighed, blowing over the black surface of her drink. "It went okay. Rachel's lawyer wants to see Matt and I next week. Time Warner is going to continue to publish her work, per the contractual agreement." Reenie sighed again, running a hand through her short hair, leaving it sticking up in random places. Beth snickered, reaching over to pat some of it back into place.
"Is her lawyer here?"
Reenie shook her head, swallowing what she'd just drank. "No. I'll be heading to Oregon." She was silent for a moment, then looked over at her friend, who was studying the toe of her colorful sock. "Beth?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm sorry I missed your opening night the other day. I read the reviews, and saw Pippa kicked some serious ass on that stage." She smiled at Beth's shy acceptance of Reenie's congratulations.
"It's a fun role, and don't worry about it. I know you've got a lot going on right now." She met the dark gaze of the woman sitting next to her. "Don't sweat it, 'kay?"
Reenie smiled. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, the editor pushed herself up from the couch. "I'm going to head to bed." She leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on Beth's cheek, then brushed her fingers across it with a soft smile. "Night."
"Good night, Reen. Sleep well." Beth's gaze followed her friend until the editor had disappeared behind the closed door of her bedroom.
Setting her coffee mug on the dresser, Reenie stepped out of her clothes, leaving them where they lay on the floor, before grabbing the mug again and climbing into the huge bed. She reached over to shut out the bedside lamp, but thought better of it. She knew that her mind was far too awake still to be able to sleep, even with the bourbon that warmed her belly. Her mind was racing, events and thoughts from the past weeks swirling.
Matt had headed home two days ago, and Reenie couldn't help but want to cry at the memory of his face, the look in his eyes. That first night he'd shown up, they'd talked late into the night, the detective admitting his weakness, as well as his confusion where Rachel was concerned. He didn't understand why she had shut him out so badly, never allowing him truly inside. He shyly admitted that even when they'd made love, the blonde seemed miles away.
"I have no excuse for what I did, Reenie, but I've given it a lot of thought, and as crazy and pathetic as it sounds, I think I really just needed attention."
At first Reenie had wanted to scoff at his words, throw accusations and vocal daggers at him. However, the logical side of her mind knew he was right. Reenie knew Rachel well, and tough she loved the blonde very much, she didn't always understand her. Hell, sometimes the brunette felt Rachel shut her out. Though she would never justify what Matt had done, Reenie and Rachel's husband had come to an understanding that night, something they hadn't been able to do in the four years they'd known each other.
Her thoughts settled back onto Rachel. Tears had dried up over the weeks, but she still felt the loss acutely. The blonde didn't get to New York to see her as often as they both would have liked, and Lord knew Reenie's schedule was beyond ridiculous, so chances of her getting to Oregon were slim to none. Even still, they swapped daily emails and called each other, if even talking for two minutes, every couple days.
Reenie had to stop herself more than once from picking up the phone and dialing the numbers that were more familiar to her than her own. One time she actually had picked up the phone, dissolving in a puddle of tears when she realized her folly. In that moment she wanted to hate Matt and blame him for Rachel's death, but then she'd taken a deep breath and grudgingly admitted to herself that Rachel had been planning the trip to Milan, anyway. The situation with Matt had just sped up the process.
"Damn you, Rachel."
* * *
The hut, if it can be called that, was tiny, barely large enough for the four women to stretch out in. They'd managed to weave together enough fronds to create a sturdy skin wrapped around the trunks of six trees that were placed in a near-perfect octagon, thus creating the walls. Rachel and Pam weaved the thatched ceiling together, both proudly examining their creation every chance they got. The ceiling plus overhead foliage helped to keep things dry, yet it still got cold at night. The boys each had their own tiny hut, both radically different in style and practicality.
Denny was alone, and finally able to unbury her stolen prize. As the keeper of the soap, the brunette had abused her position and horded something, though it was for a good cause. She just hoped she'd done the right thing.
Glancing quickly out the tent-l
ike flap, she saw that she was still alone, and crawled to the corner of the hut, quickly digging like a dog, dirt flying between her spread legs. She caught the stiff edge, and carefully tugged until it was completely free of its grave-like hiding place. The smaller object followed. Denny looked at it, turning it in her fingers then licking the tip and rubbing it across her palm.
"Yes!" she whispered as it made a mark. She gathered her goodies up and crawled out of the flap into the humid evening. She knew where she'd find her.
Rachel lay on the rock ledge, her favorite spot, which overlooked the ocean. It wasn't far from the waterfall, and she liked to dry on the ledge after bathing. Bathing. That was an exercise in patience. The bar of soap from the baggage Mia had found nearly a month ago, was gone. Everyone was trying to not throw tantrums when they had to go back to just rinsing off. The other day she swore she had smelled a rather minty Dean, and wondered if he'd decided to use his allotted toothpaste ration for deodorant instead.
Smiling at the visual that brought, green eyes closed, absorbing the smells and humidity around her. Up on that ledge, by herself, she found peace, which amazingly enough, was difficult to find in paradise. She mostly just felt lost. Everyday was a struggle. Most an emotional one. Everyone felt the weight of time running out. It was a small island, and they were limited in what they had. They had no medical supplies, and even Pam's years as a vet couldn't bring about magical cures. What if one of them were to become seriously ill? Or hurt?
Rachel tried to stave off these thoughts, as they added a heavier weight to her heart and brain, and she had no outlet to vent it. That, for her, was the most difficult thing to face. Back home, she was able to deal with any and everything because she had her writing. She'd vent her frustrations or joys in her work. Now, her creative mind was stunted. She created constantly in her mind, always weaving ideas and visuals together, but now they were just crowding together, causing a huge idea jam. Sometimes she wanted to cry. At one time she saw her incredibly fertile imagination as a blessing and a gift, but now it was becoming a curse. Characters and circumstances-to-be-written woke her up in the middle of the night, each vying for attention and their place in her conscious mind.
The frustration was causing the author to become withdrawn and angry. It was almost like constipation of the imagination- a swarm of ideas, but absolutely no way to get them out. She was even getting desperate enough to turn into a sort of bard, muttering to herself as she walked through the jungle, whacking at the foliage with the hatchet they'd made from the random golf club in a piece of luggage that had washed up to shore. Sometimes she was tempted to tell her tales around the quiet time the six spent together, almost every night: a fire made in their permanent fire ring at the center of the beach, not far from the pyramid of emergency beacon logs. Somehow, the blonde couldn't allow herself to do that, to open that part of herself up to them. Sure, millions of readers had read her thoughts, ideas and imaginings, but they were the nameless, faceless millions.
Rachel Holt may put off an air of cool aloofness to those in her industry, but it was all a façade to hide a very shy, vulnerable woman. She bled easily, and hid behind the closed doors of anonymity when the tongues rolled out.
The blonde was shaken from her thoughts when she heard movement in the foliage below, and the crumbling of pebbles sliding down the side of the rock ledge. Pushing up to an elbow, Rachel looked over the side, seeing the top of a dark head as Denny climbed up to meet her.
Rachel smiled, scooting to make room. She liked the friendly coffee shop owner. Denny always had an easy smile for anyone, and made the blonde feel comfortable. Not many people could do that.
"Hi," Danny said, sitting next to the blonde.
"Hey. Beautiful, huh?" Rachel said, nodding out toward the setting sun.
"Yeah. It really is." Getting fully settled, the brunette took out the surprise that she was almost giddy to give the blonde. It was a gut instinct, and something she took from a page of her own life. One of her employees, Amy Tella, was an artist, and always carried a sketchpad around with her, more than once busted in the back room of DiRisio's drawing. The girl once told her boss that if she couldn't create, she couldn't breathe. Denny took a wager that Rachel was the same way.
"What's everyone up to?" the blonde asked, glancing over at her companion.
"Uh, lemme see," Denny sighed. "Dean and Mia were eating seconds of the fish Michael finally caught." They both sniggered at that. "And Pam, not sure. Michael was out swimming last I saw." She glanced at the blonde's profile. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine. Just needed some me time."
"Oh, shit. Want me to-"
"No." Rachel met her gaze, then looked away. "No. You're fine."
"Well, good, cause I brought you something." Denny grinned at the surprised look on the author's face. She was almost giddy to give her offerings to Rachel. "Don't tell anyone, but I've been taking advantage of the powers given me." She chuckled at Rachel's look of utter confusion. Without another word, she produced the two pens she'd found in one of the suitcases, and the pages of the ruined magazine, which she'd left to bleach in the sun for a week. Now, pages stiff and a yellowish-white, they were crude, but would work.
Rachel's eyes fell to Denny's hands, seeing what lay within. Green eyes grew huge when she realized what it all was. "Denny!" she breathed, a hand going to her mouth. Her gaze flickered to a very pleased blue one. "You hid this from the others?" she said half in awe, half in suspicion.
"What are they going to do with it? Write letters to stick in bottles? Come on, Rachel. We don't have any bottles." She winked, then was nearly bowled off the rock ledge by an enthusiastic little blonde. She hugged her back, glad that her gift had been taken so well.
Rachel finally pulled away, trying to smile through her tears. She was so completely touched. "I think this is the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me." She looked down at the pens, one black, one red, and the stiff, parchment-like paper in her other hand.
"I assumed, I mean, I know you're a writer, and haven't been able to write, and..." Denny's voice trailed off, suddenly feeling stupid and shy.
"That wasn't a bad assumption, Denny. Ironically enough, before you climbed up here, I was thinking about just how antsy I was getting. Hell, I was about ready to start writing in the sand."
The brunette chuckled at the image. "Well, forget the S.O.S., you just write us a novel on the beach, and an overhead plane will spot it."
"Yeah, then our luck, they'll get so into trying to figure out what it says, they'd crash, too." They both sobered at the thought, then smiled guiltily. "That was bad." It was only then that she was able to get her emotions a bit more under control. "You know, it's funny- since we've been here, my emotions are all over the map. Either I'm hugely moody and just this side of tears, or I feel numb."
"I know what you mean," Denny nodded, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. "At first I thought it was because I was so close to my period." She grinned at Rachel's shocked expression. "What? Have you noticed that you can always tell which one of us is on the rag?"
"Because she hides out in the jungle for at least three days, and suddenly the larger leaves disappear in droves?" the blonde grinned, her eyes twinkling.
"That would be why. I will never, ever complain about a tampon again."
"Amen to that."
They were quiet for a moment before the brunette spoke up again. "Rachel?"
"Mm?"
"Do you think we'll ever get back?" She looked to the blonde, who met her gaze. Rachel saw the troubled expression in Denny's beautiful blue eyes, and wished to soothe it away. She shook her head slowly.
"I don't know, Denny. I just don't know."
They were silent for a long time, each lost in her own thoughts. At one point, Rachel thought Denny had fallen asleep, but her smooth, low voice cut the silence. "What will you write about? Do you have a story idea?"
"Always." The blonde grinned. "Seriously," she defended to
the brunette's look of doubt. "Even when I'm working on a novel, I'm fighting with myself to keep other ideas tamped down and out of the way."
"Do you write those ideas down? Like to use at some other time?"
"Nah." The author tapped her head. "It's all in here. My emotions drive me, and my emotions and moods, which are seriously entwined, change from moment to moment. Drives my husband crazy."
"No doubt. How long you been married?"
"Three years."
Denny noticed the change in the blonde's voice, but said nothing about it. "I once saw a picture of you two in a magazine. Handsome guy."
"Yeah, he is."
Denny was surprised at the almost dead tone of Rachel's voice. If they were talking about Hannah right now, she'd be lit up like a Christmas tree. She waited for Rachel to continue, but she said nothing more for a few moments.
"What about you, Denny? Are you married? Or at least the equivalent?" Rachel uncurled her legs and laid back on the ledge, one knee bent, the other leg straight. She rested the paper and pen beside her and her hands under her head.
"Yeah." Christmas time! Denny's grin was huge, nearly splitting her face, but it quickly turned sad. "Hannah. We've been together eight years last April."
"That's a long time. You still really love her." A statement.
Denny mirrored the author's position and nodded, the softest smile on her face. "Yes, I do. She's amazing. I love her very much, and miss her terribly."
Denny's wistful voice made Rachel wistful. "What do you think she's doing right now?" The blonde stared up at the emerging stars.
"Well, depends on what time it is back home. I'd guess it's somewhere around, let's see, end of summer, so here it's probably pushing nine-thirty. Back home, let's say it were the same time, Hannah has just fed Rascal, and is now curling up on the couch to watch the news." Denny smiled, able to see her very predictable partner in her mind's eye.
"I miss the news. Used to watch religiously. And I miss hamburgers."
"Hamburgers?"