* * *
STEPHANIE WOKE SLOWLY, finding herself covered with a thin, navy blue airline blanket. Beneath the cover, her hands were still zip tied, but thankfully, a quick look around showed her to be on her own in the cabin.
Heavy footsteps sounded on what she assumed was the jet bridge. Salty-smelling air flared her nostrils. Miami's humidity level was as abrupt of a change from Little Rock as was the rise in temperature.
Her stomach felt as if she'd swallowed a boulder. Dread hanging heavy over the implications of what she'd done.
"This her?" asked a uniformed police officer.
Brady nodded.
"Ma'am," the officer said, "I'm going to have to take you to an airport holding area for questions."
Fat, silent tears slid down her cheeks. "I understand."
Wearing a grim expression, looking as if he wanted to step in, but legally, ethically couldn't, Brady averted his stare.
To him the officer said, "I've taken statements from your crew and the rest of my team is speaking with passengers. Now that she's awake, I'll place Ms. Olmstead in a holding cell and return to the aircraft to debrief you. Ma'am, I'll need you to come with me."
Silently complying, she stood.
Before she could catch it with her restrained hands, the blanket someone had thoughtfully placed over her fell to the floor.
As much as she wished to be rescued, Stephanie knew she'd gotten herself into this mess, and had no one to turn to in escaping the situation but herself. Heart pounding even worse now than it had during her panic attack, she fought for air.
"Ma'am," the officer prompted, motioning her out of her row and into the center aisle.
"W-what about my purse and carry-on?"
"Both are now evidence."
This brought on a fresh wave of nausea.
The airline's space was tight, and on her way out, she brushed against Brady. He, in turn, reached out to steady her. As he had during her panic attack, his kindly touch warmed her. Without saying a word, he told her he cared.
Off the aircraft and standing in the Jetway with the officer alongside her, Stephanie began her walk of shame. In the gate area, police had set up a base of operations, forcing her fellow passengers to stay inside a temporary barricade.
The weight of their stares made her want to hide. If it weren't for her bizarre behavior, they would all be on their way to their final destinations.
"You owe me a gin and tonic, freak." Her former seatmate charged at her, but an officer held him at bay.
Even past the gate, people stared.
Their eyes asked what she'd done to be in cuffs.
The only silver lining in the situation was that she'd chosen to leave the girls at home. If they'd been with her, Lord only knows what might've happened.
Finally, they reached a secure area of Miami International that looked as stark, white and depressing as any interrogation room she'd seen on TV.
"Have a seat," the officer said, directing her to a hard metal chair facing a two-way mirror. Who was behind it? FBI? CIA? As terrified as she'd been on the plane, she was now that afraid of spending the rest of her life in jail. "Need water? Coffee? Something to eat?"
"No, thank you." Judging by her roiling stomach, anything she ate would only sour.
"All right, well, sit tight and my supervisor will be in to question you."
Stephanie could only nod as she awaited her fate.
Chapter Two
"How's it going?" Brady asked one of the last investigators still at the gate. In the four hours since landing, he'd finished postflight paperwork, and though scheduled for a return flight to Memphis, due to the delay brought on by Steph's incident, a floater pilot had gone in Brady's place.
"We're about finished," the tall, thin man said, making a notation on a clipboard. Acne scars marred his complexion, but warm blue eyes and a smile made him the most approachable of the hard-edged security-types. "I just got word that the suspect's story checks out. Looks like your garden-variety crazy."
Brady winced at the guy's cavalier choice in wording. As if Steph's meltdown had been no big deal. Granted, in the grand scheme of things, nothing had happened, but he could only imagine what she was still going through. As Michael's friend, he owed it to the guy to make sure she got through this unscathed.
"So, um—" Brady strove for a casual tone "—what's going to happen to her? The suspect?"
The guy shrugged. "Guess she'll go on with her business. Best as I can recall, she's in town to pack up her dead husband's stuff."
"Where is Mrs. Olmstead? Would I be allowed to see her?"
Eyes narrowed, the investigator asked, "Always take this much interest in your passengers?"
"No." And Brady failed to see what business it was of this guy's.
"Whatever. She was a looker. Don't blame you for wanting to tap that."
Blanching at the man's crudeness, Brady asked, "Is she still in the main security area?"
"Far as I know."
"Thanks."
Not in the mood for additional small talk, Brady headed for the Miami Police's airport offices.
Once there, he was pointed to an unwelcoming waiting area that showed years of abuse. Scuffed white walls. Blue vinyl chairs with duct-taped holes. A smell lingering between scalded coffee and BO.
An hour later, he'd finished reading a three-day-old Miami Herald and had just started on a tattered Car Trader when Stephanie rounded a corner.
"You're here," she said, confusion marring her pretty features. In her left hand, she gripped a sheath of papers. In her right, a flowery quilted purse and a standard black carry-on that caught a ride on the retractable handle of a larger black suitcase with wheels.
Saying what first came to mind, he blurted, "I, ah, thought you'd need help finding your way out of this maze." But getting her safely to the parking lot wasn't the only reason he'd stayed. As for that, the jury was still out. Partially because it was the right thing to do—for Michael. Moreover, because as much as he sensed she needed a friend, so did he.
"Thank you." Her voice was hoarse.
He rose, gesturing for her to start down the long hallway leading to the exit.
Outside, the return to Miami International's usual frenetic pace was jarring. Leaning her luggage against the wall, Stephanie crossed her arms and groaned.
"What's wrong?" he asked. Never had he seen a woman—anyone—appear more fragile. The slump of her shoulders, her waxen complexion, and the redness in her eyes told the story of her horrible day. "I mean, besides the obvious." Hoping to lighten her mood, he added a smile.
Eyes pooling with tears, her lower lip trembled. "I'm so tired, and I'm sure my rental car reservation has been canceled and after all I've just been through, the thought of going to Austin's empty house is killing me." Austin—another mutual friend, let Michael keep a room in the home he'd inherited from his mom. It was in a retirement village and the guys used to give him and Michael crap about leading on the geriatric set. Brady had just gotten an invitation for Austin's wedding, leading him to put two and two together in assuming Steph was in town to pack a few of Michael's things left in Austin's soon-to-be-sold house.
"I don't blame you for dreading that plan."
"You've been great," she said, "especially when I almost took out your plane."
"Not even close," he reasoned.
"Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but if I've learned anything from this situation, it's that I'm not superwoman. When my doctor recommended medication—at least in-flight—I should've taken her up on it."
"Your call. But after the results of your latest trip, probably a good one." He gave her what he hoped came across as a lighthearted elbow jab.
Resting against the wall alongside her luggage, she closed her eyes. "I've got to get on with things. I don't even know what time it is."
"Five-fifteen Eastern time, but hey, that means it's only a little past three in your usual neck of the woods."
"T
rue." Her faint smile warmed him through and through. He took it as progress in his mission to restore her to what he recalled her usually cheery demeanor.
"Tell you what," he suggested, "how about I help you with the whole rental car drill, and then I'll take you to one of my favorite beachfront restaurants?"
"I don't know…"
"What's to know? Nothing relaxes like a margarita and nachos."
* * *
HAVING GIVEN BRADY THE KEYS to the hot-red Sebring convertible he'd talked her into renting, Stephanie arched her head back, letting the sea-scented air wash away the day. Riding alongside Michael's old friend made her feel as if part of her husband was still alive. The sensation was heady. During hours of what she could only call interrogation hell, she'd promised herself that if she ever again saw daylight, she'd work harder at enjoying life, rather than just living it.
Michael had been gone nearly a year and a half, but she wasn't. So many times he'd made her promise that should anything ever happen to him, she wouldn't shut down. During hours spent contemplating never seeing her children or friends again, something inside her had come to the realization that shutting down was exactly what she'd done.
"You're awfully quiet over there," her companion said, veering off the freeway and onto a quiet side street.
"Mmm…" Dragging in more greedy gulps of the intoxicating air, she said, "I'd forgotten how amazing it is down here. No wonder Michael flew this route as often as possible."
"Me, too. It's like a minivacation."
The few times Stephanie had been fortunate to snag a standby seat on one of Michael's flights, they'd stayed at Austin's. Though never having had more than a day or two to spend in the sun, they'd made the most of their time, playing on the beach, and after dark, having equally good times in smoky salsa clubs. "Austin's been sweet, letting me put this off as long as I have—packing Michael's things. He offered to do it for me, but I wanted to handle it on my own. You know, as a kind of formality."
He grunted. "I feel for you—never having had the chance to really say goodbye. Yeah. Totally sucks."
Stopped at a red light, she met his stare and then burst out laughing.
"What's funny?"
The light turned green.
"Nothing," she said, laughing so hard she'd started to cry. "All my closest friends have had rambling support speeches, yet you managed to sum up my feelings so s-succinctly." Laughter turned to hot, messy tears that hit from out of nowhere and refused to stop.
Pulling the car into a real-estate office's empty parking lot, Brady turned off the engine, unbuckled his seat belt and hers, and pulled her into his arms.
"Let it out," he urged, rubbing her back, rocking her, soothing her like no one else in her circle had.
Only he wasn't in her circle. She hardly knew him. Yes, in what now seemed like another lifetime, they'd been friends, but she'd spent more time with his wife than him.
Once her sobs had subsided to sniffles, he released her and asked, "Better?" She nodded.
"Cool." Taking her hand, he smoothed the top. "Then if you agree, I'd like to get a margarita in you before your next meltdown."
* * *
THE RESTAURANT WHERE Brady took Stephanie was the antithesis of where she'd spent her afternoon. Gone was the white, and in its place were plaster walls done in vibrant reds, yellows and cobalt-blue. Colorful pots overflowed with trailing ivy and ferns and a half-dozen different types of palms. The tables were covered in mosaic tiles. None of the chairs matched. Open French doors and a live salsa band fueled vibrant pairs of dancers.
Even better, was her dining companion. Brady had long since dressed down his uniform, ditching his jacket, tie and hat and unbuttoning his starched white shirt at the throat. Though she'd spent a lot of time with him over the course of the day, this was the first moment she'd gotten a good look at him. The years they'd been apart had been kind. His face wasn't so much handsome, as it was interesting. A square jaw balanced by a slightly crooked nose. Friendly brown eyes had drawn her in from the start. That afternoon, his hair had been neatly combed. Now, it was a dark, rummaged-through mess that she found infinitely more approachable than what she assumed was his professional look. His best feature was his smile—a little lopsided, but easy with strong white teeth and sincerity that never failed to light his eyes.
"How did you know this outing was exactly what I needed?" Stephanie asked, feeling closer to her husband than she had in a long time. "Michael loved salsa dancing. I bought him lessons for his thirtieth birthday."
Laughing, Brady said, "Oh, I know all about it. Me and the guys gave him hell. But it's great that you two had something like that to share. Clarissa and I weren't so lucky."
"The way you say that in the past tense, is she okay?"
He winced. "Depends on how you define it. Like, is she alive and kicking? Yes. Are we still married? No."
"Wow. I'm sorry." Spreading guacamole on a nacho, Stephanie struggled for the right thing to say. She'd always enjoyed Clarissa's company. After Stephanie and Michael moved to Valley View, they lost the close contact with the other couple years ago, but Stephanie had looked forward to reconnecting enough to at least send Christmas cards. "Seems like Michael said you'd had a little girl. Do you see her often?"
"Not nearly as much as I'd like." Downing the last of his margarita, he signaled the waitress for another. "Sometimes I feel like my ex-wife's new husband is trying to take my place."
"That must be rough. I can't imagine not seeing my girls every day. This week without them is going to be long." Snagging another chip, she asked, "Do you mind my asking what happened? You and Clarissa were adorable."
He rubbed his hand along his whisker-stubbled jaw. "Long story short, we grew apart."
"Clarissa started over with a new guy. How about you?" she asked, munching another guacamole-loaded chip. "Ever think of hooking up with a hottie flight attendant or ticket agent?"
"Nope." He'd answered with such sudden certainty she didn't doubt for a moment that having been burned by love, he wasn't in the market for another romance. "You?"
"Like remarrying?" She laughed. "Of course, I've thought about it—Michael always said that if something should ever happen to him, he didn't want me spending the rest of my life alone. But with two soon-to-be-impressionable girls, it would have to be the real deal."
"You're a tough cookie. I admire your conviction," Brady said.
"But?" Grinning, feeling blessedly loose from the music, good food and even better conversation, she prompted, "I sense we're at odds on this subject."
After a sarcastic snort, he said, "What we have here is not a mere difference of opinion, but more like a polar opposite. Black and white. North and South. You know, total and complete disagreement—but in a respectful way."
"Oh—of course," she said, downing more of her drink.
"I thought I'd found everything I ever wanted only to have Clarissa turn my life into a living hell. No way would I set myself up again for that kind of pain."
"You didn't think the magic of it—love—was worth it?"
He took a minute to ponder this. "Oh—while it lasted, it was amazing. Trouble is, like this delicious meal, it's a treat in the short term. But in the long term, it ends. Badly. You, of all people, should agree."
Brady's words saddened her. His utter lack of faith for the future.
"You've gone quiet," he said. "Did I put my foot in my mouth?"
"No. Just looking for the right words to convey what I'm feeling." Another sip of tequila helped. "Even though what Michael and I shared was cut short, I wouldn't trade it for the world. My memories of him are price less. Better yet—" She rummaged through her purse for her latest pictures of her girls. Proudly showing him her favorite shots of them covered head to toe in chocolate pudding that'd taken thirty minutes to wash off, she said, "Our love made these two, gorgeous souvenirs. I know it must sound corny, but back when you and Clarissa thought each other hung the moon, you made your little
girl. Instead of always looking at what went wrong with Clarissa, maybe if every once in a while you pondered what was right, you'd have a different view where dating is concerned."
Expression wry, he asked, "Pollyanna get the memo that you stole her job?"
After sticking out her tongue, she said, "I refuse to apologize for at least trying to stay upbeat. What happened today was a throwback to dark times. When I first heard about Michael, the only thing keeping me alive were our babies growing inside of me. I totally get where you must feel bitter and resentful. But once you get past that, focus on your little girl. Nothing helped me more than being with my twins."
"You have full custody," he argued. "It's understandable that technique worked for you. I see Lola maybe once a month, and even then our visits are strained. I think she'd rather spend the time with her friends instead of with me."
"Boo hoo." Refusing to climb aboard his pity train, she reasoned, "You're a pilot. Gifted with the ability to go anywhere, anytime. I'll bet if you made an effort to see more of your girl, you'd be amazed at the change—not only in her, but yourself."
* * *
LONG AFTER BRADY HAD STEPHANIE drop him at his hotel, he had trouble drifting off to sleep. Out of bed, booting up his laptop, he surfed the day's headlines. The panic aboard his flight had made CNN's site. As expected, the incident had been blown entirely out of proportion, featuring comments from only the most disgruntled of all passengers.
As strange as the afternoon had been, the night that had started off on such a high note had also ended sourly. Restless, he stood in front of a sparkling twelfth-floor Miami view and wondered where Stephanie and all of her pie-in-the sky ideals were now? Alone in her dead husband's part-time bed?
After Brady had spent his entire day watching over her, to then be accused of bailing on his relationship with Lola had incensed him. He hadn't so much abandoned his daughter as he had graciously stepped aside, making way for Clarissa's new love, to play the role of Dad. To Brady's way of thinking, his daughter would be far less confused by having just one father in her life rather than two.
The Baby Twins Page 2