Grace Takes Off

by Julie Hyzy

  “For instance?”

  He gave me the “No more discussion” face. “I’m certain he’s not behind this. Forget I said anything.”

  I swallowed my impatience. Bennett wasn’t giving me the full story and I got the impression there was more menace to this Deinhart character than he was letting on. I’d learned, however, that Bennett wouldn’t share information until he was ready to do so. Even with me. Resigned, I returned to the issue at hand. “The charter company should be able to find us a replacement flight, shouldn’t they?”

  “They’re working on it,” he said, “but they warned that the fleet is stretched pretty thin right now. They’ll do their best to get us in the air by this evening.”

  I wanted to ask why Bennett had felt the need to wake me up if the end result meant I could sleep later, but he looked so concerned about the situation that I knew there must be more.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the plane,” he said, “but the pilot is another story. He was arrested last night. For assault.”

  “The same guy who flew us out here?”

  Bennett nodded.

  “No way. We talked with him,” I said, my voice taking on a “this is ridiculous” tone. “That guy is a milquetoast.”

  Bennett snickered. “There’s a word I haven’t heard in a long time.”

  “The guy had zero personality. When we came aboard and he greeted us, I wondered how he’d ever made it through a job interview in the first place. He was about as passionate as . . . as . . .”—I looked around the room and, coming up without a fitting example, I kicked the nearest thing I could find—“this footstool.”

  “I’m only reporting what I was told.”

  I rubbed my eyes again, wondering if, perhaps, I was still dreaming. “Sorry for the outburst,” I said, chuckling to myself. “But I can’t imagine our pilot assaulting anyone. You’d find his face in the dictionary under ‘mild-mannered.’ The kind of man who would apologize to the rock he tripped over.”

  “It’s always the quiet ones who surprise you.”

  “True enough.” I slid a longing glance toward my pillow and wondered how hard it would be to fall back asleep. “How long before we need to be out the door? And is there anything we need to be doing?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Nico’s assistant is working on finding us another flight.”

  “But if our charter company promised—”

  “They warned that there’s no guarantee they can have a new pilot here in time. If Nico can arrange for our transportation sooner, we’ll take him up on it. That’s why I came pounding at your door. We need to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.” Bennett fixed me with a meaningful stare. “Even worse, we may have to share the flight back.”

  “Share?” I repeated, annoying myself by doing so. “With whom?”

  “That depends upon the luck of the draw,” Bennett said. “I’ve done this sort of thing before and although I’m not fond of sharing flights with strangers, it could be my only hope of making the meeting on time. It’s infinitely better than flying on a commercial vehicle, even first class.”

  So much for crawling back to bed. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Nico is taking care of everything for us. His driver will be ready whenever we need to leave, and he’s having the chef prepare breakfast now so that we won’t have to travel on empty stomachs.”

  “That’s very kind of him.”

  Bennett turned to leave. “I’ll meet you down there.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I wanted to talk with you about that Picasso skull.”

  Bennett raised a finger to his lips. “Later,” he whispered.

  • • •

  BREAKFAST AT VILLA PEZZATI WAS AN EVENT I’d tell my grandchildren about—if I ever had grandchildren. I couldn’t imagine how much effort it must have taken to have gotten such a fabulous meal together so splendidly on such an abbreviated timetable.

  The chef had done her very best to include a number of American offerings along with traditional Italian breakfast fare. The food was wonderful, but it was the presentation and the service that stirred me most of all. I felt as though we’d been transported back in time. At dinner last night, we’d had butlers at the ready, but this morning, they were doubly attentive, presenting breads, cooked and cold meats, cheeses, eggs, fruits, and delicious pastries for us to sample, until I had to push myself from the table, knowing that otherwise I might burst.

  With my coffee—an Americanized version because I hadn’t quite gotten used to Italian coffee over the past week—replenished yet again, Bennett, Nico, and I sat back to discuss the flight situation.

  As we did, a butler came in to hand Nico a linen note. The elderly man groped his shirt pocket for reading glasses, which another butler hurriedly nabbed from a nearby table to present to him. Nico read the note slowly, eyebrows up, mouth turned down. When he finished, he looked at us. “Good news, to some degree,” he said. “There appears to be a flight leaving for the United States this afternoon at two o’clock.” He handed the note back to the butler who’d first presented it and spoke to the man. “Let them know we need more details.”

  “Do you know where the flight is scheduled to land?” Bennett asked. “Or who we would be traveling with?”

  Nico signaled for more Italian coffee for himself and Bennett. As it was poured, he shook his head. “You know as much as I do at the moment, my friend. My assistant is moving forward to attempt to secure your passage on this particular flight.”

  I wondered if that “assistant” was Angelo. I hadn’t seen the big man all morning.

  Nico took a slurpy sip of his hot brew. “The good news is, however, that if this works out, you’ll have a more relaxing morning than we’d anticipated.”

  After we’d enjoyed our fill, Bennett asked if it would be all right to have Chef Antoinette come out of the kitchen so that we could thank her personally. Nico smiled as though he thought the request quaint, but indulged us just the same.

  One of the butlers brought her out. No more than five feet tall, she had black-rooted, dishwater-blonde hair and was wearing a strawberry-stained white apron that barely made it around her girth. With a darting glance at Nico, she nodded as she mumbled, “Buongiorno.”

  Bennett spoke to her in broken Italian with Nico helping whenever he stumbled on a word, but I caught enough of the conversation to understand Bennett’s effusive compliments and humble gratitude.

  Antoinette’s eyes grew wide and glassy. She listened, swallowing visibly. Her mouth went tight as her cheeks flushed red. When Bennett finished, she flashed an inquiring glance toward Nico. Then, as though throwing caution to the wind, she rushed forward, grasping Bennett’s hands in both of her ruddy ones, thanking him in overjoyed Italian and, if I understood her correctly, wishing him a long life, much prosperity, and all the graces God could offer.

  She bobbed low, and as she made her way out again, thanking Bennett, thanking Nico, and thanking me, I was moved by the woman’s heartfelt gratitude. We all want to be appreciated, I mused. Here was a perfect reminder of why I should always make a point of thanking people and letting them know that their efforts were valued. I wasn’t bad at that, but I could be better. I decided I would be, starting now.

  Barely had the door swung shut behind her when one of the butlers returned, bearing another linen note. Nico read it, again slowly, nodding as he did so. He folded it and placed it on the table. “Your passage on the two o’clock flight is confirmed. My assistant is finalizing the details as we speak. The aircraft is a privately owned jet. There will be about six other people on board. They, too, have an important engagement tomorrow, but they will be happy to take you along.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Bennett said, “Do you know who we’re ri
ding with?”

  Nico pulled the note and reread it. “SlickBlade,” he said.

  Bennett leaned forward. “Come again?”

  Nico repeated the name, as Bennett sat back, baffled. “Never heard of them. They must be a razor company. Maybe a division of a bigger firm.”

  The name seemed familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure where I’d heard it before.

  It was clear Nico didn’t have a clue, nor was he concerned about it. He struggled to stand. “You have several hours before you must leave. Let us retire to the terrazzo until you must bring me sadness by leaving my beautiful home.”

  Chapter 7

  ANGELO DROVE US TO THE AIRPORT. WHEN he��d first taken his seat behind the wheel, Bennett tapped him on the shoulder. “What happened to the man who drove us here originally? I thought he would be driving us back.”

  Angelo turned his considerable bulk in the front seat and held up both hands, telling Bennett in Italian that he didn’t understand.

  Angelo turned forward again and started the engine. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” Bennett said.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror to catch Angelo looking at me. “I guess not,” I mumbled.

  Once we’d passed through the front gate Bennett cleared his throat. “It was good to see Nico again. Good to reconnect. I’m glad you were able to spend time with Irena. I have a sense that the two of you hit it off pretty well.”

  I didn’t want to talk in front of Angelo, but I wasn’t quite sure how to communicate that to Bennett. “She’s great,” I said. “The place she took me was perfect for conversation, although it didn’t seem as though it would be when we first walked in.”

  “Were you able to ask her about her brother, Gerard?”

  I pointed out Bennett’s window. “Aren’t olive trees lovely? I never get tired of them.”

  He gave the passing landscape a cursory glance. “Yes, but—”

  “I imagine it would be wonderful to come out here during harvest.”

  He opened his mouth, but I kept talking. “Or harvesting grapes. That would be something to see, wouldn’t it?”

  I watched concern work across Bennett’s face. “I take it you’d like to come back again someday.”

  “There’s an incredible amount of history here. So much to see.” I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up inane conversation, but Bennett seemed to get the idea. Or at least I thought he did when he sat back and folded his arms.

  A moment later, however, he asked, “So, you don’t want to share what you know about Gerard, is that it?”

  “I think it might be better for us to wait awhile,” I said with what I hoped was a facial expression that communicated my reluctance to talk in front of Angelo. To my dismay, the big man’s body language suggested he was fully tuned in to this conversation. “Let’s talk on the plane, okay? It will be interesting to see who we’re flying back with.”

  Bennett waved a hand in the air. “Nothing to be nervous about. I’ve encountered my share of corporate types before. They tend to fall into two groups—the workers and the partiers. The first group never stops talking the whole flight, but they’re so worried about anyone overhearing that they keep their voices down. The second drinks for the first three hours then, sleeps the rest of the way. Either way, we should be in for a mostly quiet flight.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  “SlickBlade,” Bennett said absentmindedly. “I wonder where the company is headquartered.”

  At the airport, an efficient young woman wearing a trim blue uniform and a wide crimson smile met us at the car. “You are Mr. Marshfield?” she asked in heavily accented English. “And Miss Wheaton?”

  As she explained that she would be escorting us to our plane, Angelo and a skycap—I wasn’t sure what they were called in Italy—unloaded our luggage onto a wheeled cart and the skycap rolled it away.

  When Bennett and I turned to thank Angelo, the big man nodded acknowledgment, then surprised me by grasping my forearms. The rumble in his voice was low as he said, “Safe travels,” in English.

  He pivoted, easing back behind the wheel in barely the blink of an eye. He roared away from the airport as the cheery young woman with the bright red lips urged us forward. “Come along, please, we are nearing time to leave.”

  The plane was a little bigger than the one that had brought us to Europe. Because we weren’t flying commercial, there were no security lines to navigate and no boarding passes to obtain. The chipper young woman’s responsibility apparently ended at the tarmac where, under the afternoon sun, she handed us over to another blue-uniformed woman, who introduced herself as Evelyn.

  About forty years old, with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun and the hint of a New England accent, Evelyn came across like a self-assured corporate executive: bright-eyed, capable, and all business. I wondered if she was employed by the charter company or by SlickBlade.

  “I’ll be your flight attendant today,” Evelyn said. “Welcome. Your pilots will come to say hello before we take off, but for now please rest assured that your luggage is being taken care of, and all you need worry about now is relaxing on your flight home.”

  “Are the other passengers—those from SlickBlade—already here?” Bennett asked as she escorted us up the airstairs.

  “They have arrived,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction the plane was facing. “It seems they decided to add another passenger at the last minute.”

  She stepped into the fuselage, turning to face us as we crossed into the passenger seating area. “Wow,” Bennett said in an unusual expression of appreciation. “SlickBlade must do well for itself.”

  He wasn’t kidding. If I hadn’t known better I would have thought I’d stepped into someone’s living room instead of onto a plane. Soft music drifted around us as I took in the cream-colored cushy seats, teakwood tables, and curvy blue neon lights running along the plane’s center. A flat-screen TV took up one side wall, with a built-in cream colored sofa opposite.

  “Oh, you mean because of all this.” Evelyn circled a hand in the air. She winked at us. “It’s more like they have friends in high places.”

  Bennett and I exchanged a puzzled look as we made our way through the elegant space. Evelyn ran a hand along the back of one puffy leather headrest. “You’ll notice how far apart these are spaced?” She grabbed the top of the seat with both hands and swiveled it right then left. “Each goes all the way around and reclines fully so that passengers may sleep if they like—any direction they like. Here. . . .” She pointed to the control panel on the armrest. “Push a button and the lights dim, push another and I’ll come over to get you whatever it is you need, whether it be a pillow or to have your drink refreshed. My galleys are at the front and back.” She pointed. “All meals have been prepared by local chefs here in town, and I can guarantee they’ll be delicious.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” I said. “Do we choose where we want to sit, or are we assigned?”

  “I suggest you choose two together in the front, or if you prefer, the very back. That way you don’t split the group up. They tend to make use of the sofa and television, though I’m certain you’d be welcome to join them. Either way, there’s no doubt it will get cozy in here.”

  My preference would have been to take the back seats, but Bennett pointed to the two up front, on either side of the cabin. “These will do,” he said, lowering himself into one.

  I sat in the other. “So much for having a quiet conversation,” I said gesturing to the expanse between our seats. “We’ll have to shout to hear each other.”

  Evelyn brightened. “Oh no, this is an incredibly quiet plane,” she said. “Not only that, but look. . . .” She pulled at a recessed handle built into a wall directly in front of Bennett that separated the seating area from the front entrance. With a smooth
, almost inaudible whisk, she pulled another seat out from the wall. It wasn’t as soft and cushy as the reclining models, but it would serve its purpose if Bennett and I chose to have a private conversation en route.

  Just as she folded the seat back into the wall, we heard a ruckus coming from outside. Men were shouting, or more accurately, shouting insults at one another, each voice trying to outblast the others, it seemed. I stood to see what was going on, but Evelyn waved me back. “Sounds like SlickBlade is here.” She started for the door to welcome them, but before she disappeared around the corner, she turned and winked. “Buckle up.”

  Chapter 8

  BENNETT’S FROWN MATCHED MY CONCERN. I whispered, “I hope they don’t plan to carry on like that for the whole flight,” but he couldn’t hear me over the din of the approaching argument. From what I could tell, it was mostly good-natured, but there was no disputing that it was loud.

  “I think Evelyn sold us a bill of goods,” Bennett said. “They haven’t been inside arranging passage for one of their group, they’ve been drinking. Heavily, too, from the sound of it.”

  At that, a man stumbled through the doorway, grasping both sides of the wall that separated the passenger cabin from the front of the plane. “Hey,” he slurred, leaning forward, “who are you?”

  The guy was younger than I’d expected, twenty-five, tops. Tall, wearing a midnight-black wig that skimmed his shoulders, he had to be sweltering hot in his black leather pants, black T-shirt, and matching leather jacket, rife with chrome zippers. He didn’t wait for us to identify ourselves. He raised his head, apparently focusing on the seat behind me, and I could tell he was trying to gauge how hard it would be to reach his goal. Clearly, it took all his effort just to remain upright.