Fearless Flying (The Vivienne Series Book 1)

by Karen Gordon

  “I will.” I’m about to hang up when she says, “love you, Viv.” It’s a little odd. We’ve never been overly affectionate, but it feels necessary now.

  “I love you too.” I assure her and I hang up.

  I’m in full-on Vivienne mode in seconds, making a mental list of everyone I need to call and all I need to do—book a ticket, talk to Bob, call Dom, call Danny... I’m going to have to put off that emotional punch in the gut for now. Would he even pick up the phone after our ugly fight so I can tell him his best friend has died?

  Chapter Seven

  Fifteen hours later, I’m standing at the edge of the security zone watching for Danny to come through concourse B of the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. My flight got in an hour and a half before his so I told him I would rent a car and wait for him to give him a ride to his hotel. He seemed more lost than me when I reached him to break the news.

  He must have been at work at the bar judging from the noise level in the background and I was a little surprised he took my call. I played our conversation over and over in my head on the flight, analyzing if there would have been a better way or time to call. I also replayed all of my recent conversations with my dad, all of them painfully too short and full of meaningless updates and banter.

  I didn’t cry as I packed in Palm Springs. I was too busy hammer texting with Bob about the hotel and booking myself a flight. Bob offered to try to get one of the company jets for me but I knew that would throw off not only the schedules of the execs but the pilots too. I’m acutely aware of all the work that goes into getting a private jet from point A to point B. It’s not like in the movies where the billionaire makes one call to command an immediate flight somewhere. I did accept Bob’s upgrade to first class on my commercial flight.

  I didn’t cry on the flight or after I landed, although being in the New Orleans airport and realizing I’m not going to see my dad hit me hard as I exited the gangway. I felt the pressure, the need to let something out; tears or a primal scream, but there was no place for either. After I claimed the car and got the keys, I lined up with all the happy families and loved ones waiting to greet someone coming home or coming to visit.

  While watching a dad lift his son to get a drink from the drinking fountain I realize, I’m an orphan. I have no parents. So many questions pop up in my mind that I never asked my dad—questions about him, questions about my mom. Questions I would never have an answer to now.

  I see Danny approaching but he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t seem to see much of anyone. He’s just moving forward, one step at a time, looking toward nothing. I have to wait until he crosses the security line before I can touch him on the arm to get his attention. He half smiles at me. “Vivey.”

  “Hey.” I half smile back. There is something grounding about him being here, like part of my dad is here with me now. Despite their age difference they were so much alike. I point toward the parking lot. “I got a car. I can go get it while you get your bag and meet you out front.”

  He holds out the duffle he is carrying. “This is all I brought.”

  “Oh, ok. Well, then let’s get going.” I lead the way toward the rental car lot.

  The ride is uncomfortably silent, the only sound being the voice of the app that’s giving me driving directions. When we reach the hotel, I pull up in the drive and while I’m getting a valet ticket, Danny takes all our bags out of the trunk and stacks them so he can carry them all. I want to protest. I have a large suitcase, a hanging bag, a carry on and my briefcase tote because I was planning on being in Palm Springs for a week of semi-formal events. He lugs them inside without looking back at me.

  Bob booked rooms for both Danny and me using his endless hotel points and coveted Black membership status. He set us both up in concierge level rooms at the JW Marriott downtown. At first, Danny protests and wants to pay but I explain that I’m not paying either and that it’s all paid for by Bob’s road warrior life.

  “I’m going to Dad and Carla’s in about an hour then Carla and I have an appointment with Dad’s lawyer. Do you want to go?” I want to establish our schedules before we part ways. Danny has followed me to my room with all our bags. He didn’t seem interested in relinquishing the job to a valet so I didn’t push the issue.

  “No.” his voice is quieter than normal when he replies.

  “I’ll call you when we’re done and we can all go to dinner.” It’s a half request, half demand. I want him along for Carla and for me. I want to cling to the part of him that reminds me so much of my dad.

  “Yeah, sure.” He drops my bags in one corner of the room and readjusts his duffle on his shoulder as he turns to leave.

  I say, “thank you,” but I don’t think he heard over the door closing on its own loudly behind him.

  ✈✈✈

  I sit on my bed and I wonder what a normal person would do in this situation. I often wonder that. Would most people lie down on this giant pillow of a bed and sob? Would they raid the mini bar or call up for a bottle to drown their sorrows? All I want to do is organize. I don’t want the noise of the TV or any distractions as I unpack and make the space my own. I light my soft rose scented candle then arrange my toiletries in the bathroom. I lay out my travel pajamas and slippers for later. I hang my dresses and contemplate which one I should wear to the funeral and if any need pressing. Fuck it. I love ironing—quickly and efficiently making perfection out of wrinkled chaos. I set up the board and iron to press them all.

  Carla is my opposite. When I pick her up I see that she isn’t wearing make-up and her hair looks slept on. She looks how someone grieving should look. I look like I’m attending a conference, complete with a notepad in a leather folder for taking notes during the meeting.

  She hugs me tight and sobs and doesn’t want to let go. It’s only when her need for a Kleenex overwhelms her that she pulls away to wipe her nose on a wad she pulls from the front pocket of her jeans. This would be an ideal time to fall apart, to break down while I’ve got someone here to commiserate with my pain, but I can’t seem to get there. I can’t cry.

  Carla must have thanked me ten times for being there during the meeting with the lawyer. My dad had changed his will when he married Carla and split everything he had between us. I see relief when she hears the news. Before she married my dad she was living on the edge of poverty. She got nothing from her first husband. They divorced when he went to jail for dealing drugs. She has three sons by him, all of them grown, but all more often a financial drain than help to her. I’m not surprised that none of them are here today and I don’t expect them at the funeral either.

  I really am financially solid without my dad’s money and I’m briefly tempted to just give it all to Carla, but I stop myself. If her kids leech off what she got today, she might need it in the future.

  After the lawyer, we stop by the funeral home Carla has selected to make arrangements. My hackles are up and I’m not sure how to take the amount of upselling we’re getting accompanied with a heaping dose of guilt. I pull Carla aside to the women’s room to talk before we sign up for anything.

  I choose my words carefully. “I want this to represent my dad.”

  Carla nods and splashes her face with water. She starts to take out her cigarettes then realizes she probably can’t smoke in here.

  “Do you think dad would want the premier line casket?”

  She chuckles. “Hell, no. He’d go with a pine box if they’d let us.”

  I smile at how well she knows him. They’ve only been married a few years but they were intensely happy, beautiful years for my dad. He and Carla were two peas in a pod.

  “I’m not trying to be cheap,” I assure her. “But I think you will need this money in the future more than we need some of this stuff.”

  She nods again.

  “So we go with the basic package?”

  She gives me a solid nod. Like my dad, she’s not much of a talker.

  ✈✈✈

  I was
more than a little worried that dinner would be awkwardly quiet and just plain painful with three grieving people. It helped that Carla picked a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill where she and dad liked to hang out. The regulars who knew my dad were all in for a proper Irish wake—beer, whiskey and stories all night.

  Danny fit right in and had some of the best Big Mike stories, since he was friends with him the longest. I shouldn’t have been, but I was shocked at some of the scrapes Danny and Dad had with the law. The two of them had worked nights and weekends, fixing up a 1965 Pontiac GTO, or The Goat as they called it. Once it was running, they had to talk their way out of a few speeding tickets when they took it for test spins through the marsh lands outside Savannah. They tried to outrun the cops once, dying to see how fast the car would go. There was no talking their way out of that ticket.

  I laugh until I cry at the stories but still can’t let go and grieve.

  Lack of sleep and too much whiskey overtake me around midnight but none of us is in any shape to drive. I impress the hell out of everyone in the bar when I order an Uber car using my phone and explain how I have an account and don’t have to have cash to pay. This brings on rounds of stories of how proud my dad was of me and how he would tell anyone who would listen about his smart, beautiful daughter. I almost lose it then but the car arrives and saves me from becoming a blubbering mess.

  In the elevator back at the hotel, Danny watches me. I’m not sure if he thinks I will fall over or burst into tears or if he’s analyzing my lack of tears. He doesn’t explain. He looks like he wants to hug me before we part ways at the elevators, but then he grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  I wanted that hug. God damn it, I want so much more, still. I can’t look at him when I whisper, “night, Danny,” and pull away.

  Chapter Eight

  My dad was a big man both physically and his personality. His funeral doesn’t do him justice. We’re not expecting too many people: a few people from the bar, the man dad had been working for and his family and some of Carla’s coworkers are the only visitors at the wake. It’s strange to be at my own dad’s funeral meeting most of the other mourners for the first time. I feel like an outsider and I wonder if it’s my own fault. I wanted my independence. I pushed him away. Am I paying the price now?

  Most of the guys he worked with in Savannah, his friends that I know, can’t make it on such short notice. They sent flowers and made donations in dad’s name to his favorite charities and their long-distance love helps me feel a little less disconnected.

  Danny stays on the periphery of the event. He’s a quiet man who looks incredibly handsome but uncomfortable in his suit and tie, just like my dad. Not being an actual part of the family he has no role, no script to follow like I do to pass these sad hours. I want to go to him, to stand by him and hold his hand but every time I try someone else vies for my attention.

  At two p.m. the funeral director gathers all those present for a brief memorial service. Carla asked me to speak and I struggled with something to say as I lay in bed last night but the perfect speech eluded me. To do justice to the loving, but frustrating and complicated relationship we had, I would need to speak for hours. Even then I’m not sure I could get it right. When my mom died we became a family of two, but two never felt like a family. It felt more like a couple of people who lived together and crossed paths and sometimes butted heads. We cared for each other and took care of each other, but my mom’s absence was like a missing puzzle piece that had tied us together. Big Mike Ramsey, all-American tough guy, did the best he could raising a daughter alone.

  I was happy for him when he met Carla and decided to move to New Orleans for her. He had been single for fifteen years (although I learned last night, hardly celibate). There were days I missed him, but I was mostly happy he had moved on and found love for himself again. I was also happy to have him out of my hair.

  Fuck, it hurt to even think that now.

  But at the time I was ready to make my own life and stop taking care of him and having him jump into my life at the most inopportune times.

  There is no way to express how I feel about my dad in a few minutes to a group of people I hardly know so I let the funeral director say a few generic things--a choice I know I will regret later.

  ✈✈✈

  Only three people stand in silence as the casket is lowered into the ground. There should be thousands; all the people he had helped and mentored and loved. This is some sick twist of fate that he died suddenly and far from home. To keep myself from facing the stark reality of this moment, I focus instead on all the things I might have done to make this moment better. Should I have specifically asked more people to drive to the cemetery for the burial? Would more of his Savannah friends be here if I had contacted them sooner?

  The funeral director is saying a final few words and Carla is sobbing, the wad of Kleenex in her hand reduced to mush. I put one arm around her as I search in my purse for fresh tissues. I can feel Danny’s warm presence to my left and for a moment I let myself wish I had someone, specifically him, to hold me up. My super powers are wavering right now.

  I console myself with the truth that I’ve never had a shoulder to cry on and it would probably feel kind of odd and uncomfortable. Growing up my dad never knew what to do when I cried. He might pat me on the back and offer a few encouraging words but never a warm embrace. Female tears scared him. I’m better at being the shoulder that others cry on. I may not always know what to say but I’m fantastic at knowing what to do. I focus on Carla, holding her tighter and rubbing her back.

  ✈✈✈

  Danny and I pick up some take-out for dinner and take it back to Carla and Dad’s place. Although I could use a good dose of cooking therapy right now, I don’t want to invade Carla’s kitchen. I’ll have to let procuring the perfect restaurant meals suffice but it’s harder to love people with food you don’t prepare yourself.

  Carla’s touched that I remember her and dad’s favorite Chinese restaurant and her standard order; shrimp lo mien, no mushrooms. It makes me happy because not everyone understands how I love; by paying attention, by remembering their likes and the things that matter to them.

  We eat in relative silence and it looks like there might be a long night ahead of us until Carla speaks up.

  “It’s Wednesday night,” she clears her throat, striving to sound upbeat, “your dad and I always watched Survivor on Wednesdays. Would you want to stay and watch it?”

  I love the idea of my dad and Carla and all their rituals; the little things that bound them together. Those were the things that made me feel like I was part of a family when I would come to visit them--Sunday afternoon football games, dinner and a movie every Friday night, Wednesdays watching Survivor. Continuing the pattern feels good.

  “Sounds good. I haven’t seen this season.”

  “You two go get it started. I’ll bring some dessert out.” Bowls of ice cream eaten in front of the TV were also part of every Wednesday night.

  I stand and start to clear plates and close take-out box lids but Carla stops me. “Let me. You’ve done so much already. Go, get off those heels and get comfortable.”

  She needs to have this job, a task to keep her in motion and out of her head so I go to the bathroom to gather myself and make sure I don’t have mascara pools under my eyes.

  When I walk into the living room Danny is sitting where I normally sit on the couch. He has unbuttoned his dress shirt about half way down to compensate for the way Carla kept the house barely air conditioned. It’s embarrassing how much it affects me, even today. My lust for him has no bounds, no conscience, and obviously no scruples.

  I figure I had better play it safe and not sit on the couch with him. Carla’s chair and dad’s recliner surround a small end table on the other side of the room. I decide to take dad’s lumpy, old recliner but I stop before I can cross the room. My heart lurches. I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. The stupid chair is my undoing.

 
My dad and I had had a horrible, screaming argument when I was sixteen and I was going through an HGTV/DIY phase of redecorating. I had a plan for our living room and I wanted my dad’s fugly recliner gone. There was no place for it in my design scheme. As I look at it now, I hear all the ugly things I said to him about cheap-ass furniture and him being stubborn and unreasonable. I called him an asshole that night.

  I’m stuck. I can’t move. I’m silently crying when I hear Danny call my name. “Vivey?” I don’t answer because I can’t seem to get out of this sad place. I’m in deep, trying to wish my dad back so I can apologize. I need more time with him.

  Then Danny is standing next to me and I know this because I hear him quietly say, “Vivey” in my ear.

  The ball of emotion that has been caught in my chest since Palm Springs rises and I can’t stop it. I double over and gasp for breath. Danny is rubbing my back, unsure what to do for me. I collapse on to him as my need for comfort overwhelms me. He pulls me down with him onto the couch and holds me close.

  And I sob.

  Tears and snot are pouring out of me and the harder I cry, the closer he holds me until it’s almost hard to breathe with his strong arms compressing me. I’m falling apart and he is trying to hold me together.

  “He’s gone.” I choke out then hiccup as I try to breathe in.

  Danny smooths my hair with one hand while the other keeps me pinned to his shoulder. I feel him breathing unevenly, fighting his own pain and tension.

  “I want him back.” I wail. “I want him back.”

  “I know.” His voice cracks and I realize that he is crying too.

  I fling my arm over his other shoulder and turn my face into his neck and hold him tight. I force a breath in past the hiccups. Danny smells like his cologne and the underlying scent of jet fuel, the scent that always clung to my dad’s skin too.

  ✈✈✈

  When I finally calm myself enough to stop crying I’m spent. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt this exhausted. I struggle to lift my head from Danny’s shoulder but he pushes me back down and gently kisses me on the forehead. I muster enough strength to squeeze his shoulder and lean in to kiss his neck. It feels so natural, kissing him, probably because I’ve conjured it so many times in my mind. I do it again and feel a rush of endorphins wash through my tired brain. I turn my head to kiss his jaw. His whiskers feel exactly like I knew they would against my lips; sensual, rough.