_____
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen–”
She had fallen into a contemplative mood, mesmerized by the boarding activities of her fellow passengers. And her deep-seated fear of flying.
“Welcome to–”
Behind her sunglasses she watched as they organized their carry-on luggage and experimented with their seat controls for comfortable positions.
“–ternational Airlines.”
She tried to guess about each one. Who they were. What they did. Where they were coming from.
“My name is Steven Edwards and–”
Their destinations.
“I am your captain.”
The women and children first.
“It’s going to be a truly beautiful day for flying, folks.”
Then the men.
“We will be leaving the runway shortly. Our estimated time of departure is approximately three minutes.”
She was intrigued by their demeanors, by everyone’s bored, “frequent flyer” expressions, which she envied.
“We will be flying today under fair skies and–”
Their equanimity.
“–a slight south-westerly–”
Would that she could feel that calm, she thought. That sure about everything.
“At the front of each section, you’ll see your flight attendants, Judy, Martin, Roberta and–”
She hated flying and it showed.
“They will be briefing you soon on a few of our safety features and procedures.”
It made her feel vulnerable and introspective.
“So please give them your undivided attention during their presentations.”
Morbid and superstitious.
“We trust that you will have a pleasant and enjoyable flight with us and we thank you once again for flying–”
Fearful.
_____
Landing was a breeze, but a mob scene complicated a quick getaway at the airport. What the congestion was about Lydia really didn’t want to know. Happily the family disembarking ahead of her was large enough to disappear in for awhile so she disguised herself as one of their long-lost relatives and escaped with them, head down and incognito, into the terminal, ditching her human shields only when she had finally made it through the maze of security and baggage checkpoints.
The kiosks with their fast-food smells and neon were a terrible temptation for her this evening. She had barely touched the meal she had been served on the plane. Fast-food would be one better than the bowl of dry cereal that awaited her back at the penthouse, she reasoned, but every place she passed was jam-packed with boisterous travelers and there were camera crews at every bend and she didn’t dare risk it.
She had booked a connecting flight which would have brought her much nearer to her final destination, but this was done merely as a decoy, to confound the press which often harangued her at airports. Same for forgoing her limousine. Limousines attract too much attention.
She found the last of the bottlenecks near the street exit and hid herself in that too, hiding as well, as she stood in the long line outside on the sidewalk with her coat collar up around her face, waiting for what seemed forever for a yellow taxi.
It wasn’t night yet. She was surprised to see some daylight tinting the evening sky. As always happened whenever she flew, she had lost all track of the time. There were stars speckling the black and blue of the sky and she noticed with some alarm that she would need her glasses to actually focus on them. Her glasses unfortunately were in her luggage with everything else. She pulled her suitcase behind her as the line moved. She was dog-tired, too tired to rummage for them now.
The line was moving nicely. She inched up, her eyes on the heavens and her stomach empty, wondering as she counted stars in the sky, if the maid had left her a dinner in the fridge for tonight. Helaine would have taken care of that for her if she had had the time. Today had been a hectic day, though, and probably phoning dinner requests to the maid was the last thing on Helaine’s mind.
The roar and whine of airplanes was incessant. She didn’t need glasses to watch them circling overhead in their landing and takeoff patterns. They looked like toys this close up, Lydia thought. Or like a flock of birds. Wasn’t it amazing that none of them collided?
“Lydia!”
The next cab was hers. She had nearly made it. The cab pulled up to the curb and the driver got out to assist her with her luggage.
“Lydia!”
She recognized that voice, though there was an unusual tone to it now, one she had never heard before. She approached the vehicle slowly and put her hand on the window, afraid to turn and reply.
“Beaumont!”
A reporter was standing near the car. “There she is,” he yelled.
“There she is! She’s over there! Ms. Beaumont, Ms. Beaumont!”
Ms. Beaumont stared at the ground and cursed. The cabby froze, holding her bags.
“Lydia!”
In hindsight Lydia should have known. It had been a perfect day. Too perfect a day. Even the weather had conspired to lull her into a false sense of security. Her mind raced and whirled with implausible reasons for Paula being at the airport, intercepting her at the airport.
“Lydia, come with… something’s…come with me.”
Reporters gathered around them, surrounded the car and the bewildered cabby. Paula held out her hand. Behind her Lydia glimpsed Dickie’s anxious face. Venus was flying today, Lydia suddenly recalled. Something had happened to–
“Lydia, please. Come quickly.”
“Venus…?”
Paula shook her head.
“Ms. Beaumont, have you heard the–”
“Fuck off,” Paula said, shoving a camera man backwards into the spectators. “Lydia, there’s been an ac–”
Cameras went off around her like a rocket brigade. Lydia lifted her arm to shield her face. “An…?”
“An accident.”
“No.”
“Yes, take my–”
“Ms. Beaumont! Ms. Beaumont! Did she call you from the plane? Ms. Beaumont! When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Paula?”
“Ms. Beaumont! Did you know that the plane–”
“Let me help you. Dickie and I are here to help. We have the chop–fuck off I said!”
“Hey, you can’t hit a repor–”
“Ms. Beaumont, won’t you make a statement?”
“She hit m–I’m–am I bleeding?”
“Oh, Paula–”
“Ms. Beaumont, where were you when–”
“Oh, god, I am! I’m bleeding!”
“Dickie and I can take you home.”
“Ms. Beaumont, over here please!”
“Back off!” Paula shouted.
“Ms. Beau–”
“Hurry, Lydia. We’ve got the chopper waiting.”
“That’s assault and–”
“Back off then!”
“Ms. Beaumont, when did you last hear from–”
“You can’t hit a reporter! I’m just doing my–”
“Do it over there, I said! All of you!”
The reporters stepped back. “Ms. Beaumont, this way please!” they continued to shout. “Over here! Look this way!”
Lydia grappled with the meaning of Dickie’s expression. He looked like death. “Paula…an…she’s…?”
“Well, they–they–yes.”
“Ms. Beaumont, can you give us a statement tonight? Anything at all?”
“Come on,” Paula urged. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Ms. Beaumont, did you talk before her plane went–”
“Her plane?”
“Lydia…yes.”
She was not going to faint because she was not a fainter. She went numb instead and slumped against the cab. She would not remember how she made it through the sea of flashing cameras and screaming reporters without fainting, or how she made it into the Treadwell’s helicopter and up into the
air again. She would remember the moment preceding that, of becoming suddenly conscious of her hand still pressed against the window of the cab and that, when she lifted it, the glass was wet. She would remember forever that on this Friday evening her life ended in a plane crash. That it was shattered like glass. Shattered into little bits and pieces–1,127 to be exact.
But who’s counting?
End of Book #2 of THE SECRET TRILOGY
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Fortune Is a Woman Page 33