by Sarah Monzon
Contrition held no space on Henry’s self-satisfied grin. “Surprise!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Present Day, Maryland
Michael finished attaching his prosthetic and used the arm of the couch to help him stand. Time to try this bad boy on his own strength. He blocked the illusion that his leg was there and longer than the one strapped to him and took a tentative step across the parquet floor. He eased weight onto his right side, pleased to find the pressure on his stump not unbearable. It wasn’t graceful, but he took a step. Then another. And another. A grin broke out on his face as his phone on the side table chimed a text message. He turned and took two more steps before falling back onto the faded leather couch. Reaching over, he grabbed the phone and swiped the screen.
Jackie: I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I came across this song this morning and felt like I should share it with you. Hope you receive the same blessing I did from it.
She ended the text with a smiley-face emoji and a YouTube link. He clicked on the link and let the video of Hillary Scott singing “Thy Will” load. Closing his eyes, he focused on the lyrics, let the music wash over him. It was a song of confusion. Of thinking she knew God’s plans and not understanding how the brokenness in the journey was what He’d had in store for her all along. She knew He was a God of the good, but nothing made sense or felt right, but through it all, no matter what was to come, she was going to remember who He was and trust that His will would be done in her life.
The song ended, and Michael was surprised to find his cheeks damp. Sniffing, he quickly wiped the moisture away. Couldn’t have put his own thoughts and feelings any better. God was God, and he wasn’t, but he had to trust and believe that in the end, everything was going to turn out more than just all right.
He tapped back to the text on his cell and punched in a simple thanks, leaving off how much the song had meant to him. Or how much it meant that she had thought and cared enough to send it. Lately their interactions were teetering on a line. The one that could be confused as to whether the person’s actions were that of a good friend or something more. He wasn’t sure where Jackie stood on the subject, but he knew where his heart was. Which led him to the question—was it enough?
A few weeks ago, before Dominick’s party, when he’d determined to show her how much she had come to mean to him, he’d thought maybe his feelings could be enough. But now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe that had been a moment of weakness. Of selfishness.
He didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to wallow in a cesspool of self-pity, but no matter how much he didn’t entertain the thoughts, they wouldn’t leave. Who would want him now? What did he have to offer a woman? Nothing but a half-broken man with no future. His life was a complete mess—he was a complete mess. It didn’t matter that whenever he was with Jackie he felt like he could soar again, like the weight of everything pressing down on him—the disappointment, anger, bitterness, confusion—lifted and he could take a full breath. It didn’t matter that she made life bearable, better. That every day he woke up anticipating their time together. Didn’t matter that the way the light reflected off the amber highlights in her hair was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Or the way her nose crinkled when she smiled caused the hardness in his heart to soften. None of it mattered because he was trapped. He cared too much for her to shackle her with a man like him. She deserved so much more.
So he’d swallow his feelings even if it killed him. Be there for her to make sure Mitch didn’t hurt her. Then when she was safe, he’d slowly fade away so she could have the happily ever after with a worthier man—someone whole, with a future.
He pushed down the hurt and stiffened his spine, resolute. There would be no moping or pining. He’d be the man she needed now even if he wasn’t the one she’d choose for a lifetime.
On shaky legs, he grabbed his crutch and limped out to his Toyota, the traffic surprisingly light. A song by the band Skillet played on the radio, and he turned it up to drown out his thoughts. The jumbled music matched his mood but did little to unwind the tightness sitting in the pit of his chest.
The sign for the municipal airport came into view, and he turned off onto the street, driving past several large sliding garage-style aluminum doors before stopping in front of Jackie’s open one.
Voices carried through the space and spilled outside. Alarm washed over him, but he quickly dispelled it. While the voice responding to Jackie was male, it sounded like it belonged to one older in years without a hint of threat in it. As if to punctuate his assessment, both Jackie and the man laughed, the sound ricocheting off the high walls.
When Jackie noticed his slow progression into the hangar, she gave him a full smile. One that lit her eyes and revealed the small chip in her front tooth. One that caused his heart to ache.
“Michael, I’d like for you to meet Mr. McClaren. He’s the man who owns the Piper I’ve been working on.”
Michael let the crutch lean on him instead of the other way around and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The man assessed him with knowing eyes, the loose skin over his jowls tightening a bit with a smile. “Thank you for your service, young man.”
Michael shifted, discomfort at the thanks. Yes, he’d served. Had been willing to sacrifice for life and liberty. But he almost felt like he was a lie. People assumed he’d lost his limbs in the line of fire, when the truth held so little glory.
Jackie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, her expression asking if he was all right.
Peachy. He loved torturing himself by being near a woman he couldn’t have and suffering the attentions of a well-meaning stranger that he just wished would disappear.
Count a blessing. He sneered at the thought, even though he knew he probably should dig deep and find something to be grateful for. Thing was, he didn’t feel too appreciative at the moment.
She cleared her throat and shifted her focus back to her client. “Well, you ready to take her up?” Her arm extended behind her to indicate the fully restored Piper Cub.
“Actually, I was wondering if you’d do the honor. I wanted to watch from the ground as the old girl soared. Like I did so many times as a boy.”
“No problem, Mr. McClaren.” She turned and approached the wing, calling over her shoulder. “You guys might want to step back until I clear the hangar and taxi to the runway.” With a smooth motion, she ascended the wing and lowered herself into the cockpit.
Watching her brought back a flood of memories and a distinct pang.
“Which one are you longing for, son? The plane or the girl?”
Though it was rude, he ignored the older man studying him and continued to watch Jackie as she started up the engine and eased the plane forward.
Mr. McClaren made a noise in the back of his throat. “Maybe both, eh?”
Michael pointed toward the mouth of the hangar, where the plane had disappeared around the corner. “If you don’t follow, you’ll miss the show.”
The man settled as if he hadn’t heard a word Michael had said. “Saw my father fly that Piper almost every day until I was ten years old.” A faraway look filtered through his eyes. “The sun rising, throwing its morning rays on the Andes, and my father piloting along the backdrop, cargo full of medical supplies for the tribes along the Amazon.” He blinked and returned to the present, flashing Michael a smile. “The adventure of it all fed my soul as a child. I thrived on it. I remember the tingles of excitement every time I waved to my father in the sky as he headed toward the jungle.”
A sense of the ominous hung in the air. “What happened?” Michael asked.
Mr. McClaren lost the bit of sparkle in his eye. “We’d been among the Peruvian people for eight years. Had set up clinics and schools, ferried a few patients to hospitals when their illnesses or emergencies were beyond the capabilities of my parents and the other missionaries. Some of the tribes were beginning to listen to our message of a loving heavenly savior. It was amazing, bei
ng a part of something bigger than yourself. I knew that even at my young age.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. A second later he clapped a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Come on. Like you said, we’re missing the show.”
Michael followed him, a bit of his mood from earlier falling away. They stopped at the edge where the pavement met grass in front of the airport’s hangars. Mr. McClaren’s head tilted to the sky, but when he opened his mouth, his words were directed to Michael.
“My parents knew the dangers before they ever made the decision to live among the indigenous people of South America. Knew the reputation of some tribes to be cannibals and ruthless hunters. Knew it even before my father took the first step to becoming a pilot.” His watery gray eyes moved from staring into the sky to penetrating Michael’s gaze. “You know why he did it anyway?”
They were at the brink, the point of this whole conversation. Michael knew it in his bones. The way his body quickened to hear the response. Like he had a personal, vested interest in the answer to Mr. McClaren’s question.
“He was called to do so.”
Called. By God. For a specific purpose. Like a pebble being tossed into a glass-topped pond, a ripple started at his center and waked outward. He couldn’t hear the words, but somehow he sensed them just the same.
Listen. Pay attention. This is what I have in store for you.
Mission piloting? The idea was as foreign as a snowstorm in his hometown. And just as likely. What type of mission association would accept him as a pilot?
Yet as ludicrous as the idea was, he couldn’t deny the arousal of excitement the prospect induced.
“Just as I’m being called to do this.” McClaren reached into his breast pocket and withdrew some folded papers, holding them out to Michael.
“What’s this?”
“The deed to the Piper.” He pushed the papers under Michael’s nose. “Take them.”
Michael took a step back, hand and stump out in front of him. “You’re nuts. I can’t take your father’s plane. That’s his legacy.”
That knowing smile from earlier returned. “His legacy is the hundreds of natives who accepted Jesus as their redeemer and were baptized along the banks of the Amazon. Not a couple tons of metal.”
Michael shook his head. “Just the same, I can’t accept what you’re offering.”
The man stilled, his head tilted and ear pointed up as if he were listening to the heavens. Those gray eyes softened. He stuffed the papers back in his pocket and moved his hand to the other breast pocket, this time his fingers coming up grasping a small card. He held it out. “When you change your mind, give me a call.”
When, not if.
The whole exchange was a bit on the Twilight Zone spectrum. As if this man held some great secret that Michael had no knowledge of. As if the future rested on this pinnacle, life-changing moment. Ask him before and he would have said that wasn’t how life worked. You dreamed and set goals and then worked hard to see those dreams come to fruition. But hadn’t he already experienced at least one split second that had changed his life forever?
McClaren tapped his shoulder and pointed his chin in the direction of the runway. “Here come your girls.”
Jackie and the Piper made their final descent, the wheels bouncing a bit before rolling steadily along the long stretch of black asphalt, slowing with each yard it ate up.
His girls. No matter how much he wanted it, it wasn’t true. Wouldn’t be true. He couldn’t let it. Wishing something didn’t cause it to come into existence, and neither did the ranting of a possibly senile old man.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Present Day, Maryland
From: Jack Rogers
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: 1940s WW II plane in need of restoration
Alice,
Here is a screenshot of a flight I found that will work. I tried to find one that didn’t get in to Heathrow too late. Let me know if you need any other information.
Jack
A grin teased Jack’s lips as she stepped up to Michael’s front door. He lived in a nice section of town, pretty close to the municipal airport where she rented a hangar, actually. The row houses along the street were cute and reminded her of a dollhouse she’d had when she was little. A lot different than the rambler she shared with her dad.
She pressed her finger to the illuminated doorbell and stepped back as the chime rang inside. She hated surprises herself, but it sure was fun to be on the other side of them. Not that she had anything elaborate planned, but Michael getting his prosthetic should be celebrated. A quick call to Brett had given her Michael’s address, and here she was.
Energy singed through her veins like they were electric wires as she anticipated his wide eyes at seeing her. Now that she thought about it, it was kind of strange that they saw each other every day but she’d never been to his house before. What was with that? His openness and inviting personality one minute and then closed off, boundaries up the next? She shrugged. No doubt everything he’d been through, was going through, took a toll.
The door opened, and her line of sight slammed into a firm wall of muscle. A lump lodged in her throat, her skin flushed, and her pulse picked up speed. The contours of his body looked like they had been painted by the brush of a master artist. Her gaze dipped to the towel hanging around his hips, her eyes widening and shooting up until they were snagged by his smiling ones.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and let the crutch under his armpit rest against his ribs as he crossed his arm over his chest and rubbed his chin, his lips twitching. She followed his movements, mortified but unable to look away.
“Hello.”
His voice brought her attention back up to his knowing smirk, and she grabbed ahold of her first thought to anchor herself against the waves of emotion swirling in a whirlpool at her center. Punching a hand to her hip, she said, “Do you always answer your door in a towel?”
He ran a hand over his head. “When the doorbell rings as I’m getting out of the shower, I do.”
“Oh.” She looked to the side, across the front facade of the adjoining row houses, trying to get her mind back in order. What was wrong with her? She’d seen plenty of bare-chested guys. Had grown up in an all-male house, for crying out loud. Never had she had such a scatterbrained reaction before.
Of course, the answer was clear, even to her. Michael wasn’t her brother, and the feelings that had been growing toward him were anything but familial.
She cleared her throat and looked past his shoulder. “Get dressed. We’re going out to celebrate.”
He pushed the crutch more firmly into his armpit and used its support to step back before ushering her through the door.
The place was narrow but tidy. Had a minimalist feel to it that she appreciated. She peeked back toward him, watched the muscles in his back constrict and move as he slowly hopped his way up the stairs between the banister and the crutch.
When he returned, he was fully clothed in relaxed-fit jeans and a crew tee, the shrinker poking out beneath the sleeve. “What are we celebrating?”
“Your new prosthetic.” Her full smile faltered at the lines forming grooves across his forehead. “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
Yeah right, nothing. But she let it go anyway. “Come on.” She let her grin fall back into place. “I plan on whipping you in air hockey.”
That smoothed out the frown lines. “Don’t be so sure.”
Giovani’s was a short drive from Michael’s, and they soon found themselves in the back corner that housed a small arcade, in the center a brightly lit air hockey table. Their order had been taken at the front, and now it was time to show this hotshot a thing or two. Jack felt confident as she plunked down a roll of quarters and looked up, hoping Michael would see the playful challenge in her eye and realize she was about to live up to all the smack talk she’d given in the car.
Four quart
ers in and the table hummed to life, the puck and pushers hovering over the top. She picked up her pusher and crouched behind her side of the table, poised to defend the slot that was her goal.
Michael laughed as he twirled the puck in a tight circle on the table. “You ready?” His brow quirked, his face light and teasing.
Yeah, she was ready. Ready to wipe that smug smile from his lips. Air hockey was her game, and she took immense pleasure in watching her competitors’ expressions transform from haughty egotism to begrudging respect. Especially the macho men. Call it the feminist in her, but it was fun to be the tiny woman that took out the big man.
Michael let the puck hover and then he slid his pusher forward and connected with the puck. The move was insulting, really. Like he was playing with a child. The puck advanced so slowly.
She waited until the puck was right in front of her, then slammed her pusher into it, sending it careening like lightning across the table in a straight shot right into his goal slot.
He looked up, brows raised to his hairline.
Jack smirked, letting her expression speak for her. Don’t take me for granted. I’ll surprise you.
A small smile touched his lips as he retrieved the puck and set it back on the table. This time he bent a little at the waist, his eyes narrowing in focus. The connection between puck and pusher was stronger, and Jack had to react to defend her goal slot. She blocked the puck, then brought it under control in front of her.
She looked across the table as she gently tapped the puck back and forth. “I tried to warn you.”
“Game’s not over yet. Score is only one to zero.”
“Not for long.” Her arm struck forward, and the puck bounced off the side and straight into the goal. The neon number turned to two.
Michael fished the puck out of the holder. “You do realize I am playing with my left hand.”
She straightened and leaned her empty hand on the table’s ledge. “Making excuses now, Carrington?”