“How old were you when it happened?” I asked, softening my voice.
“I was thirteen. My eldest brother, Brian, had invited me to visit the offices of this fancy company where he had just started an in-house training. The firm operated in one of the top floors of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. He was busting with pride when he told me about this big career opportunity. I remember it as if it was yesterday,” he said with a faint smile. “I had ditched my high school algebra class to go see him and was walking down on Liberty Street looking up at the Towers and thought, Boy my big brother’s such a big shot; getting his apprenticeship in a place like this. I hope one day, I can make Mom and Pops proud like this too. But as I looked up, I saw something crashing in the first tower.”
Drake shook his head with a cynical expression on his face before continuing.
“First, I thought that the guy piloting the plane didn’t know how to drive his can,” he said with an embarrassed tone. “Can you believe it took me a few seconds to realize what was happening there? The thing is that it took another to connect this with the fact that my brother was actually waiting for me in one of those towers,” he admitted with a disbelieving tone.
I gathered he was still chastising himself, assuming his stupidity for his late reaction.
I didn’t agree. This was an understandable human reaction in the face of the unbelievable. I couldn’t risk talking because it was too hard to take in.
“Later that day, the authorities reported that my father had perished under the debris when Tower One fell. Steven, my other brother, was also working on site as a brand new firefighter. He also lost his life, and he was only nineteen years old. I fought with the police force like crazy trying to get to the wreakage to see if I could find them, but they kept blocking me.”
He paused, and I remained quiet, honored that he trusted me enough to confide about his family’s ordeal.
“My mother never recovered and fell into depression. She’s still battling with it.”
He lifted his eyes to mine and fixed me with an expression I could not decipher.
“That night, I went to sleep a broken boy and felt like I had aged ten years. I swore I would bring to justice all the people who had their hands in that crime against humanity,” he vowed. That vein on his forehead over his left eyebrow was manifesting itself, a witness of the intense emotion that coursed through him.
In that instant, I superimposed in my mind what I imagined he looked like when he was a teenager facing up to the unbelievable reality that three members of his family would never come back home. I took comfort with the cool citrus freshness of my cocktail. He needed no melodramatic comment like “I’m sorry”, which felt too inadequate.
“So, what does it take to be a good counter-terrorist agent?” I asked, sliding into a more neutral subject of conversation.
“Well, having previous army and travel experience didn’t hurt. Also, an interest in language and body language can be an asset. When I applied, they had an opening in the FBI for a training with the National Center for Analysis of Violent crimes, who specialize in behavior in criminology. I found out that to have rudimentary knowledge of a few foreign languages was a plus, along with a keen eye to decipher body language. Both gave me an edge when I joined the Counter Terrorist International Division.”
“If you travel, you should have a basic understanding of the local language,” he added with a mixture of lecture and teasing.
“I know. I guess I underestimated how many people do not speak English in foreign countries.” Because the well travelled Josie Goodrich was to accompany me, I figured I’d never have to deal with a situation where I had to actually interact so much with the locals.
“What about you? What made you decide to become an air traffic controller?”
I was grateful for the change of the subject even if he shifted it to me. I had not intended to make him relive the awful memories. For sure, an event like this had to have shaped his personality. I was curious and wanted to know him better.
The maitre D’ took our dinner order, but I declined wine. One drink after a day like this was enough.
“So you love dealing with airplanes but don’t fly them?” he teased, bringing me back to his previous question.
“Well.” I chuckled. “When your father’s an airline pilot and your mother’s a flight attendant, your life revolves around airport terminals.”
I took a sip of icy water, appreciating the soothing cool sensation on my dehydrated throat.
“When I was a kid, the airline companies often called my mother at the last minute to work on delayed flights, most of them red eyes. It was difficult to find babysitters on such short notice. Over the years, she had made plenty of friends among the airport employees, so when I was no longer a baby, it was not unusual that she had me looked over by trusted airport staff, in the interim that my father’s flight landed and he took over. I guess they had worked up some kind of schedule or something. Sylvia couldn’t be much help either. Being ten years older than me, at fifteen years old she started to enroll in foreign exchange programs and did so many times until she moved out. Anyway, my mother trusted nobody enough to have a baby sitter at home.”
Steinfield leaned toward me with interest. My childhood tale seemed to entertain him, so it encouraged me to continue.
“One of those nights old Jerry Burns, one of the night shift airport janitors, fetched me a pair of roller skates from the lost and found bin. I had a ball, zooming the long shiny floor of Concourse B from Gate B1 to B8 at a hundred miles an hour with no obstacles in sight. During the night, between midnight and five AM, the airport was deserted. The whole airport was like a giant playground, and I would invent stories about who arrived and where they were going. My parents would kill poor Mr. Burns if they knew that one of these nights we would race down the halls, each with our own people mover.”
I took another sip, aware of my rambling about my silly childhood games.
“Sounds like fun,” he said with an admiring expression, with a glint in his eyes before taking a bite at his Lamb Provencal.
After polishing the last bite and cleaning the remaining of his sauce with a piece of bread, he continued his friendly but still obvious interrogation. I played along. I was feeling relaxed, and it was nice to chat with him in companionable conversation. He was pretty easy to talk to and now and then, when he smiles or laughs, a small dimple would form on his cheeks. That was just too cute and sexy.
“So you became an air traffic controller because you enjoy airports?”
“Not exactly. Would you believe it started with a bet?” A nervous laugh escaped my lips.
“I’m listening.” He smiled, leaning closer, his face tilted with curiosity.
“Well, back in high school, I would hang out with the boys from my class and we’d often end up in the arcades after school to play video games, you know like Space Invader. So my buddy Matt and I competed throughout high school.
“One day during our last year, after beating him again, he joked that with my skills I could ace the type of test the FAA uses to pre-select potential Traffic Controller. I told him this was nonsense, but he challenged me with a bet that I could pass the exam. So I took the standardized aptitude test and qualified.
“Later, when I went to visit the control tower at La Guardia airport, I got thrilled and experienced an intense buzz from watching them oversee all this air traffic. It looked as if they were handling a multi layered puzzle. Each layer required the ATC to keep a continual safe distance between all the aircrafts on a multitude of horizontal and vertical airspace corridors.
“When I’m on duty, I still get a little zing of adrenaline. Makes me a real junky for this job along with the sheer bliss of hearing the engines on the tarmac when I approach the airport to clock in. Just the hustle bustle of the tower is nice. I never tire of it even after each two hour stretches although I welcome the breaks. On occasions, when I
cross the departure and arrivals on my rare trips, I get to see the gathering of people exchange good wishes and hugs. To think that a single location can enable someone to go around the world still amazes me.”
His dimpled grin and raised eyebrows betrayed his amusement with my monologue.
“You’ve never been so talkative.” He smiled with indulgence. “I like it,” he added with a wink.
At that moment, I was no better than a schoolgirl and didn’t know what to do with myself, except for my vain attempt to get rid of the blush threatening to turn me into a beet.
“Besides, the job pays well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to afford this trip,” I said, taking my drink and hoping that the promised Southern Comfort would cool me down.
Somehow, we had slipped to a more convivial conversation. It almost felt intimate. I could almost convince myself that we were two passengers who’d just met and were having a casual friendly conversation. Well, on the other hand, from his wolffish stare, the agenda could have been quite easy to figure out. But who am I kidding? I must have misread his professional interest.
“How long has it been since you went home to see your mother?” I asked in a tone I hoped sounded light and matter of fact.
“Two years,” he said, closing up and moving back a few inches. The smile had disappeared.
“Your mother must miss you terribly,” I said softly for him not to feel judged. I didn’t know him very well, but my gut told me he cared very much for her. Maybe seeing her also brought him lots of painful memories.
“Yes, she says so every time I talk to her,” he admitted with much contrition. “I make sure she has everything she needs,” he added to convince himself more than me.
Yeah, except for what she likely needs the most: her son. I finished my Creme Brûlée and stirred sugar into my coffee in silence.
“My turn,” he said, mischief returning in his eyes.
I looked at him, nonplussed.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked with the Cheshire grin back in full force.
That I was very suspicious when he pulled that grin on me would be an understatement.
“Ok,” I said after a moment of hesitation.
“Well the other night when you were having a nightmare in your cabin, you were wearing a pink T-shirt with an “Oshkosh no. 1” logo on it. You don’t strike me like a woman who likes girly pink,” he said with a confident tone.
What? That’s the embarrassing question he wanted to ask? Not, do you have a boyfriend or fiancé? Oh well, I guessed he just wanted to know about the T-shirt. Geez, now that I think about it, how much of that T-shirt did he actually see? As a habit, I bought extra large ones because I used them as night gowns. I didn’t bother adding pajama bottom with them.
“Oshkosh is an annual aviation competition for pilots and air traffic controller, for this occasion, the rules are slacked off to allow more aircrafts in the air for the show. The controllers choosing to take part are graded on their performance because they manage extra heavy traffic load. Hmm... I don’t remember why they chose that Barbie pink for their T-shirt.”
“And you got rated number one since it’s printed on your T-shirt,” he stated.
“Yep,” I said, my chest puffing with pride just a little.
His eyes took a swift dive to my chest before he finished his drink in one long gulp. The tip of his ears turned red. It wasn’t rocket science to figure that, with all the pepper he had put earlier in his drink, he must be burning by now. But then again, he was keeping his eyes down, as if I’d caught him with his hands in the proverbial cookie jar.
“I was practically raised in airports, if you can imagine. Between my father’s schedule and my mother’s, when not in school, I was often in transit from our home to JFK or La Guardia airport. So, you see, they were just an extension of my home ,” I explained, breaking the awkward silence.
When the waiter returned with the bill, we settled it amicably with me paying for the drinks and tip. We got up and returned to the room in silence.
Once back in my room, he removed his jacket before heading to the desk to open his laptop. He sat down to write, I guessed, another report. Somehow, the simple gesture seemed familiar and reassuring. The kind of let’s-get-comfortable-together routine that couples experience. He neglected to fold his jacket to hide his personal boyhood memento, as he would when in public. The rusted Batman pin was now visible. It flattered me he trusted me enough to let down this barrier. Then again, perhaps he was just distracted.
“Drake?”
“Hmm?” He lifted his head from his laptop. A corner of his lips lifted. It was the first time I had called him by his given name.
“Will you tell me the story about the pin you wear inside your jacket?”
After a few taps, he closed his laptop and considered me with a small cocky smile. “I was wondering when you’d work up the courage to ask me about it,” he teased but soon sobered up.
“It was a birthday gift from my brothers when I turned thirteen. I collected Batman comics, and they got me this vintage collectible.”
“Oh. So when’s your birthday?”
“September 8th.”
There was nothing to say as I knew this date was near September 11th. I stretched my hand to reach his for a brief squeeze.
“My turn. Why did you lie to me about the death of your friend the first time I asked why she wasn’t on board?”
“It was still so fresh. I wasn’t ready to come to terms with it, and frankly, I still find it hard to believe myself.”
“It’s Ok. I knew you were lying anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you are the worst liar I have ever met, and an even worst pickpocket. I had a hard time not to laugh in Paris after I saw that you had moved my jacket from the armrest. You had guilty written all over your face.”
“Well, I’m sorry. It was very impolite of me, but I guess curiosity got the best of me.”
“It’s Ok, as long as you don’t broadcast it. It was my last birthday when all the family was together. My brothers had gotten together to get that pin. A few days later, they were gone. I know the pin is childish, but I don’t care.”
His honesty and trust floored me.
“No. It’s not childish. Even if it isn’t comparable, I have similar feelings for my Channel purse. Although it gotten partly ruined after its dip in the Venetian canal, I wouldn’t part with it because it holds sentimental value because Josie gave it to me.”
He had turned off his laptop and was now focussing all of his attention on me. What I saw in his eyes made me somewhat uncomfortable. It was like there had been a slow shift in the atmosphere and in our relationship, and I was unsure as what to do next.
I excused myself and headed for the en suite bathroom. I told myself that it was only to freshen up after this long and tedious day. The oatmeal and vanilla toiletry set offered a clean and soothing aroma.
I’d been puttering in that bathroom more than necessary, I knew that. There was a strong current of sexual tension waiting for me outside, a few feet away. My skin, hyper sensitive with goose bumps, put me in full alert mode despite the warm temperature of the bathroom. I couldn’t tell if I was excited, scared, or confused.
“I’d like to see you in that pink T-shirt of yours,” he said when I came out.
“It’s only five o’clock and too early to go to bed.”
“I never mentioned sleeping.” He got up and stepped closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his lava gaze. “The bus tours around the city are being canceled as we speak. The DuPont Company operating the Orient-Express won’t risk it.” A slow grin changed his face. “We can get comfortable…” he stepped toward me, leaving only a few inches between us.
There was a chance I’d regret it, but I would not have enjoyed the city even if I went to explore on my own. His raised eyebrows and dancing eyes were having fun watching my
deliberations.
“Ok. I’ll put on the T-shirt, but in exchange, I want you to answer one question.” He lifted one brow in anticipation. “I want you to tell me how you traced me so fast in Venice when I was mugged. I know you didn’t follow me when I left the hotel.”
“Easy. I planted a micro GPS tracking device on you.”
“Where is it?”
“Too bad. You were only just allowed one question ,” he said with a satisfied smirk.
Piqued, I turned my heel and went to stand next to the dresser where I’d left my carry-on. It thrilled me he found me sexy in the XL T-shirt, but I was also under the impression he was making fun of me. My hand reached inside the drawer and pulled out the soft cotton. After also taking out my toiletry bag, I headed back for the bathroom to put it on. What was wrong with me? I knew too well what was wrong. The truth was, I wanted to see desire in his eyes again. I was getting a high from it every time it happened. Why should we kid ourselves about the unspoken current so tangible between us? And if I had misread his signals, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d embarrassed myself in front of him. When I walked out of the bathroom, his attitude took me aback.
He took a quick inhale, and his mouth remained slack. He’d seen the pink T-shirt before, so this was no novelty, but still, I pulled down on the hem in case I looked improper or too juvenile.
“Something wrong?” I asked, expecting his sly grin more than the furrow of tension affecting his expression.
In response, he crossed the distance separating us in two measured strides. His hands lifted to caress my cheek; a conflicted expression battled for resolution behind his light frown.
“I like your freckles,” he said, moving his index finger to give a playful tap on my nose, “You shouldn’t cover them,” he commented, his voice turning husky.
His thumb moved in slow circles on my cheek, stroking as he bent his tall frame. Next, he moved his hands to my neck, leaned down, pulling my head back before taking possession of my mouth without hesitation or permission. He’d given me enough time to back away if I so wished. My hands reached his hair most naturally, raking through his soft locks. I’ve wanted to do this since the first time I’d seen him at Victoria Station.
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