Tailwinds Past Florence

by Doug Walsh

  Edward huffed his indignation as he stared at the attendant while pointing at the arrows. Kara’s anger was less passive, but the man merely shrugged off their complaints and retreated to the safety of the Employees Only area.

  Kara sipped her coffee with narrowed eyes while Edward righted the boxes, cringing at the rattling he heard from within. He slid the first box toward the stack of panniers. He was returning for the second as Kara struggled to push it with a single hand. The box toppled sideways and fell flat across the floor, a whooshing slap that echoed through the concourse.

  “Just …,” Edward started, as he yanked the box upright. “I’ve got it,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Kara’s bike went together without a hitch and it wasn’t long before Edward had straightened the handlebars to his own, bolted on the pedals, and raised the seatpost back to riding height, thankful for having marked the position with nail polish. But as soon as he went to put the front wheel on, he noticed the skewer that held the front wheel to the fork was missing.

  “Goddamn it, it’s always something with airlines.”

  Kara, who had already reattached her drive-side panniers and was spinning the bike around to lean against the wall, asked what was wrong.

  “The damn skewer’s gone.”

  “Didn’t you leave it on the wheel when you boxed up the bikes?”

  “I couldn’t, it wouldn’t fit. I taped it to the down tube, right here,” he said flicking a piece of packing tape hanging from the frame like a taupe-colored flag of surrender. “Shit! It must have gotten loose in the box and fell out that damn hole. Watch our stuff.”

  Edward stormed across the tile floor to the baggage office but paused before ringing the bell. He took a deep breath, held it, and opened and closed his fists five times, pumping them quickly. He exhaled in a long, calming whistle.

  The blonde-haired, round-faced woman who greeted him spoke with such a British accent, he could barely understand her. Amidst the drama surrounding the change of plans and packing the bikes, he had forgotten that he was halfway around the world from home.

  “Hi, my name’s Edward Vaughan,” he said, smiling. “I was a passenger on the flight from Boston, and one of the items in my bicycle box is missing. Would it be possible for someone to check the area to see if it fell out?”

  “Does the missing item have a luggage tag or any other identification?”

  “No,” he said, taken aback. Why the hell would it? “Like I said, it’s a small bicycle part that was inside a box. The box got torn and the part fell out.”

  “Well, sir, the airline cannot be responsible for inadequately sealed luggage.”

  Is this woman listening to anything I say? “Sure. I understand, but the item was properly sealed inside a perfectly sound shipping box and one of your employees, whether here or in Boston, managed to rip a hole in it. And now a critical piece of our equipment is missing.”

  “Well, sir, I do apologize. If you can just fill out this Missing Items Form—”

  “Never mind,” Edward said, turning his back to her.

  Kara was near the bikes, her arms wrapped around six dripping water bottles. “Any luck?”

  “She told me to fill out a form for lost and found.”

  “So … no?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Don’t get mad at me,” she said, sliding the bottles into their cages on the two bikes.

  Edward heard her add a couple of barbs under her breath, and figured they were directed at him. He squeezed his fists once, slowly. “I’m not angry with you. But I’ll be lucky if I can roll it through the terminal without the wheel falling off.”

  Edward dragged the empty cardboard boxes toward the recycling bins, strapped the last of his bags to his bike, and followed Kara through the customs checkpoint and into the hustle of Heathrow’s Terminal 3.

  “Wait here.” Kara leaned her bike alongside a water fountain and withdrew her wallet.

  “More coffee?”

  She shot him a look that reminded him he was still very much in the dog house. “Your turn to babysit the bikes.” Kara thrust her helmet at Edward and walked off.

  He watched as she threaded her way through the crowd, holding her line as the sea of skittering suitcases and aimless travelers parted around her. She planted herself at the information desk across the concourse. A young brunette smiled a greeting, her polished hospitality visible at twenty paces. The girl nodded with too much enthusiasm then turned her attention to a computer terminal. There was a flash of a pen. Some scribbling, and then she pointed. Edward couldn’t tell at what; he saw only escalators.

  Kara returned, a tourist map trailing from her right hand.

  “I’m gonna take the train into the city and buy us a new skewer.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to go?”

  “I’ll be fine. There’s a bike shop near a station I’m familiar with.”

  “Maybe you should stay here. Get some rest. It was a long flight.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Has it occurred to you that I might want some time alone?”

  It had. That’s what made him nervous.

  Edward watched her walk off as he stood alone, rocking in place. No kiss goodbye. No goodbye at all. She simply left. He stared after her, willing her to come back, to not split up so hastily, the gulf between them left stretched and jagged.

  At home, neither left the other to go anywhere without a hug, a kiss, or without the one staying behind offering an I love you, be careful. It was as automatic as checking one’s pockets for their keys and phone.

  Kara must have heard his thoughts, for she was suddenly on her way back. He couldn’t wait to hug her. Only now did he realize how tortuous the past two days had been.

  “Forgot my passport,” she said, unzipping a pouch on her bag without looking at him.

  He couldn’t be certain, but her pace seemed faster the second time she left.

  Kara’s frustration faded in size-seven increments with each step toward the escalator. For two days she ground her teeth and kept her venomous tongue bottled up while silently simmering over Edward’s abrupt change of plans. No more. By the time she reached the bright tile floor, deep beneath the airport terminal, she’d left both her husband and her anger behind her. She had London to look forward to.

  She bought her ticket, fed it into the turnstile, and retrieved it on the other side with the efficiency of a daily commuter. It was good to be back. As much as she had enjoyed her semester abroad in France, it was the twice-monthly trips into London that she remembered most fondly. Similar, yet foreign; crowded, yet cheerful; and old, but clean—unlike Seattle in every way.

  She took a seat on the train, practically vibrating with nervous excitement. The feeling reminded her of those initial moments spent pedaling away from home, beginning the journey she hoped would give her marriage a fresh restart.

  Kara caught herself wondering how many do-overs they’d get.

  All around her travelers crammed aboard the train, their suitcases and backpacks making egregious advances into personal space. Phones in hand, the unshaven, jet-lagged passengers seemed not to notice, too fixated on their first hit of information after so many hours in airplane mode.

  Thank God we didn’t bring a phone, she thought.

  As the sprawling hive of suburbs in west London lurched by one station at a time, well-dressed commuters took their place alongside the tourists. Kara relished not fitting in, a member of neither team. Hers was the uniform of the adventure cyclist and she wouldn’t be headed back to work for years. Dressed in road-worn cycling shoes and a wrinkled nylon blouse she reserved for low-mileage days around town, Kara straightened with pride. The chartreuse top didn’t breathe well and clung to her shoulders and stomach when she sweat, but it could pass for casual wear, provided nobody noticed the salt streaks decorating the seams.

  A nearby woman, old enough to be Kara’s mother, stared at her, unable to conceal her curiosity. “Bicycle tour,” Kar
a said, as if the two words were a hall pass that would excuse any and all foreseeable dress code violations —and create envy in everyone along the way. The woman frowned disapprovingly and shuffled to the door, leaving Kara to giggle.

  Eight stops later, Kara emerged onto a crowded street a block from the bicycle shop. The store wouldn’t open for thirty minutes according to the sign, so she took a seat on a bench and watched the people march by, entertaining herself by the ease at which she could sort locals from tourists. Guidebooks, cameras, and the ubiquitous folded, partially torn tourist maps (Kara kept hers hidden in a zippered pocket) were dead giveaways. She sought tougher clues: bulging security belts, men with their wallet stuffed in their front pocket, khaki vests and reversible skirts. The hallmarks of the camouflaged traveler.

  A double-decker sightseeing bus rumbled by. A picket of selfie sticks jutted from its open-air roof, GoPros and iPhones raised like spears. She wondered how many home videos she’d appear in and settled further into the bench. Her bench, she thought, feeling a triumph over those without the luxury of loitering.

  A man with cropped brown hair, capri-length pants, and a wool jersey dismounted a fluorescent green bike. A fixed-gear with handlebars narrower than his waist. “Ya waiting for the shop?” he asked, as he leaned the fixie against the glass. Kara pegged him for twenty-three. Cute, too.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?” she said, straightening in her seat.

  “The socks gave it away.”

  Kara looked down and realized if the shoes weren’t obvious enough, the “Save the Tatas” breast cancer awareness cycling socks certainly were.

  “Where’s your bike?”

  “Back at Heathrow. We just flew in and …” she hesitated. She was going to say husband. She always said husband. “We somehow lost a skewer.”

  “Ouch,” he said, then looked at his watch. “I’m not due to open for another fifteen minutes, but you’re welcome to have a look around the shop while I get the lights on.” He took a massive key ring from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  The store resembled the showroom where she and Edward bought their Audi, only much smaller. Six high-end racing bikes hung from mannequin arms bolted to gray walls. Spotlights shone upon the bikes, each a brand she’d never heard of, but the store was otherwise dimly lit. A display case of boutique sunglasses took center stage. Hangers hung from a support column, each displaying a jersey from a different pro cycling team. It was nothing like the shops she frequented back home, where dozens of mountain bikes crowded the floor, hemmed into homemade wooden racks, locked together with a heavy steel cable threaded between their frames. Worse still, she saw no accessories, workbench, or spare parts of any kind.

  “Uh, do you carry components here?” she asked, approaching the iPad serving as a register.

  “Absolutely. I’m Mark by the way.” he said, wheeling a metal stool out from behind the counter.

  “Kara.”

  He eased himself onto the seat, his blue eyes fixed on hers, watching her over the rim of a travel mug. “So, you just got to London,” he said between sips. “From the States?”

  One question led to another as Kara told him about their plans for Europe. She didn’t correct him when he referred to Edward as her “cycling friend,” as she was relishing the attention, but her heart winced all the same.

  It was refreshing to meet a guy who didn’t ask questions as a way to redirect the conversation to himself. He seemed genuinely interested, asking about her work as a graphic designer, the trip, her life in Seattle, and before she knew it, an hour had passed—and Mark had inched close enough that she could smell the tea on his breath.

  “Wow, they’re going to wonder what happened to me,” Kara said motioning to a clock on the wall. “I better get that part.”

  “Oh, right. Did your friend write down what he needed?”

  He? Why’d he assume she was with a man?

  “No, but we just need a skewer—”

  “Right,” he said, interrupting. “But I need to know what kind of bike he’s riding. Not all wheels are alike. Care to call his mobile?” He opened the door to what Kara thought may had been a closet, revealing a concealed workshop. Multiple work stands held bikes in various states of assembly, ringed by shelves stacked with hundreds of parts.

  “We’re not carrying a phone. But I know the part.”

  Mark made a look that told Kara that, despite the niceties, he was just another bike shop bro who had yet to discover that women might know a thing or two about cycling.

  She cut him off before he could say anything stupid. “We’re riding steel mountain bikes, set up for touring. Hundred millimeter XT front hub, thirty-eight spokes. Six-bolt disc brakes, nine millimeter axle. Quick-release, preferably.” Data overload, but she felt like showing off.

  He cocked his head, impressed. “What size tires you running?” he asked, opening a drawer.

  “Seven hundred by thirty-eight Schwalbe Marathon Pros.”

  Surprise whistled forth. “Why so much rubber?”

  “We’re expecting rough roads in Morocco and Central Asia. And they helped with the snow.”

  “You were touring in snow? You Yanks really are crazy.”

  He pulled a skewer from the drawer and took two boxes from a shelf. “Here’s a used skewer. No charge. And you can probably use some spare tubes with the miles you’re putting in.”

  Kara declined politely. They didn’t have room for extra tubes. But he insisted and she relented and withdrew her wallet.

  “Free. Consider it a welcome gift.” He pulled the stool a bit closer, stepped in front of it, and leaned back, shortening himself to match her eye level. His knee made the slightest contact with hers.

  “Well, thank you,” she said, tucking her bangs behind her ears. The fabric of his pants brushed back and forth against her legs as he slowly oscillated against the stool. Kara caught herself admiring his dimples and took a small step back.

  “My flatmates are having a party tomorrow night. You should come,” he said, reaching for a pen. “And bring your friend too.”

  It was precisely the type of opportunity Kara hoped for. Chance encounters leading to invitations to meals, parties, and weddings were the Holy Grail of independent travel. She couldn’t say no.

  He thinks he’s going to get some. Yes, there was that. He’d been flirting the whole time. Why didn’t I stop him from referring to Edward as a friend? Why didn’t he notice my wedding ring?

  “Sounds like fun. We’ll be there.”

  Mark clapped his hands and smiled a cocksure grin, likely imagining her naked. “Party starts at nine, but come anytime.”

  She thanked him again and grabbed the tubes and skewer, noting the color. “Oh this is great, it’s the same color as the one we lost.”

  “The least of my talents,” he said, stepping closer.

  “I bet it is. My husband’s gonna be thrilled. Thanks again, Mark.” she said, turning for the door, smiling proudly.

  Edward gazed toward the escalators, watching travelers disappear into the depths of the airport for what felt like hours. He wanted to chase after Kara, to deliver the goodbye kiss she denied him. To tell her he loved her.

  She hates me.

  Does she? He wanted to believe it wasn’t true, that she was merely angry and yes, disappointed, but she’d forgive him. They’d embrace, he’d apologize for rushing them off to London. All would be fine. Water under bridges.

  It’s not only about skipping Cape Cod.

  Of course not. That’s why he couldn’t shake the idea of her never coming back. Edward returned to the bikes, anxiety working him over like a boxer on a heavy bag, the memories of his lies landing like punches to the gut.

  He rested his hand on the saddle of her bike and stared until his eyes blurred. What would he do if this was all he had left of her? If she abandoned him? He wasn’t stupid. Edward had long suspected that Kara wanted more from him than he gave, that she didn’t place as much stock in the money and
security he aimed to provide. He always chalked it up to her youthful impracticality, figuring she’d see it differently when they got older, had kids. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  It’d be so much easier if Tom had given him a full year—or if he thought Kara would believe he’d have more time for her with the new job.

  The airport intercom crackled to life, all static and outdoor voice, announcing the baggage carousel for passengers arriving from Toronto. A family shuffled past, “Welcome Home” balloons bouncing along behind them. A young boy clutching his mother’s dress smiled and said, “I like your bikes.”

  That makes one of us, kid. Edward returned a fake smile.

  Being idle was no good. He needed to make himself useful before his imagination left him in pieces. He eyed the panniers and shrugged, knowing how disorganized they’d become.

  One by one he unpacked each of his bags into a tidy pile. Edward rerolled every article of clothing, consolidated the contents of each pocket, and shook three months of North American leaves and grit onto the floor. He sorted their tools and cookware, then took stock of their purification tablets, waterproof matches, and repair patches.

  He repeated the task for Kara’s panniers, taking satisfaction as the mound of pine needles and dirt grew. Progress.

  The last bag contained her clothing. Edward turned the stuff sack over in his hands, as hesitant to open it as a widower standing before his beloved’s armoire. Then, with a deep breath, he tugged the drawstring and spilled her clothes into his lap, releasing a cascade of blouses, skirts, socks, and underwear. Two of each. He so rarely came into contact with her unworn clothing that he never before realized how petite it was, how delicate the items felt. Working from the larger items to the small, he repacked her clothing with a care he’d never shown his own.

  The pile shrank to a single pair of silk briefs, and a pang of uncertainty bore into him. He held them, caressing the sleek material, wondering when she last wore them—and if he noticed.