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"Is there a problem?"
"Just come with me," she says, and everyone turns to stare. Holy shit. What could it be now? I ease past the now-relieved man next to me, and do the walk of shame up the long aisle behind the flight attendant. When she gets to the curtain separating first class from the commoners in coach, she stops and pulls it back, motioning for me to go through.
I'm not sure what this is about and I half expect the pilot or an air marshal to be waiting for me at the front of the plane, though I have no idea why. But the way my luck is going, nothing would surprise me.
However, there's no air marshal or anyone else glaring at me. The folks in first class act like they don't notice but I see a few peeking at me over their iPads. In the very first row, the flight attendant smiles and points to an empty seat.
From my vantage point, after hours in airports and middle seats, Timmy and Tommy and everything else, it looks like the most luxurious seat in the world.
"I thought you'd be more comfortable up here, dear."
It's not the flight attendant. I look at the window seat.
And smile.
It's the woman in the wheelchair that I helped off the tram. She pats the seat next to her and I sit down, enjoying the soft leather and the extra width.
"My friend Martha broke her hip and couldn’t use the seat. I thought you might appreciate it."
"More than you’ll ever know," I say.
The flight attendant brings me a drink and refills my companion’s glass. She raises it to me in a toast. "Good deeds do pay off," she says with a twinkle in her eye. "Besides, I like looking at you."
For the first time in a very long time, I laugh and it feels good.
"So, what's a handsome cowboy like you doing traveling around without even a carry-on and looking like he's lost his last friend?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
KIT
This dress does look good on me. Mother is right about that.
Maybe she's right about Peter being a good match for me.
Engaged. In mere hours, I'll be engaged.
If I say yes.
My mother rushes into my room and inspects me like a vase onAntiques Roadshow. Satisfied, she smiles. "You look just perfect, Kit. I'm so proud of you."
Then something catches her eye and she yanks my left hand toward her, staring at my fingers. "Why didn't you get a manicure? Oh, Kit. Your nails look atrocious." She drops my wrist and scurries into my bathroom, coming back with a bottle of hand lotion. She squirts some into my palm. "There," she says, "rub it in and when it's absorbed in, do it again." She sets the bottle on a table and shakes her head at me.
"Honestly, Kit. The one night when everyone is going to be admiring your hand with a big ring on it, and you look like a milkmaid."
She pauses. "That reminds me." She gives me a puzzled gaze. "I haven't heard you talking to Boone in weeks."
Actually, it's been twenty-four weeks, four days and six hours since I left the barbecue in shame, but who's counting?
Before I can answer, her thoughts have moved on. "Well, it's just as well. She wasn't a good friend for you to have. I mean, she was an interesting person you met in college, everyone has one of those, but she's not the type of friend you keep, you know, for a long time."
"Oh, do you have any friends you've had since college?" I ask before I think better of it.
She wheels on me, eyes flashing. "Well, for one thing, your father. And without him, you wouldn't be here."
"Has grandma arrived?" I ask, trying to change the subject, though this was no better choice.
Mother rolls her eyes. "If there's any good to come from this storm, it's that her flight will be delayed. Or better yet, canceled." Her eyes dart to the window. It's dark now but with the streetlights you can see the snow has stopped. She sighs. "I can't catch a break."
