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My car pulls up to the curb, and I climb inside, putting my carry-on beside me. I don’t need much, as most of this trip will have me in costume more often than not. The driver drops me off at the airport, and I climb on board.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Lord.” My pilot is standing at the open door, his arms behind him.
“Hello, Crane. Who is the co-pilot today?” I ask, shaking the man’s outstretched hand.
“Mrs. Crane.” The husband-and-wife team are the best. I have another set, but they usually fly my brothers in our less impressive jet. I am glad it’s the Cranes, to be honest. They don’t ask questions.
“Excellent.”
“She is just double checking that the flight attendants have left everything to your specifications. I sent them on their way an hour or so ago.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
“Miss Beaufort should be arriving soon,” I tell him, making my way to the main area of the plane. One side is a long bench with seatbelts. The other side is three sets of four chairs facing a small square table. I sit down at the farthest table from the entrance, facing the door.
“Hello, Mr. Lord,” Mrs. Crane says, bringing me a glass of champagne.
“Hello, Mrs. Crane,” I say.
“Everything is as you requested. I’ve turned down the bed and brought out extra blankets, just in case.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Welcome aboard, Miss Beaufort, I am Captain James Crane.”
“Hello Captain. I don’t think I am in the right place,” Stacee says. She hasn’t seen me yet.
“Of course you are. Head on back and take a seat. We’ll be taking off in ten minutes.”
“Oh, to Sydney?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I watch as she walks back toward me. She’s wearing a short floral printed dress and bright pink Converse shoes. Miles sets her bags down on the farthest end of the bench seating. He salutes me before disembarking. Crane closes the door and locks it. Stacee jumps at the sound. Then she sees me and smiles. Unfortunately, at that moment, Mrs. Crane comes back and drops off another champagne glass and a cheese tray. She leans over the table to set some cocktail napkins down and tells me to enjoy the flight. Stacee narrows her eyes and stops walking. Mrs. Crane flounces past Stacee.
“Miss Beaufort,” she says, waving at her. Stacee kind of waves back.
“Come. Sit, Stacee. We are about to take off.”
“Where is everyone else?” she asks, sitting down. She immediately buckles her seatbelt and tightens it as tightly as it will go.
“They are in Sydney of course.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Was I supposed to be there last week?”
“No.”
“Okay. Who was that woman?” she asks.
