“How're you feeling?” He stepped back and used the flashlight to study her look. Her face was pale, even in the dark of the room. “Still sick to your stomach?”
“A little.”
“You didn't black out, did you?”
Kiahna leaned her head back against the sofa. “I don't think so. I'm not as dizzy as before.”
Connor recalled a few things about first aid from his time at West Point. A blow to the temple was the worst kind, and even if she hadn't lost consciousness, she should be watched, woken every hour at least. He aimed the flashlight at her eyes, and both pupils responded to the light. He lowered it a few inches below her chin and tried to study her expression in the glow. “You feel well enough to stay here? I can take you for help if you need it.”
“No …” She shook her head. “I can stay here. Really. I'm too tired to go anywhere.”
“You can sleep here on the couch. I'll stay beside you on the floor and wake you every hour just in case.”
“All right.” She fell sideways and stretched out, asleep before her head hit the pillow.
As a pilot, Connor had pulled all-nighters before. He was trained to stay awake in difficult situations. But after waking Kiahna twice over the next two hours, he was overcome with exhaustion. The floor was hard, the wood damp against his pants.
He clicked on the flashlight and sized up the sofa situation. It was wider than most, easily wide enough for both of them. He shone the light on his watch and set it to wake him up in an hour. Then he stretched out alongside her and turned his back to her. He rested his head on the armrest and closed his eyes. Just an hour. He'd sleep some, and when the alarm sounded he'd wake her again and make sure she was okay.
But within minutes he was sound asleep.
To this day he could remember the dream he'd had that night. It had been of Michele and him, back when they first fell in love. Back when Michele believed in Connor the way Kiahna had said she believed in him. That he was a doer, a man of competence and confidence.
When the alarm went off, Connor heard it, but only at some deep, half-asleep place in his brain. He groped around the floor beside the sofa and pushed the button to stop the beeping. Then he turned and felt a body beside him.
Michele. He smiled and put his arm around her, pulling her to him, running his fingers along the side of her body.
She stirred, and before he knew what was happening, before he remembered that he wasn't home, and that the woman beside him wasn't Michele, but a flight attendant he'd met only that afternoon, his lips found hers. The kiss was slow and easy, but with an aching need that doubled with each second.
A minute passed before they pulled back, and in a moment he would remember forever, their eyes met. Only then did Connor realize where he was and what he was doing. That the woman in his arms was Kiahna, not Michele.
And in that moment he knew something else.
He'd been lying to himself about his attraction to her. She was young and passionate and riddled with a terrible loneliness. She needed someone … almost as much as he did.
“Kiahna …” His ragged voice gave clear evidence of his desire.
That's when he'd heard it. A warning as clear and distinct as if God was standing beside him shouting at him: Get up and apologize, move away from her … Flee, Son. Flee …
Connor made a subtle press of his body against hers. Everything's okay. I'll flee later. “I'm sorry …”
She swallowed, her eyes wide. “It's okay.”
Flee, Son … move away …
His lips drew closer to hers, guided by a force stronger than anything he'd known before or since. And as they began to kiss he knew it was too late. He couldn't break free of the wave of longing suffocating him, moving him closer to her with every heartbeat.
Flee, Son …
He pulled back and studied her once more. “Kiahna, come here.”
She came to him.
The warning voice grew dim. Flee …
He kissed her again. Just a little more … I'll move across the room in a minute.
It was the last lie Connor told himself that night.
After that he didn't give another thought about her concussion or the wind or the rain or whether the entire roof might come off in the storm. He was completely and utterly consumed by her, by being with her.
When he woke the next morning he wanted to throw up.
What had he done? How had he allowed things to go so bad? The storm had cleared overnight, enough for her to take him to the airport. They were silent, awkward as they made their separate ways around the apartment. Her dizziness was gone, and he was no longer worried about her head.
He was worried about his own.
What had he been thinking to kiss her like that? And how come they'd lost control so easily? At the time he had no answers. Only later would he be able to piece the nightmare together. Michele's depression, the distance that caused between them, his troubles with the FAA, his tiring commute from LA to Orlando, the troubles with his father.
All of that, combined with the way Kiahna had looked at him, the way she'd talked to him … the same way Michele spoke to him in their early days.
It all added up now, but back then on that awful morning after, he was too shocked to make sense of anything but the obvious. He had to get home.
The ride to the airport was even more strained, neither of them saying a word until she parked the car at the departure area, climbed out, and met him on the curb.
“I'm sorry, Connor. I've never done anything like that in my life.” She could barely look at him. When she did, her eyes brimmed with tears. “I feel awful.”
“Me, too.” He took a step back and held the handle of his suitcase. “I'm sorry, I … I don't know what to say.”
“You were lonely. I should've gone to the neighbor's.”
Lonely? He let her word play in his mind. “Not that lonely. It's no excuse.”
“But your wife?” Then she asked a question that haunted him still. “How long have you been separated?”
“Separated?” He searched her eyes, confused. “I told you, Kiahna. I'm married. Everything about last night was …” His eyes fell to the ground for a few seconds. “It was wrong. It never should have happened.”
“But … you said you lived alone in Los Angeles. I thought …”
And in a rush, the realization hit him.
She thought he and Michele lived in separate states because they were on the verge of divorce. “No, it's … it's nothing like that. I live in Los Angeles because I'm stationed there. My wife and the girls, our life is in Florida. I commute back and forth.” His eyes shifted to the ground again. He wanted to disappear, close his eyes, and never again have to see the island girl standing before him. He exhaled hard through pursed lips. “Los Angeles is temporary, until I get assigned back to Orlando.”
“Oh. I … I misunderstood.” Her cheeks grew red, and she took small, jerky steps back to the driver's door of her car. Then she stopped and met his eyes one last time. “Good-bye, Connor. I'm sorry …”
“Me, too.”
That was the end of it. He never heard from her again, never heard anything about her.
Until Marv Ogle's call a week ago.
A noise caught his attention, and Connor released the memory.
“Hey! Mr. Evans, I think I got a fish!”
“Good.” Connor blinked, still trying to clear his head. He turned to Max. “Hold onto him!”
“Okay.” The boy was on his feet struggling with his fishing pole, eyes dancing, a grin plastered across his face. “I always dreamed I'd catch a big fish like that one.”
He moved in a single fluid motion from the chair to a position behind Max, where his arms came around the boy and surrounded his smaller hands on the rod. “You're right. Feels like a big one.” Connor used his wrists to jerk the pole. And a flash of silver jumped from the water twenty-five feet out. “Oooh, I think it's a trout!”
Elizabeth and Susan were still swimming,
talking to a few girls and unaware of the commotion. Together, Connor and Max reeled in the fish and fought to hold it while Connor removed the hook from its mouth.
“Looks like you caught us dinner, Max.” Connor gave the child a quick squeeze, then fastened the catch chain through the fish's mouth and tossed it into shallow water where it would stay fresh until later.
“Yeah.” Max moved to the shoreline and stared at the fish, flopping only once in a while now. “I bet it's the biggest fish in the whole lake.”
Connor helped the boy bait his hook and then returned to his chair. But all the while he couldn't stop thinking about Max's statement, how he'd always dreamed of catching a fish that big.
His eyes narrowed, and he looked out beyond the horizon. Kiahna had dreamed of something, too. Becoming a doctor and curing cancer. It hadn't occurred to him until just now, but there could only be one reason why she didn't make it to med school. She'd gotten pregnant.
From what Mr. Ogle had said about Kiahna, her son came first from the moment she found out she was carrying him. She must've made the decision to go it alone, knowing that he had a family of his own in Florida. And the decision cost her every dream she'd ever had. Kiahna raised Max in a small apartment, probably the same one where he'd stayed during that stormy August night. Mr. Ogle said they lived paycheck to paycheck from the day Max was born.
Connor let the truth settle into the barren, sandy bottom of his heart.
Then another thought hit him, the worst one of all.
Kiahna should've been a doctor by now, practicing in some medical building, making rounds at the local hospital, and finding a cure for cancer. The only reason she was on the doomed Western Flight 45 in the first place was because he'd gotten her pregnant, forcing her to keep her flight attendant job and focus entirely on raising Max.
The truth hit him like a city bus, square in the chest. And in that moment he made a decision.
Through his own selfish behavior and ignorance, he'd done enough harm to the precious boy sitting a few feet from him. It was time to step into his life, not out of it. Time to do whatever he could to make Max's life happy and warm and safe, time to shower him with the kind of love Connor was dying to give him. One day he would make up for all he'd cost Max.
Even if he spent his whole life trying.
TWENTY-FOUR
Michele was trying her best to concentrate.
Margie and Sean had invited a few friends over, two couples and Bobby Garrison, an old high school friend of Michele's whom Margie ran into at an art show a few weeks earlier.
From the beginning, the group seemed to be trying too hard to tell funny stories and keep up a light banter. Almost as though Margie had warned them Michele's marriage was on the rocks, so don't let the mood get too somber.
One of the men was talking about a trip he and his wife had taken to Sanibel Island, Florida, a few weeks ago.
“You know Sanibel Island, right, Michele?” The man gave her a quick look, his eyebrows raised, ready to tell whatever story was going to come next.
“Yes.” Michele allowed a polite smile. She and Connor spent an anniversary on the Gulf Coast once and stayed a night on Captiva Island, just north of Sanibel. “I know the area.”
“Anyway”—the man turned to the others—“we're flying home and we have this layover in New Jersey.” He raised one eyebrow. “I know, not exactly a straight route.”
His wife laughed and patted the man's knee. “So we have an hour, and John goes to the men's room with the old gray backpack, the one with the broken zipper that we've been meaning to throw away.” She paused only long enough to grab a quick breath. “You know, we used it for our wallets and a bag of snacks, a few books, that kind of thing.”
“How was I supposed to know Melinda had her makeup bag inside?”
“So he goes in, with all these tough New Jersey guys and New York businessmen coming and going, and the bag comes open.” Melinda was already laughing.
“Makeup spills all over the floor, I mean all over. Foundation and mascara and pencil-type things.” He spread his hands out in front of him and made a whooshing sound. “All over the men's room floor.”
Other people joined in and were chuckling now. Melinda was gasping for air between bouts of laughter, dabbing at tears in her eyes. “So every one of the guys turns and looks, and there's John.” Another burst of laughter. “Scrambling around the floor stuffing makeup into his backpack.”
John rolled his eyes. He was laughing so hard his whole upper body shook. He sucked in a breath. “I look up and tell them, uh, it's not like it looks. The makeup belongs to my wife.”
“And then …” Melinda hooted a few times. “A construction worker heads out the door, rolls his eyes, and says, ‘Sure, pal, and I'm the Easter Bunny.’”
The stories continued for the next half hour.
Michele chuckled at the appropriate times, but only because she didn't want to attract attention, didn't want people feeling sorry for her. Every now and then she made eye contact with Bobby across the room, and finally he motioned for her to follow him out onto the back deck.
She waited until he closed the sliding glass door behind them before turning to him. “Thanks.”
“Don't worry about it.” He leaned against the railing and studied her. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”
Michele took up the adjacent rail, a few feet from her old friend. A cool ocean breeze blew across the deck, and high clouds blocked out the stars. This was the first time she'd been alone with him all evening. “I wasn't in the mood.”
They were quiet for a few minutes.
“So …” Bobby's eyes held hers. “It's been a long time.”
“Twenty years at least.” She took in the length of him. “You look good.”
“And you.”
Michele dismissed the compliment. She was thirty pounds heavier than she'd been the last time she saw him. “Margie says you're an artist.”
He shrugged, his grin setting off familiar dimples in both cheeks. “I paint some.”
“She says you're good.” Michele still held his gaze. “I'd like to see your work.”
“Okay.” He stretched his legs out some and crossed them at the ankles. “Someday.”
She shifted so she could see him better. “Did you and Tammy ever marry?”
“We did.” He drew a slow breath. “She left me two years ago for her nursing instructor.”
Michele felt her heart sink. Was no one safe? “Tammy?” She looked up and let her gaze settle on the silhouette of mountains in the distance. “You were perfect for each other.”
“I thought so, too.”
More comfortable silence settled over the moment, and Michele was glad for the chance to see him. She and Bobby had never dated, but they ran in the same circles through junior high and high school. She couldn't remember the number of times the two of them stayed up late talking about one teenage drama or another.
“Margie tells me you're having trouble at home.” Bobby hooked his thumbs on the front pockets of his navy Dockers.
“Some.” Michele met his eyes again. “Connor had an affair eight years ago. I just found out last week.”
Bobby winced.
“Apparently he got the girl pregnant and didn't know it.” Michele crossed her arms and willed away the pit in her stomach, the same one that came each time she thought about the situation. “She died in that plane crash in Hawaii; her attorney called Connor because he was listed in the girl's will. The boy has no one, apparently.”
A knowing look filled Bobby's expression. “That's why you're here.”
“Yes.” Michele looked at the animated discussion still going on inside, and then back at Bobby. “Trying to figure out my life.”
His smile was comfortable and easy. He held out his arms. “C'mere, friend. I think you need a hug.”
Their hug stirred warm memories—but nothing more. “Thanks, Bobby. I'm glad you're here.”
“Me, too.”
He pulled back. “What is it you want, Michele? Have you thought about it?”
“Yes.” She searched his eyes, grateful for the chance to consider the question. “I want to call Connor and tell him I love him.”
He did a slow nod. His expression held no disappointment. “Then go. I'll be out here if you need to talk.”
For the first time in days, Michele's smile felt genuine. “You're still a great listener, Bobby.”
“My pleasure.” He gave her a mock bow. “Anything for an old friend.”
Michele crept inside unnoticed, slipped into the guest room, and used her sister's phone to place the call. Connor had his cell phone, but she hadn't called once since the trip began. Now it was Thursday night.
She hadn't realized until now just how much she missed Connor. Funny, too, because Connor often was gone longer than three days in the course of flying. But she always knew they'd be together again soon.
This time … she wasn't sure.
The number came easily, and after three rings Michele heard a click. “Hello?”
It was Elizabeth. An ache spread across Michele's chest, and she closed her eyes, imagining her oldest daughter sitting with the others around a campfire. “Hi, honey. It's Mommy.”
“Mommy!” Elizabeth's voice faded some. “Hey, guys, it's Mom!” She paused. “We miss you so much … and we're having such a good time. You should be here, Mommy, can you come? Can you?”
The rush of words left Michele speechless for a moment. She allowed a gentle laugh. “I'm a long ways away, sweetheart. But I miss you, too.” Michele bit her lip, not sure she wanted to ask. “How's it going with Max?”
“Great!” Elizabeth's tone held an unreserved happiness. Nothing like the doubt that had plagued her before the trip.
“That's good.” Michele hated the way her heart sank at the report. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, the first day we helped him with his sleeping bag because he didn't know about the zipper and he had the middle spot and we had the room near the front door, so we helped him. And the next morning we made blueberry pancakes and you won't believe it, Mom. That's Max's favorite kind!” She barely took a breath. “And that day we showed him how to fish, only he didn't catch a big one until yesterday, and he and Daddy reeled it in together and we ate it for dinner, and everyone told him it was the best fish of the trip so far. Oh, and I forgot about yesterday when we went swimming and Max is the best swimmer, Mom. Even better than me and Susan because …”
Oceans Apart Page 21
