Holiday Buzz

by Cleo Coyle

  My cell went off just then, and I quickly checked the caller ID.

  Dante Silva.

  I exhaled hard. Whatever Dante wanted to discuss could wait. I let his call go to my voice mail, dropped the cell in my robe’s pocket, and turned my attention to the airline’s recorded message.

  “If you are a family member of a passenger on board Flight 324 . . .”

  When the line beeped, I left my name and two numbers as instructed. Then I hung up and stared blankly at the cable news. A commercial flashed across the screen followed by a sports report. But I couldn’t make sense of it.

  Outside my dark window, big, wet snowflakes tumbled from the clouds, and I imagined an airplane falling among them, hitting the dark sea and going down. That’s how I felt, like I’d hit something hard and was sinking.

  I could have phoned Matt or Madame. I could have tried to reach Franco again or returned Dante’s call. But the gears in my mind had frozen in place; my thoughts went numb, save a primitive prayer, recited over and over . . .

  Please, God . . . don’t take him from me. Please . . .

  I’m not sure how long I sat there, staring and praying, but at some point, through the surreal fog, a noise began to register. A distant banging . . .

  Bam! Bam!

  Someone was pounding on my apartment’s front door. The noise was loud and strong—Bam-Bam-Bam! I pictured Franco’s thick fist, swinging away.

  “But why didn’t Franco just call?” I whispered.

  Unless his news about Mike had to be conveyed in person—the way a cop delivers . . .

  “A notification,” I whispered numbly into the chilly bedroom air.

  Slowly, stiffly, I pulled on a robe and forced my legs to move. Across the bedroom. Down the stairs. My hand was shaking as I unbolted the lock and pulled open the door.

  Fourteen

  A tall, broad-shouldered man stood on my landing, larger than life. His topcoat was open, plaid scarf hanging loosely around his neck. His caramel brown hair was sparkling with half-melted snow. His square jaw was ruddy, his nose redder than Rudolph’s.

  “About time, sweetheart.”

  “Mike?” I rasped.

  Quinn’s cobalt eyes smiled. “Who else were you expecting? Santa Claus?”

  “I thought you were dead!”

  The smile in Quinn’s eyes vanished. “What?”

  “I thought you were—” I couldn’t say the word again.

  “Aw, don’t be silly, come here . . .”

  As he pulled me against his long, hard body, sobs of relief racked my small frame, ending on a less-than-romantic case of the hiccups.

  “Take it easy,” he murmured into my hair. “Everything’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay. After my wave of relief ebbed, an irrational anger began stirring inside me—irrational because my logical self knew Mike Quinn to be the most patient, considerate, brave-hearted man I’d ever met. A man like that would never have meant to put me through this terror. He had to have an explanation.

  But as his strong arms loosened their comforting hug, my logical self went AWOL. Fury rose in my veins like boiling mercury up a thermometer. My hands balled into fists, and those fists began pummeling Quinn’s chest.

  “How could you”—hiccup!—“do that to me? How!”

  The cop in him reacted instinctively. His fingers clamped on my right wrist, swinging it fast around my body; then he grabbed the left, sweeping it back to join its mate.

  “Let me go!”

  “No.”

  He had me facing away from him now, slightly bent over, my arms pinned behind my back—and I realized what he’d done. He used his powercuffing maneuver on me! So, okay, he hadn’t actually clamped on the metal cuffs. But the very idea that he was restraining me with a cop technique made me even angrier.

  I struggled to free myself, failing miserably. Quinn’s build was solid as a skyscraper. Moving the Empire State Building would have been easier. I felt him bending over me, his chest pressing my back.

  “Calm down,” his cop voice warned in my ear.

  “I can’t! I’m really, really”—hiccup!—“pissed!”

  “I noticed.”

  Quinn had never seen me like this; and, honestly, I hadn’t seen me like this since I’d been married to Matteo Allegro!

  We stood there for a good minute: me hiccupping, refusing to relinquish my righteous fury; and Quinn unwilling to let me go. If the landline’s extension hadn’t rung, I’m not sure what the man would have done with me.

  “Let me answer that,” I demanded. “I’m expecting”—hiccup!—“two emergency calls.”

  “You’re done assaulting me?”

  “For now.”

  He released me, and I moved quickly into the living room, rubbing my bruised wrists as I went. Still breathing hard, I snatched up the handset on the fourth ring.

  “Ms. Clare Cosi?”

  “That’s . . . right,” I said, suppressing the hiccup, and trying my best to swallow the rest.

  “I’m calling as an official representative of Capitol Express to respond to your inquiry about your family member, Mr. Michael Quinn.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Although he purchased a ticket for Flight 324 out of BWI, he did not board the plane.”

  Obviously! “I know that now. Thank you.”

  “If Mr. Quinn failed to board the plane, his luggage would have been taken off the flight. He can recover it through our baggage claim office at BWI. Do you understand?”

  “The flight really did crash then? It’s in the Atlantic?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi, but I cannot officially reply to your question at this time. You have all of the information that I am authorized to give you . . .”

  When the call ended, I turned to face Quinn. He looked stunned.

  “My flight crashed?” he asked quietly.

  “They won’t confirm it, but the news reported a commuter plane went down, and—”

  The phone rang again. This time it was Franco calling back.

  “Clare,” he said, tone grim. “I’m heading for the door now. I’m on my way over to see you.”

  “No, Franco. Turn around. You don’t have to come. Mike is—”

  “I do need to come. Listen to me. You better sit down. There’s been an accident.”

  “Mike’s here! He’s with me. He’s okay!”

  “Oh, geez Louise . . .” The young sergeant blew out air. I heard a noise. It sounded like his big body had collapsed into a small chair. “Thank God.”

  “Believe me, I did . . .” Then I thanked the young sergeant for his help.

  “No problem, Coffee Lady. You need anything else, just call, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Quinn cursed. (Finally, it seemed the guy was putting it together!) “Didn’t Leila call you?!” he asked.

  “I called your ex-wife to ask if she’d heard from you,” I assured him. “She didn’t pick up, so I left a voice mail message. And she never called me back.”

  Quinn’s expression darkened. “She never called you, never even left a message?”

  “Why? Did she know something?” Before he could answer, the cell in my pocket went off. I checked the caller ID. “Uh-oh . . .”

  “Who is it this time?” Quinn asked.

  I hit the connect button. “Hello?”

  Matt’s voice came over the line: “I saw the news. Have you heard anything?”

  “He just showed up.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “In one piece?”

  “So far.”

  “Put him on.”

  I held my phone out. “It’s for you.”

  Quinn met my gaze, didn’t ask who it was, just put the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

  Even standing a foot away, I could hear Matt shouting. There were expletives—in several languages—bald-faced insults, and a few threats.

  “You stupid flatfoot! How could you do that to her? . . .” He said some
thing in Spanish, finishing in Portuguese, and then . . . “If you ever put her through anything like that again . . .”

  To Quinn’s credit, he stoically took everything Matt dished out. Then he surprised us both. “Yeah, you’re right, Allegro,” he said.

  This time Quinn held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you again.”

  I put it to my ear. “Matt?”

  “Say the word and I’ll break him in half.”

  “Go to bed, Matt—and take a few aspirins, okay?” (Clearly, he’d consumed a lot of alcohol at that last holiday party.)

  Quinn rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope that’s the last call.”

  “I got one from Dante earlier. He might call back.”

  Quinn shook his head. “That was me downstairs, trying to reach you. Dante let me in the shop, and I borrowed his phone.”

  “What happened to yours?”

  “Ran out of juice hours ago. My adapter was packed in my luggage.”

  “What happened to your key?”

  “It’s on a ring, with all my other New York keys, inside my luggage . . .”

  “Which is still in Baltimore?”

  He shook his head. “If that plane is at the bottom of the Atlantic, then so is my Pullman.”

  “That’s not what the airline rep told me.”

  “That’s because I violated TSA protocol.”

  “What?! Mike, what in heaven’s name happened to you?”

  “I’ll be glad to tell you,” he said. “But can we sit down first? Like civilized people?”

  I took a deep, calming breath, and studied his face. “You look exhausted. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  I remembered that beautiful eye round in my fridge, sitting there in all its pepper-crusted perfection—completely untouched.

  “How does a roast beef sandwich sound?”

  “Like Christmas dinner.”

  Fifteen

  “TALK,” I commanded, waving my knife in the air.

  The eye round was on my cutting board, ready for surgery. Warily eyeing the blade, Mike shed his coat, scarf, and suit jacket. Then he folded his tall form into a cane-backed chair at my kitchen table and began rolling up his sleeves.

  “Where do you want me to start?” he asked.

  “At the beginning,” I said. “Why didn’t you take my advice and stay put in Washington?”

  “Believe me, I was ready to. But then I called Leila to tell her I’d be missing the party, and she pitched a fit. I felt bad, like I was letting my kids down.”

  “Your kids had a great time at the Cookie Swap, Mike. I’m sure they would have loved to have you there, but it wasn’t worth risking your life, for heaven’s sake. Leila played you, don’t you see that?”

  “I do now.”

  “Well, I’m thankful you didn’t get on that flight, but how in the heck did you get to New York? And what did you mean about violating TSA protocol?”

  “I checked my bag at BWI, and I was waiting to board at the Capitol Express gate when the airline announced a two-hour delay. I went to the bar and saw another guy from Justice. He was trying to get to New York, too, and we agreed to ditch our flight plans and drive up together. We estimated the flight would take an hour anyway, add in the delay time, plus a taxi ride from LaGuardia to Manhattan, and driving looked like a straighter shot—”

  Except for the weather, you blockhead!

  “Nobody at the gate seemed to know how to get our bags to us inside of an hour, so we flashed our credentials and got an okay to keep our bags on the flight. We knew LaGuardia baggage claim would hold them, and I’d have them delivered here in the morning. No problem.”

  “Only there was a problem. You thought you could drive two hundred miles during a blizzard?”

  “Stupid, I know.”

  “You and your friend had a few drinks and thought you were supermen? That’s your excuse?”

  Mike folded his arms. “It was a bad call.”

  Gritting my teeth, I turned to the beef. The pepper-crusted eye round was medium-rare, a gorgeous shade of dusty rose at the center, and I wanted the slices razor thin for buttery tenderness. But I was still so agitated I had to force my hand to stay steady as I cut.

  I shook my head. “You know what your problem is, Quinn? You’ve spent too many years in the city. Talk to Allegro sometime; he’ll set you straight.”

  “I seem to recall he did that already.”

  “Matt was buzzed, that’s why he let loose on you—and believe it or not, he cares about you, too. He also learned how to respect the weather, the hard way.”

  “Well, we were making good progress until we hit south Jersey. Between the snow and a multicar accident, 95 slowed to a crawl. My colleague’s car didn’t have GPS, but our smartphones did, so we—”

  “Let me guess. You got off the turnpike and tried to navigate secondary roads?”

  “Yes, and it was okay until—”

  “Your phones died, and you didn’t bother to bring a paper map or compass. Am I right?”

  Mike grunted and folded his arms, obviously annoyed with my correct assumptions. “Our rechargers were packed away in our luggage, which were still at the airport.”

  “So you got lost?”

  “Very lost. And the road conditions were getting worse. We ended up in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, out of gas. A state trooper saved our asses. Helped us get gassed up again and onto the Garden State Parkway. Then it was slow going, but we made it.”

  “Mike, what if that trooper hadn’t found you? You could have died from exposure?!”

  His eyebrow arched. “Better than a plane crash.”

  “You should have stayed put!”

  “Yes, obviously. We’re going in circles now, Cosi. Can’t you forgive me?”

  “Not yet. I was up here thinking the worst. Why didn’t you call?”

  “I knew you’d be busy working at that party. I didn’t want to bother you, worry you, or, frankly, argue with you, so I called Leila instead, gave her the update about driving, and asked her to tell you. I assume she was at the party?”

  “She dropped off the kids, but we fought—about you—and she stormed off.”

  “You fought with her?”

  “Yes, and I’m not sorry I did . . .” I stared him down. “I was right about the danger of traveling tonight, and she was cruel to keep any information about you from me. She did it deliberately because we fought. She wanted me to suffer.”

  “I know that now. And it’s my fault. I’m truly sorry, Clare. The fact is . . . I thought I was sparing you worry.”

  “Mike, listen to me. I’m not the kind of woman who’s content to be kept in the dark. I want to know—I need to know—the absolute truth. Tonight, when I didn’t know what was happening on your end, I didn’t even know who to call in Washington.”

  “Clare, I’ve told you already, this isn’t like my squad work in New York. The things I’m doing now are classified. I can’t tell you who I’m working with.”

  “I don’t care if you’re working with the Joint Chiefs of Staff! What if I lost touch with you again? Who would I contact? That is it, Quinn. I have had it!”

  For a moment, he looked stricken, and I realized that he misunderstood. He thought I was breaking up with him. But it was just the opposite!

  I waved my knife. “You are not leaving this duplex again without giving me two names and numbers in DC.”

  Mike exhaled, clearly relieved that contact numbers were all I wanted. Then he sat back, eyed the blade, and gave me a little smile.

  “And if I don’t?”

  I put down the knife and lifted the dish with his mile-high roast beef sandwich. I’d layered the tender slices on a crusty Italian roll, kissed it with the creamy tang of homemade horsey sauce, and finished it off with baby spinach and a sprinkling of sea salt.

  “Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

  “Give it.”

  “Names and numbers. At least two.”

&nbs
p; Mike went silent a moment, then he pulled out his smartphone and tossed it on the table. “It’s dead. But when I get it recharged tomorrow, I promise, you’ll have them.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?”

  “I’m starving, Cosi. And I survived a blizzard and a plane crash. You want me to die of malnutrition?”

  “I’m still angry with you, but . . .” I set the plate in front of him. “I do love you, despite that.”

  “There’s no despite about it,” Mike said and tore into the sandwich, closing his eyes and moaning like a man in the throes of long-denied ecstasy.

  Still standing, I stared down at him. “What does that mean? No despite about it?”

  Mike took another bite, answered as he chewed. “Back when I was on the street, coming up in the ranks, my job . . . well, it wasn’t the safest.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Do you know when I knew for sure that Leila didn’t love me anymore?”

  I shook my head.

  “When she stopped getting angry if I didn’t call.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mike put down his sandwich; met my gaze. “How could she love me when she couldn’t care less if I lived or died? Clare . . . your anger is what assures me of your feelings.”

  “So you want me to pummel you more often?”

  “You pummel me again, Cosi, and you’ll feel cold steel around your wrists.”

  “Promise?”

  He reached around his belt, pulled the cuffs clear, and slapped them on the table.

  “Try me.”

  “No. I don’t think so . . .” I folded my arms. “As I recall, there are plenty of other ways to express passionate feelings . . .”

  “Oh, yeah?” A slow smile spread over Mike’s face. Then he hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Show me.”

  * * *

  WE abandoned the dishes and climbed the steps to the master bedroom. Mike’s kisses brought sweet warmth to my chilled skin, and I returned the favor. Then we shed our clothes and put our quarrel to bed.

  As the snow piled higher, the outside world became quieter, more distant, but it didn’t make me feel cut off anymore. With Mike’s steady heartbeat beside mine, the frozen silence outside made me feel all the more tucked in and safe.