by Tracy Brogan
“Yeah, okay,” the man said, turning away after another glance at Emily. “I’ll call you when I actually get to the island. I’m assuming they have cell service over there. If not, watch for a carrier pigeon.”
As he turned away, Emily crossed her arms and tucked her legs under the chair. So much for captivating him. He kept talking, and his loud voice was too big for this space. She wished he’d hang up. Her head was starting to ache from the day’s traveling, her lack of sustenance, and the knowledge that her next stop would deposit her right into the clutches of Gigi and the rest of her family.
“Carrier pigeon,” the man repeated with his outside voice. “Not an owl. Why the hell would I send you a letter by owl?”
Chloe burst out laughing, and he looked up at her quizzically.
“Harry Potter,” she said to him, as if she were part of the conversation.
He moved the phone away from his ear. “What?”
“Harry Potter. In the Harry Potter books they send mail by owls, not carrier pigeons.”
He looked at her for another moment, offering up one slow blink as his expression went blank. “Okay,” he finally said, then pressed the phone back to his ear. “I have to go, Bryce. I’ll see what I can do about Dad, but I’ll have my own work to deal with. Yeah, I’ll call you later.” He tapped his thumb against the surface and then slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket. He leaned back in his chair, stretching a little, manspreading. Then he adjusted his computer bag so it would be more comfortable in its chair. Finally, he looked back at Emily and nodded, a positive assessment in his dark brown eyes. He was very attractive. She couldn’t deny that. Nick had been very attractive, too, and although it was a gross generalization to say that all attractive men bore a sense of entitlement and tended to be assholes, Emily had done a fair amount of personal research over the years, and all the data she’d collected seemed to support this theory.
“Fly through here often?” asked the Man with the Red Tie.
Case in point. That was the best he could come up with? Attractive men didn’t have to try very hard to capture a woman’s attention. They didn’t have to be particularly witty or clever or original. This one was clearly accustomed to making the ladies swoon with just a wistful smile and a soulful gaze. And while a wistful smile and a soulful gaze had their place, Emily had no time for this.
“Hardly ever. You?” She paired his cheesy line with a dry-as-merlot tone of voice. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Never. Never even heard of this place.” He rose from the seat abruptly and crossed to the window near Chloe, as if his energy just wouldn’t allow him to be still. He was going to be a joy to sit next to on the tiny seven-seater plane.
“Wow,” he said, leaning forward and squinting out the window. “Looks like we’re taking a Cessna Flying Coffin.”
Chloe’s eyes widened as she stared up at him. “Is that really the name of it?”
He laughed. “No, but it might as well be. That ride looks fifty years old.”
Chloe redirected her distressed gaze toward Emily. “Mom?”
Emily shook her head. He might be handsome, but he was an idiot. What kind of guy said something like that to a little girl? Okay, so Chloe was tall for her age and looked much older than twelve, but still. He was an idiot.
“It’ll be fine, honey. These small planes fly back and forth from the island all the time.”
“Not today they don’t,” called out the very old but apparently not yet dead man from the office. “We’re having technical difficulties.” He stood up and shuffled over to the folding table as Emily rose from her chair.
“What do you mean, not today?” she asked.
“Sorry, folks, but Bertie just called me from the hangar.” Emily imagined the hangar was what they called that rusty carport leaning against the side of this building. “She said that the what-cha-ma-hootchy in the airplane needs replacing, and she has to go pick up another one. She can’t install it until tomorrow, though.”
“The . . . the what-cha-ma-hootchy?” Red Tie Guy’s voice had gone up about four octaves. Emily could not agree more. They both stepped forward.
“Yeah, you know,” the old man said. “The thingamajig. The doohickey that makes the dealy-bobber in the engine work. I don’t know all them technical terms for airplane parts. I don’t really work here, you know. I’m just filling in for Ned on account of he’s off to the doctor’s office to have a mole looked at.”
“But this is serious,” Emily said.
“Naw, it’s just a mole. He’ll be fine. The thing has been there for years.”
Her jaw clenched for a moment and loosened only enough for her to say, “No, I mean this is serious that the plane can’t fly to the island until tomorrow. We need to get there today.”
The old man scratched his head without removing his John Deere hat. “Well, I guess you could, you know, drive on up I-75 for about two hours and take a flight from the Manitou airport. Course you’ll never make it there in time because that airport closes down at five p.m. and it’s already past that now.”
Emily’s impatience doubled, fueled by frustration, exhaustion, and low blood sugar, but she held it in remarkably well. She didn’t want to start yelling at this old man and scare him into having a heart attack, although in reality he appeared to be quite relaxed about the whole situation. “Sir, if we had a car to drive on up to Manitou, then we could just drive that car the forty miles to Michlimac City and take a ferry instead.”
Father Time nodded. “Eh, yep. I guess you could do that, too. Problem solved.”
She placed her fingertips on the folding table, resisting her urge to pound on it, even just a little bit. “Our problem is not solved because we don’t have a car. That’s why we bought airplane tickets.”
Wenniway Island sat in Lake Huron just a few nautical miles east of the mainland, and the only way to get there was by plane or boat. Very old plane. Or very slow boat.
The old man looked off into the distance for a moment, as if contemplating her words. Then he crossed his scrawny, crepey-skinned arms. “Well, that there is a conundrum, missy. I’ll be very interested to see how it all works out for you. In the meantime, I’m going home to have some meatloaf with my bride. Seventy-two years young, my Doris is, and still a looker. You folks are welcome to spend the night here in the terminal. Somebody will probably be back around eight or so in the morning. If you do make other travel plans, would you kindly turn out the lights when you leave? I promised Ned I’d be sure to turn off the lights.”
“But there must be other planes,” said the Guy in the Suit, his voice dropping back down into an authoritative range. It was deep with a kind of husky quality to it. The kind of voice that probably got him just what he wanted in the boardroom. And the bedroom. As if Emily had the time or inclination to dwell on such a thing. She shoved away that thought in favor of dealing with this problem right here in front of her.
The old guy, who was not Ned, and not yet dead, nodded his John-Deered head. “Oh yeah, sure enough. There’s lots of planes, but none of them are here. Plus, Bertie is the only mechanic who knows what parts she needs, and she just left for the Walmart.”
Chloe gave a little gasp. “She’s buying airplane parts at Walmart?”
The old man’s patronizing smile was nearly hidden beneath his shrubbery-like mustache. “Now don’t be silly, little miss. You can’t buy airplane parts down at the Walmart. She went there to get some lady loot for the women’s restroom. Apparently we’re out of them-there sanitized napkins.”
He adjusted his hat and winked at Chloe, who proceeded to turn every shade of red before turning her back to the rest of them.
“Sir,” Emily said again, “are you sure there are no other planes and no other pilots who can get us to the island this evening?”
“None that I can think of. Most of our planes already left for the island on account of the Lilac Festival. Now, Billy Cornwall can fly, but he doesn’t have a license anymore
, ever since he landed a plane in Mrs. McGurty’s alpaca pasture, so I wouldn’t feel right about you going with him. And Cody Faraday is in county lockup right now on account of he was jaywalking.”
“They locked him up for jaywalking?” Emily asked.
His voice lowered as he leaned over the table toward her. “Well, he was naked, mostly. If it weren’t for he was wearing his cowboy boots, he’d have been completely naked.”
Emily turned to look at the Guy in the Suit. The Guy in the Suit looked back at her.
“You think there’s any chance in hell they have Uber around here?” he nearly whispered.
“What’s an Uber?” the old man said loudly, as if to counterbalance their hushed tones.
“It’s like a taxi,” Emily answered.
“A taxi? You need a taxi? Well, why didn’t you say so? Number’s on the wall right there near the pay phone.” He pointed to the wall, and sure enough, next to the window was a beat-up old pay phone, and next to that, attached with the ubiquitous duct tape, was a sheet of yellow legal paper with a phone number scrawled in fat black marker.
Wawatam Taxi Service. Thank goodness.
Ryan Taggert had wondered if this day could get any worse, and now he knew.
The answer was yes.
Yes, it could.
He’d already puddle-jumped across the nation, wasted three hours in a hotel bar in Minneapolis drinking watered-down vodka tonics, and now here he was stuck in Sticksville, Michigan, facing the next leg of his journey. What was supposed to be a forty-minute plane ride, on an admittedly frighteningly out-of-date plane, was now going to be an hour-long taxi ride followed by half an hour on some ridiculous ferry. A ferry? Who the hell was he? Huckleberry Finn?
“I assume you’re headed to the island, too?” asked the honey in the white suit. She was the one surprising perk to his day. What was a beautiful woman like her doing in a dive of an airport like this? Too bad this trip was all about business and not pleasure. Plus, the kid had called her Mom, and he was pretty sure that no woman traveling with her daughter would be looking for his sort of extracurricular vacation activities. They were going to Wenniway Island, not Fantasy Island.
“Yes, Wenniway Island,” he said. “The sooner the better.”
“There won’t be many taxis around here. As you can imagine, there aren’t a lot of evening activities nearby that require public transportation.” She rolled her shoulders, tilting her head from side to side, and he recognized the universal stretch of another weary traveler. Ryan lived out of his suitcase most of the time, and travel was an unavoidable nuisance. The crick in his neck was pretty much permanent.
“I would imagine all the evening activities around here require either a pickup truck or a tractor.” All he’d seen on his flight in were fields and trees. Not another building or town in sight. There did not appear to be many people, either.
“You’d be correct. If we get lucky, there will be some kind of car available that can get us to Michlimac City, but the ferries only run until eight p.m. this time of year. So we’d better get there fast. That being the case, I suggest we share a ride. Unless you were planning to spend the night here.”
Ryan looked over at the hard plastic chairs and the grimy, soiled floor. He’d slept at an airport or two in his day, and on a few dirty floors after one too many shots of Patrón, but this would be more like sleeping in county lockup, and he didn’t have the benefit of being sloppy drunk. Since this woman seemed to know her way around, he had no issue with sharing a cab, as long as she and her daughter didn’t want to chat. He was too tired for chatting.
“Sure. Yeah, that would be good. I’ll call for one.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped closer to the sign taped to the paneled wall.
“Good luck, you kids. Don’t forget to turn off the lights,” said the grandpa in the John Deere hat, and then he shuffled out the door and was gone. So much for customer service.
As Ryan made arrangements with a raspy-voiced woman on the phone, he took note of how many bags his new traveling companions had. A lot. He was scheduled to stay on the island for two months while he worked with his father, and he’d managed to get everything into one suitcase, so what on earth did they bring? Probably shoes. In his experience, women always brought too many shoes. Impractical shoes, like the ones the woman was wearing right now. She had on high heels with lots of straps and even a pointless little zipper on the heel. They looked good, of course. Damn good, but those were not traveling shoes. They didn’t seem much like mom shoes to him, either. And that wasn’t a very practical suit she was wearing, come to think of it. It was white. Who the hell wore white to travel in? Besides the pope?
“Better make it a van,” he said to the woman on the phone. “We’re going to need it.”
He hung up and turned back to the strawberry blonde and her mini-me. “The cab will be here in thirty minutes. That’s going to be cutting it close for making that boat you’re talking about.”
“Well, if we can at least get to Michlimac City tonight, there are lots of hotels. Even with the Lilac Festival starting on the island, we should be able to find some rooms. Better to spend the night in one of those than on the floor here.” She gestured toward the uncomfortable chairs.
He nodded. “Agreed.”
“There had better be some restaurants open, too, Mom, because I am literally ravenous. Like I can literally feel my stomach starting to cave in on itself. We haven’t eaten in like ten years.” The kid pressed clenched fists against her flat belly to demonstrate just how long ten years was to have gone without food. He sensed a career in the dramatic arts might suit her.
“Maybe I can get into that vending machine,” Ryan said before her mother could answer. “I’m Ryan, by the way. Ryan Taggert.” He walked over to the machine, circa 1970s, and began pulling at the duct tape. “Hope the food in here is fresher than the technology, but at least it’s easy to break into.”
The door swung open, and the young girl squeaked with gratitude.
“Ohmygosh, thank you! I am seriously legit starving right now. I’m Chloe Chambers. Nice to meet you.” She shoved her phone into her pocket, shook Ryan’s hand, and then started pulling candy bars from the machine.
“I’m Emily.” She extended her arm and gave him the hint of a smile. The kind that said hello and I’m not interested at the same time. No wedding ring, though. He was a details guy, and he noticed things like that.
“Chloe, only take a couple of things,” her mother said. “We still have to pay for that, and I only have a few dollars in cash.”
Ryan pulled a twenty from his wallet and slapped it down on the folding table. “Nice to meet you, Emily. Chloe. Dinner is on me.” He smiled back, friendly and casual. She probably got hit on all the time, and even though he loved a challenge, he reminded himself, again, that this trip was strictly business.
“Thanks. I can pay you back once we get to the island, or if we find an ATM,” she said, pulling out a tiny bag of cheese crackers.
“No worries.”
They helped themselves to crackers, pretzels, Hershey bars, and gummy bears. Not the best dinner he’d ever had, but given the circumstances, he was pretty damn happy to have that. Emily found some Styrofoam cups in the little office and filled them with water from the bathroom sink.
“Thank you for the feast, such as it is,” she said, handing him one of the cups.
“You’re welcome. Such as it is.”
She took a drink, then pointed at his computer bag. “It’s not going to be much of a vacation if you bring all that work with you.”
He shook his head and pulled a mini-pretzel from a foil bag. “Not a vacation at all. I’m heading to the island to work with my dad.”
“And to rescue him from a bimbo?” Her gaze was innocent as she popped a cheese cracker into her mouth.
“How did you . . . ? Oh, I guess you heard me on the phone.” Awkward.
Her smile might have been patronizing were it not for t
he tilt of her head that went with it. “Sorry. Kind of hard not to.”
Ryan swallowed the excessively dry pretzel and washed it down with some water. “I get kind of loud on the phone. Bad habit. Anyway, yeah. My dad’s been on the island for about a month now, and according to my brother, he’s fallen under the spell of some gold-digging bimbo.” Ryan didn’t believe that, though. Bryce was full of shit most of the time, and even though their father had been a widower for the past eight months, it wasn’t as if he was suddenly single and ready to mingle. Just the thought of his conventional, buttoned-down father in the arms of some woman after forty years of marriage to Ryan’s mom made him shudder. “I’m sure it’s nothing, though. Bryce is easily excitable, and my dad is much too smart to fall for some femme fatale.”
“Siri, what’s a femme fatale?” Chloe asked her phone.
“It’s a dishonest woman who uses feminine wiles to manipulate men,” Emily responded just as the phone replied, “It’s a woman considered to be dangerously seductive.”
Emily offered her daughter a satisfied smile. “See. I know stuff.”
“Dangerously seductive? How is that different from all women?” Ryan’s joke fell flat on this audience, and his skin prickled with embarrassment. “Anyway, I’ll be there for the next several weeks, and I’m sure I’ll get it all figured out.”
“Several weeks? What kind of work do you do?” Emily had taken off her jacket, and the pale pink sleeveless shirt she wore was just sheer enough to give a hint of lacy stuff underneath. She had a whole naughty librarian thing going, and it was as sexy as it was innocent. He slid his hands into his pockets and paced a bit to remind his body where they were and what they were talking about. What were they talking about? Oh yeah. His dad getting distracted by a woman. How ironic.
