by JoAnn Ross
“You are. Along with the lodge, there are a dozen cabins along the lakefront. Close enough that you don’t feel as if you’re out all alone in the wilderness to be wolf bait or run into Sasquatch, yet far enough apart that everyone has their privacy.”
“He’s just a legend, right? Like the Loch Ness Monster. But furrier.”
“If you stick around town long enough, you’ll hear stories from locals who swear to have seen him in the wild, but my guess is they were probably smoking something funny at the time. There’s also a canoe, boat rental place, and a small store. Not as well equipped as the Trading Post grocery in town, but it’ll do if you’re looking for 7-Eleven type stuff. Or fish bait or a chainsaw-carved moose souvenir to take home.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Not that she’d actually buy such a thing even if she had a home. But before leaving town, she’d arranged with a moving company to pick up all her stuff and put it in storage, and told her best friend and roommate—Zoe Long, a bass player for an all-girl band called Pandora’s Box—to go ahead and find someone to take her bedroom in their rented ’30s Spanish-style bungalow. Thanks to the influx of more and more indie musicians and hipsters who’d been finding Echo Park after being priced out of other neighborhoods undergoing gentrification, she suspected her eight-by-ten-foot room had probably been snatched off Craigslist before her plane had taken off from LAX.
Not that she intended to go back. While Tori wasn’t sure what she was going to do once the two weeks’ rent on the cabin ran out, she did know that she’d be moving on. Because that’s what she’d been doing for more than half her life. And while it might not be what, in a perfect world, she would have chosen, she knew, more than most, that perfection was a myth perpetuated by those control freaks who needed to believe it possible.
6
Having grown up flying before he’d been old enough to get his driver’s learning permit, and later landing on carriers, when he’d first arrived in Caribou, even knowing its reputation from his trip with his dad years ago, Finn had secretly scoffed at the bulky, cumbersome-looking Beaver with those fat pontoons hanging down like torpedoes. The best planes had jets, and all real planes had wheels.
Despite being unimpressed, by the end of his second week, given all the inlets, lakes, and rivers, he’d come to realize that the floatplane was as ubiquitous a way to travel as the dog sled had been in an earlier era. Which was when one of the senior pilots, Jackie Johnson—nicknamed “Mother Goose” because she’d grown up flying with her dad in his twin-engine Grumman Goose amphibian around the Aleutian—told him that if he was going to take bush flying seriously and rid himself of his cheechako a.k.a. newcomer, label, he was going to have to man up and learn how to fly the Beaver. Or find himself another airline to work for.
Since no one knew he owned Osprey Air, losing his job wasn’t a problem. But Finn had never been one to back away from a challenge. If this sixty-something native Alaskan thought he wasn’t pilot enough to manage a floatplane, then he was damn well going to show her how badly she’d underestimated him.
What he’d underestimated was that flying a floatplane wasn’t like any other. Taking off and landing was entirely different, given that he was piloting a boat rather than a plane when he was in the water.
Not laughing at him, at least too badly, every time he screwed up, Jackie had taught him that, contrary to instinct, a glassy lake was the most difficult surface to land on and caused the most floatplane accidents because without some disturbance on the water, there was no way to calculate depth.
So, he’d spent hours practicing reading the water for wind direction, learning how to calculate the curvature of the waves the way he’d once prepared for the deck tail hook. He’d learned that waves creating visible foam as they broke on waves indicated too much sea swell for a safe beaching. She’d taught him to circle before landing to scout for potentially deadly rocks and driftwood, and how to land parallel to swells to avoid skipping like the rocks he and his brothers used to skip across the pond at the ranch.
Just like when he’d attended Topgun school, he’d discovered how much he still had to learn. And that he could probably spend the rest of his life studying and practicing and still screw things up.
Which he had no intention of doing today.
Manipulating the throttle, rudder, ailerons, and flaps, he set the plane down onto the lake, then, using the drift, sailed the plane backwards, avoiding boats, docked floatplanes, and pilings on which seagulls perched, waiting for his wake to stir up any food, and ran up onto the designated plank.
Then cut the engine. And began breathing again.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m duly impressed.”
“Just doing my job.” He’d heard that several times a day from tourists since he’d started flying on the summer schedule, but this time was different. Her compliment shouldn’t mean so much. But it did.
“That may be. But it was like watching a composer both conduct and play. Like a one-man orchestra,” she said. “I’m beginning to see why switching careers hasn’t been a problem for you. That’s got to be as much of a challenge as landing on a carrier.”
“It doesn’t have as much potential for disaster, but it’s always interesting,” he agreed. “One of the reasons I left when I did was that the Navy was starting to bring in an auto system called the MAGIC CARPET.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Like all government agencies, the military loves its acronyms. This one stands for Maritime Augmented Guidance with Integrated Controls for Carrier Approach and Recovery Precision Enabling Technologies.”
“I wonder how long it took to come up with that.”
“There are probably programs. Like when you go online and choose your Star Wars commander name,” he said. “And it makes sense because when you’re landing on a carrier, you need to maintain a three-degree glide slope while staying lined up with a moving ship and keeping the jet’s nose at just the right angle so it doesn’t slam into the deck.
“That can take three hundred different adjustments with the stick and throttle—left and right, back and forth to put the nose up or down, constant acceleration and deceleration with the throttle to make up for any power lost with all that moving around—all in just eighteen seconds before hitting the deck and snagging the tail hook perfectly across one of the four wires.”
“Wow.” Her eyes widened. “I knew it was dangerous. And yes, I got that from watching Top Gun and NCIS, but I never realized it was that scary.”
“That’s the rush,” he admitted. “The stress level is off the charts, especially when you’re not just talking about the possibility of killing yourself and costing the Navy a bunch of money, but there are also all the LSOs and other ground crew on the deck who can die if you screw up.
“The system puts a jet into an automatic landing mode that guides its trajectory to the deck. Basically, you just take the stick and push it forward until you’re on the glide slope, let go, and keep your hands off.”
“And here I’m not sure I’m ready to hand over control to a self-driving car,” she said.
“I talked with a pilot who tested it and found he was uncomfortable with how few inputs he was making,” Finn allowed.
“That’s because you’re all control freaks,” she said without any hint of accusation. It was merely an observation he couldn’t deny.
“I know a lot of pilots who are afraid it’ll take away the badass aspect. The hey-I’m-cool-because-I’m-a-carrier-aviator part.”
“Which is admittedly way cool,” she allowed.
“True. And I’m not going to deny that was always part of the appeal since I was a kid. But landings are not only like jumping out of a tenth-story window and trying to hit a postage stamp with your tongue. In reality, they’re just what you’ve got to do after you’ve completed a mission. So, it makes sense, if it can be done more safely by computerization, then hooyah for technology.”
“You said that
was one of your reasons for leaving the Navy,” she said, making him realize he’d screwed up and opened the conversation to a place he wasn’t prepared to go. “What were the others?”
“Different things,” he said offhandedly. No way did he want to admit that having nearly died twice, he decided against going for the hat trick of death escapes. “Including this opportunity showing up. Want to stop by the Caribou Café on the way to your cabin, get some lunch, and you can tell me all the reasons you bailed on your wedding?” A thought belatedly occurred to him. “You did leave before getting to the ‘I do’ part, right?”
“Fortunately. And thanks for the offer of lunch, but I ate on the plane. It’s been a long day and I’d just as soon get settled into the cabin.”
And not talk about her botched nuptials. Got it.
“Works for me,” he said agreeably. It was just as well. If they got into the wedding, they’d get into Covington IV, which would put him in a situation where he’d either have to admit he knew the guy, which would open up a lot of questions Finn wasn’t prepared to answer, or pretend to have never heard of him.
So, he’d drop her off at the cabin without mentioning that not only had his deceased father built the resort but that it continued to earn money for his estate. The place was being locally managed by Barbara Ann Carter and handled by an army of lawyers for the next five years. It wasn’t like Tori needed to know that. The same way there was no reason for her to think he was anything but merely an employee of Osprey Air.
That’s a great many sins of omission you’re committing, Finn Brannigan, he heard Sister Bartholomew’s stern voice from the back of his mind.
No offense intended, Sister, Finn shot back. But please shut the hell up. I know what I’m doing.
Which was yet another lie. This one Finn knew he was telling to himself.
* * *
Tori was surprised when she discovered that Finn had landed the plane at the resort. “Doesn’t the town have an actual airport?” she asked.
“Sure. But it’s on the other side of the lake, next to the town’s gravel runway for wheeled planes. But you said you wanted to get settled, so this is quicker.”
“That’s very personal service.”
He shrugged. “Osprey isn’t a big airline. We like to think that while we may not serve meals, except for when passengers order bag lunches from the café for a day of sightseeing, we raise the bar for personalized service.”
“I can’t argue that.” She found getting out of the plane a little easier than getting in and decided that perhaps that was because she was no longer scared spitless.
“Your cabin’s down the road a bit,” he said after tying down the Beaver and retrieving her suitcase. Then, just as he had in the terminal, he put his hand on the small of her back and led her to a gleaming red Jeep Grand Cherokee with a white Osprey Air logo on the side. “Although it’s a short walk, given your stuff, I’ll drive you up there.”
“At least if you get lost in the mountains, you won’t be hard to spot from the air.”
While painted the same fire-engine red as the Corvette she’d seen him leave with the hotel valet, it was definitely not built for speed. Since valet service hadn’t been included in the gig, she’d parked her five-year-old Corolla—which she’d bought when she’d signed that record contract that was now in limbo—in the self-park lot. He hadn’t noticed her at the time. But her attention had definitely been drawn to him, even if he hadn’t been wearing his whites. It also hadn’t escaped her attention that the young woman valet had been on the verge of swooning at his feet as he’d handed over the keys.
“You laugh,” he said easily, thankfully unware of her thoughts, “but it’s true. I’ve done enough search and rescue to know that a white vehicle is not the best idea up here after Labor Day.” He opened the back. “You can put your guitar in here. I’ll drive you to the cabin.”
“Which reminds me,” she said, wondering why she or Carter hadn’t thought of it, “I’m going to need to rent a car. Does this town even have a Hertz franchise?”
“Nope, but it’s not a problem,” he assured her. “There’s a B and B only five miles away that rents cars. We work with them a lot during the season, but not enough that it makes it financially worthwhile to get into business ourselves.”
“I’m not taking your SUV. Which is way more car than I’ll be needing. I’d feel as if I were driving a tank.”
“Fine. I’ll bring a smaller ride out to you in the morning and we can switch.”
She paused before climbing up into the Jeep’s passenger seat, which seemed nearly as high as the one in the floatplane. “Surely you don’t treat every passenger to this much personal service.”
“No. When I saw you come into the baggage claim area alone, I figured something had happened, so I called the office, and Mary Muldoon—who opened Osprey with her husband, who passed on a few years ago—called the car rental place to check. Seems your former fiancé cancelled the car while you were in the air and I was on the way to Anchorage. So Mary had two of the guys deliver my rig out here.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever happened, it couldn’t have been your best day.”
His mild tone suggested that it wasn’t any big deal. But it was. It wasn’t as if they’d made any promises that night. In fact, it had been just the opposite. He’d told her straight out that he wasn’t into relationships, and she’d assured him back that she hadn’t been looking for one.
Still, if they’d ended up in her room instead of his suite, and he’d been the one to sneak out without a word, she’d have been hurt. Maybe even angry. Which he’d undoubtedly been, yet here he was, going the extra effort to make her feel better.
Which, conversely, only made her feel worse. Especially since she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night.
“It hasn’t been one of my best days,” she said, deciding to outwardly treat it as casually as he seemed to. “So, thank you.”
He shrugged. “No problem. So, let’s go.”
* * *
The cabin wasn’t nearly as rustic as she’d been expecting, given the size of the town she’d seen from the air. The outside was made of long yellow logs Finn told her were native white spruce. What appeared to be red shingles on the roof were actually made of metal.
“It doesn’t look like the corrugated metal I’ve seen on barns,” she said.
“That’s because the owner didn’t want guests to feel like they were staying in a barn,” he said. “These hold up to our weather a lot better over time and drive down energy costs. Metal reflects heat, creating a barrier that blocks the sun’s summer heat. In the winter, the reflective properties keep heat in. Plus, it’s recyclable.”
“I’m all for energy conservation, but I doubt I’ll be here when winter arrives.”
“Which is usually September. Or earlier. And I thought your plans were fluid.”
“They are.” She sighed and decided there was no shame in her situation. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. “My bank account is less so. I plan to take advantage of all this gorgeous scenery to write some new songs, then go back to the States—”
“This is a state,” Finn reminded her.
“Yes. Of course.” She suspected he heard that a lot. But the truth was, from what she’d seen the short time since flying into Anchorage, Alaska seemed very foreign. In a vast, amazing way. “But I doubt it has much of a music scene.”
From all that empty space and lack of roads she’d seen from the air, she imagined a touring singer could spend more time traveling from venue to venue than performing.
“The Gold Gulch Saloon and Dance Hall, which is attached to the Caribou Café, has bands, especially during the summer for the tourist season. Barbara Ann was complaining last week that she’d lost one of the bands she’d been counting on staying through the summer to a resort down in Washington state. If you’re looking for a pickup gig, she’d probably scoop you up like white
on rice.”
She tilted her head and looked up at him. “That’s quite a Southern expression for a SoCal guy. You did grow up in California, right?”
“Barbara Ann’s Southern with one of those larger-than-life personalities that tends to rub off on you. And yeah, I grew up in Calabasas.”
Her eyes narrowed as her shoulders stiffened. “That’s a pricey area.”
“Pricey being relative.”
“I played a political fund-raiser there at some movie mogul’s mansion. It looked as if it had been designed by Marie Antoinette and was packed with one-percenters dressed for a red-carpet event. The bling was blinding, and the perfume and designer male colognes practically shut down my lungs.”
“That sure as hell wouldn’t have been our place.” He grinned. “Can you see seven raucous boys living in a California version of Versailles very long without destroying the place? We were a lot more rural. Mostly we ran wild in the mountains and fished in a small pond on the property. We did have a pool,” he allowed. “I hope you’re not going to hold that against me.”
“Of course not.”
His explanation made more sense. Despite having had a career that put him in a very small fraternity, Finn Brannigan seemed like a regular guy. Tori couldn’t imagine him living in a house like the Covington estate where her parents had worked impossibly long hours for what she later came to realize was peon wages.
By the time she’d died, Tori’s mother had advanced to delegating contracted hourly staff rather than cleaning the ten toilets herself. Keeping all the schedules straight and making certain that everyone was working up to Helen Covington’s impossible-to-please standards was akin to juggling flaming torches while walking a tightrope, but Tori had always thought her mother probably could have planned the D-day invasion while whipping up a formal dinner for eight.
Which brought back a memory of standing on a box to reach the counter while her mother taught her to make a soufflé au fromage. Although seemingly simple, the dish offered many opportunities for disaster. But her mother didn’t seem intimidated as she quoted Audrey Hepburn’s culinary chef from Sabrina: “It must be like two butterflies dancing the waltz in the summer breeze,” Anna Cassidy had said gaily, fluttering her hands over the pan after pouring the cheese and egg mixture into the dish, as if performing a magic trick.
