“It certainly has been in the news a lot lately, those perverts trying to cop a feel. People have no respect for one another anymore,” Toots said disgustedly.
Suddenly, the plane lurched to the left. Ida shrieked. “What’s happening?” Unlike a commercial jet, a private plane did not have the closed cockpit rule. Ida strained to see into the cockpit and gasped when she saw nothing but clouds rushing past the windscreen. “Oh my God, how are they going to land this plane? The windshield is covered with clouds! I should have stayed home.” Ida bowed from the waist, closed her eyes, and held on tight.
Toots observed Ida, whose normally composed face was etched with fear, fingernails digging into the expensive leather armrest. She knew full well that there was nothing to fear, as one of her eight husbands, she couldn’t remember exactly which one in the sequence, had been a pilot. To take Ida’s mind off her fear, she said, “I remember doing this many times; it really isn’t as dangerous as you think. See all of those little gauges?” She pointed to the instrument panel, which was clearly visible from their seats. “One of those little round things has two needles on it. One goes up and down, and the other moves left and right. As the pilot approaches the airport, the needles will begin to intersect each other. Keeping them centered—it’s somewhat similar to the crosshairs on the scope of a rifle—will align the plane directly on the center of the runway at exactly the right height and allow the pilot to make a normal landing even though he can’t see.”
Incredulous, Sophie asked, “How in the hell do you know that? Or is that something you’re just making up so Ida won’t be afraid?”
“Trust me, when you’ve been in a plane that’s even smaller than this one, a four-seater, and you’re in the copilot seat and cannot even see the wings of the plane, you remember stuff like that. Plus, I think it was Joe, number four or five, anyway, he was obsessed with flying and explained everything to me when we flew together. I listened, too, just in case he kicked the bucket. By then, I was already quite experienced in the widow department.”
Suddenly, the turbulence ended as quickly as it had begun. Below was the view of a beautiful runway lit up like a festively decorated tree on Christmas morning. Seconds later, the wheels screeched, and they were safely on the ground.
The copilot announced their arrival, and within minutes the cabin door was opening and the automatic stairs descending for their immediate exit.
“Now this sure beats commercial flying. I always hate when the passengers jump up like pigs running to a feeding trough. Not to mention all the offending body odors you have to endure.”
“You’re disgusting, Sophie,” Toots said.
Their arrival was met with all the pomp and circumstance afforded visiting dignitaries, complete with a meticulously placed red carpet leading to a sleek black limousine.
The chauffeur was retrieving their luggage from the baggage compartment when a well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties emerged from the limo. She greeted the quartet as they approached the vehicle. “I’m Cynthia Johnson, the first lady’s personal assistant. How was your flight?”
Returning to her role of society snob, Ida was the first to speak. “It was perfect from takeoff to landing. It was so kind of the governor to send his jet for us.”
Sophie looked at Toots and Mavis, rolling her eyes. “Is this the same woman who left finger-nail marks on the armrest five minutes ago?”
Ida shot her a shut-up-or-die look.
“I’m not the biggest fan of flying myself,” Cynthia said to Ida. “Sophia?”
She shook hands with the woman. “That would be me,” Sophie said. “These are my friends, Toots, and Mavis.”
“I’m glad you all could accompany Sophie. I’m sure you will enjoy the amenities at the Sterling Hotel. You all have carte blanche, courtesy of the governor.” She looked at her slim gold wristwatch. “We’d better get going.”
Half an hour later, when they arrived at the hotel, they were greeted by the governor himself.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2009 by Fern Michaels
Fern Michaels is a registered trademark of First Draft, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2966-3
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