Blue Skies

by Robyn Carr

  Before the first class of pilots was shipped off for their simulator training, the second class would be in ground school and the third class would be in the hiring process. And the potential future hires were still putting flowers, candy and other little gifts on Dixie’s desk. Dixie in turn endeared herself to the other employees by making sure it was spread all over the building.

  The kids had started school, and since they were not yet in their house, Nikki had to take them and pick them up whenever Carlisle was working. Buck and Pistol were making a habit of their weekend visits, but as the kids began to go out with their new friends, Buck found himself making an occasional visit to one of the casinos’ poker tables. Or craps. Or blackjack.

  One Sunday as he was getting ready to return to Phoenix, he handed Nikki an envelope. She opened it and found a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. “What in the world…?”

  “Rent,” he said.

  “What rent?”

  “Rent you paid me when you moved back in with me. I never wanted it. I told you I never wanted it. You paid rent, you bought groceries, you gave that slimeball ex-husband child support, which he probably day-traded away, and you never once asked for help. Not with the lawyers or the kids or even the overmortgaged house he dumped on you. So just take it like a good daughter and put some halfway decent furniture in that new house.”

  She could have cried, it touched her so.

  The next thing she did was sit Carlisle down for a chat.

  “I’m going to close on the house in about ten days, Carlisle. I don’t know what your plans are, exactly. You’ve been talking about renting an apartment or something until you can get things sorted out with Robert. Well, Dixie’s already made it clear she’s not interested in having a roommate—she wants her own place. She’s going to borrow a guest room for as long as a couple of weeks, but that’s it for her—she wants to go her own way. I’d like to offer you the casita, rent free, until you get your affairs in order.”

  “Rent free? But—”

  “Well, it’s not really free. It’s sort of in exchange for all the things you already do without being asked. For helping with the kids’ transportation and meals. For being the decorator and nanny even without being hired on. Just because. I want to say thank you, and you can use the break right now.”

  His eyes got a little misty and his chin quivered a bit. “My God, Nick, that is so generous of you!”

  “Aw, really, it’s nothing….”

  “No, I mean it—I don’t know what to say. People just don’t do things that wonderful.”

  She began to feel a bit guilty. “Actually, you have a place with me and my kids for as long as you want it or need it, but I do have a bit of a selfish motive.”

  “Believe me, I can help out….”

  “I mean, as long as you’re in the casita, Opal can’t get any ideas. Know what I mean?”

  Ten

  Nikki promised to go furniture-and-accessory shopping on the weekend, but first she had to run by the office and take care of a few things. Dixie was likewise drawn to the office, since her desk took on the overflow from Nikki’s. Because April was itching to shop, she went along with the women to help out making copies, filing—anything to hurry them along.

  The parking lot was as full as on any weekday. Danny and Eric were there, working on training manuals and curriculum. “The manual was bounced back from the FAA with several items noncompliant with the regulatory requirements,” Danny said. “Minor, but they still have to be addressed before we meet with the FAA again on Wednesday.”

  “You going to make it by our deadline?” Nikki asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said confidently. “Eric offered to stay in town this weekend to help.”

  “Your family is in Texas, right?” Nikki asked.

  He nodded. “My wife has the house on the market. We’re planning to relocate.”

  “We really appreciate the dedication,” she said.

  “If this outfit gets a good start, I don’t have to job-hunt ever again,” he returned.

  “God willing.”

  Training would start in another week, if the FAA smiled on the training manuals. If NCA were delayed in training, the airline might not make the certification deadline, and if that happened, they’d lose a ton of money by putting their ticketed passengers on other carriers at high-priced, last-minute ticket cost. The reservations department had been selling seats for a mid-November start-up to take advantage of the busy holiday travel season.

  There were a lot of people in the NCA offices who were helping friends and coworkers in other departments, the way Eric was helping Danny in training rather that focusing on his own hiring department. Pitching in wherever necessary for the good of the company.

  From one trip down the halls, it was plain to see that Flight Ops wasn’t the only place where there was plenty of work to be done. Joe and Jewel were hard at work, most of the finance department was cranking away, and Nikki had seen the Wrench’s truck in the lot. For as much as Shanna annoyed her, she was at work with her clerks, probably trying to catch up on the dozens of HR tasks that had to be completed to staff the company.

  But one person Nikki never saw after five or on a weekend was Riddle.

  She walked around the corner and down the hall. Riddle’s door was closed and Crue’s desk was clean as a whistle. She tried the door and it swung open. Riddle’s desk was clean, too.

  The certification process required so much paperwork, so many meetings and conferences, there was only one way Riddle could manage this. He was giving all the work to everyone else. And there was nothing Nikki could do about it.

  She went back to her office. Dixie was bent over a large stack of personnel files while April was humming away on the copier. “Let’s wrap it up before lunch,” Nikki said.

  What, she thought as she sat down at her own cluttered desk, was Riddle doing this weekend? She thought about pulling up her roster and calling his cell phone, but quickly put that idea from her mind. She tried to put him from her mind. She knew the certification of this airline wasn’t going to happen because of Riddle’s contribution—she had always really known that. He talked a good game, but his performance was sorely lacking, just like in the cockpit.

  He must really look good on paper, she thought resentfully.

  Grabbing her purse and briefcase, she stood up and left the office. “Are you at a spot where you can quit?” she asked April and Dixie. “Because I’m too distracted by that totally empty house I’m buying to get anything done in here today.” That was only partially true. She was more distracted by the way she seemed to work constantly while Bob Riddle was never around. Buying things for the new house might take her mind off him. For now, anyway.

  Carlisle had finished up a short trip on Saturday evening and taken a commute right to Las Vegas. His head ached and he was tired. Nikki and Dixie had been shopping all day and were doing show-and-tell, but he begged off, claiming he had a headache.

  They were going shopping again on Sunday, but he wasn’t up to it. Much as he thought he should be helping Nikki with the furniture and decorating so she didn’t bring home anything too tacky, he just couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on it. Instead he darkened his room and lay on the bed all afternoon. Jared called his room once and tried to interest him in a movie or a trip to the park, but he declined. Buck was up for the weekend, so it wasn’t as though Jared was abandoned.

  Then the phone began trilling again. He looked at his watch. It was almost six—the girls, back from shopping.

  “Come on,” Dixie said, calling from Nikki’s room. “Come down, have a glass of wine before dinner and see what we’ve got.”

  “I have a headache,” he said.

  “What crock is this?” she demanded. “You’d never pass up a bunch of paint and wallpaper samples because of a stupid headache.”

  “It’s a pretty bad one.”

  “Jared said you don’t have a headache at all—you’re just a little mood
y, like usual. This wouldn’t have anything to do with Robert, would it?”

  “Oh, you’re so psychic,” he said. “Big deal.”

  “You gonna sit down there by yourself and pout, or are you gonna come down and join the family? We could all hear the latest instalment—”

  “I haven’t seen Robert,” he said. Then he sighed. “I’ll be right down. Give me a minute.”

  When he got to Nikki’s room, April had spread pictures of furniture, paint and paper samples, fabric swatches and window-treatment brochures on the small table for her grandfather to look at. Buck seemed to be doing well at pretending to be interested in these things. Jared sat in front of the TV working some video game, with Pistol at attention beside him. He didn’t even turn around as Carlisle entered, but said, “Hi,” without missing a beat on his game.

  Dixie put a glass of wine in his hand. “What’s the matter, sunshine? Tell Aunt Dixie.”

  “It’s not as though it should come as a surprise. Robert is angry with me.” He shrugged. “What else is new? I spoke to him and he told me that the locks have all been changed and I’ll get my things back and the money I have invested in the house over his dead body.”

  “Oh, well,” Buck said, perfectly resigned.

  Everyone turned and looked at him.

  “I never liked that little fairy, anyway,” he said.

  “Don’t you ever worry that I’ll be offended by your remarks?” Carlisle asked him.

  “I don’t know why you would be,” Buck said. “I like you.”

  “Papa,” April lightly admonished.

  “What does it mean?” Nikki asked Carlisle. “I don’t know the law, but if that’s your house and you have stuff there, can’t you force your way in?”

  “In a way,” he said. “The law gives co-owners thirty days to go, with a locksmith, and get their belongings, provided there’s a certain amount of evidence it’s yours. I have a car title, no problem there. I might even have some furniture receipts. And my clothes would never fit him.”

  “So is that what gave you your headache?” Jared asked without turning around from the TV.

  “No. What gave me my headache is that my thirty days is nearly up. I’m going to have to go do it. And I dread the hell out of it.”

  “Oohh,” Nikki and Dixie said together.

  Carlisle sipped his wine. “I’m going to Phoenix to fly on Monday afternoon. I’ll get back on Wednesday afternoon, so on Thursday I’ll attempt to get my car and move my stuff out of the town house.”

  “You’re not going alone, I hope,” Dixie said.

  “No. Mr. Levine is coming with me to be sure I have some kind of legal representation in case the police are called or whatever. But Robert should be at work. I’ll try to get a couple of friends from work to help. I’ll just put the stuff in storage down there for now. I can have it moved up here later. But I’m going to drive my car back.” He smiled a small smile. “That should help, huh, Dix? You can have your wheels back.”

  “That’s not a big deal, Carlisle.”

  He knew it wasn’t. The big deal was that he didn’t want to do this—go back into that house, pack up his things, separate his life from Robert’s, for good this time. Not that he was even slightly tempted to move back with him—he wasn’t. But no matter how convinced he was that this move was the best thing he could do for himself, the process was painful. And frightening, damned frightening. What if Robert beat the crap out of him again?

  He shuddered.

  “The sooner this is over, the better,” he said.

  As a rule, crews liked flying with Carlisle. He was good at entertaining the passengers and had a cutting sense of humor. Helpful by nature, he fluffed pillows for little old ladies, walked the aisles with crying babies and was so quick on his feet that he did the work of two flight attendants, which made the flight easier on everyone.

  But on the two-day flight preceding his visit to his former house, he was off. Impatient, testy and distracted.

  Conditions for air travel were likewise off. A cold front had blown in and there were storms all over the country, particularly in the Midwest. The terminals were full of disgruntled passengers who just didn’t understand why blustery winds and snow flurries in Minneapolis would make the flight from San Francisco to Phoenix late, or cancel the run from Dallas to L.A. It brought out the worst in everyone. Of course, the reason was both simple and rational—the inbound to San Francisco came out of Minneapolis, and the Dallas airplane was being switched over to a New York trip because there were twice as many passengers up there stranded by storms.

  Carlisle was just checking first-class seating on one of the gate computers when one such crazed passenger began screaming at the agent. “What do you mean you can’t get me on any flight to Atlanta! I’ve had this reservation for months!”

  “Unfortunately Mother Nature picked today to pepper the Midwest with low visibility, high winds and snow and sleet, which has grounded the flight that was inbound to pick up this leg and take you to Atlanta.”

  “Well, you’d just better come up with something, young lady. Do you know who I am?”

  Carlisle glanced at the agent and could see that, despite her best effort, her skin was beginning to mottle and she was close to coming unglued. He pulled the mike toward him and said, “Your attention please, ladies and gentlemen. We have a gentleman here who can’t remember who he is. This is not uncommon during a rapid drop in barometric pressure. If anyone here knows this gentleman’s identity, please come to the podium immediately.”

  The man grew bright red under the chuckles of passengers in the gate area. He shook his finger at Carlisle. “You’re going to pay for that imbecilic remark!” he choked. He turned in a huff and stomped away. His fellow passengers rewarded him with applause and laughter.

  The low-pressure system and tense crowds also brought out the pervs. Carlisle was standing at the jetway door taking tickets from passengers. The plane was almost completely boarded and the gate area nearly empty when an older man sauntered toward Carlisle. He stopped in front of him and opened his coat to expose his naked self. Carlisle wished he could say it was the first time that had happened, but airports were getting more and more like the circus. Without missing a beat Carlisle said, “I’m afraid I’m going to need to see the whole ticket, sir, and not just the stub.”

  The man turned and ran. Just another exhibitionist. At least he wasn’t a traveling exhibitionist.

  “Gayle,” Carlisle called to the agent at the podium across the concourse. He pointed at the quickly departing man. “Peeper. Call Security!”

  “Gotcha,” she said, picking up the phone.

  Things didn’t get a whole lot better in the air. He found he was working the first-class cabin with a lovely and personable woman affectionately nicknamed Salads Over St. Louis, because she was so slow it would take her all the way from Phoenix to St. Louis to get the first course out. She was a delight to talk to, but Carlisle was going to have to work his butt off to keep things rolling, and by the end of the flight he’d probably want to kill her.

  And the passengers were a surly lot, a condition no doubt caused by the tension of being late, bouncing around the sky and just the general unease of flying. It was a state of anxiety the industry had been stuck with since 9/11 and didn’t seem to be easing up.

  “What can I get you to drink, ma’am?” Carlisle asked an elderly woman with thin pink hair and bright red lips.

  “I’ll have a ginger ale,” she said.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but we’ve run out. I can get you a cola, a lemon-lime soda or perhaps a juice?”

  “I want a ginger ale,” she said in a shrill, angry voice. “Can’t you at least go look back there in the closet?”

  Heavy sigh. “I don’t have a closet back there, dear. I have all the available drinks right here.”

  “Well ask someone else!” she snapped.

  “Ma’am, I simply don’t have one. What’s your second choice?”

&n
bsp; “For what I paid for this ticket, with no meal to speak of, I should at least be able to get a ginger ale!”

  “For what you paid for your ticket, I should be pushing you out over Albuquerque.” He turned to the man across the aisle and asked him what he’d like. Behind him the woman was loudly yapping that she’d been insulted, and demanded to know his name at once.

  He wrote it on a cocktail napkin for her, thinking, Swell—on top of egomaniacs demanding a flight in the middle of a windstorm and a perv showing me his bo-bo, I’m going to get written up by this malcontent with the voice box. “There you go, madam. Now, have you changed your mind about a beverage, or do you choose to be unhappy and thirsty? Hm?”

  She snatched the napkin out of his hand. “Give me a cola,” she said. “Not diet.”

  “God forbid,” he replied, snapping the top of the can and pouring the bubbly drink over ice.

  A while later, strapped in for landing in the flight attendant jump seat, Salads said, “You’re a little short today, huh?”

  “I know it,” Carlisle sighed, as if exasperated with himself. “They all think they’re the only ones who get a little bent out of shape when the flights are late or oversold or like riding a bronco through the sky. And that one,” he said, jutting his chin toward the planeload of passengers. “The woman with the candy floss on her head? Did you hear that voice? That demanding, demeaning voice?”

  “They heard it in Buffalo,” she agreed. “But if anyone can handle that type, it’s usually you.”

  “Yeah. But not when we’re going up and down, up and down, two hundred and fifty people on board, all either pissed or—”

  The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than he heard a terrible retching noise followed by a splat. He didn’t want to look. He leaned to the side and glanced past the bulkhead down the aisle. Ew, not good. “It’s 2A,” he said to Salads.

  “Damn. That’s gonna start a chain puke. I’m just not good with things like vomit.”