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  His tattered couch wasn’t much of an improvement over the old brown sofa at her place, the one she’d bought second-hand from Bron. She assessed his other furnishings—an old coffee table whose glass top had a long diagonal crack, a bookcase that wobbled when she’d brushed past it. There wasn’t much. In fact, most of the small one-bedroom apartment was taken up by boxes.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked.

  “Not long. Actually, I moved in right around when I met you.”

  Mike had no photos on the wall, or in frames around the living room. It wasn’t long ago that Tris had finally taken the photos of her and Bron off the walls and collected the ones that were sprinkled on surfaces throughout her apartment. At first, she had to force herself not to open the drawers she’d hastily shoved them into, not to give in and try to re-experience the moments they captured.

  They were still there, but she thought of them less and less. And it had been weeks since she’d had the urge to go to the cemetery. She still loved Bron. But he was no longer her life.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  She must have seemed very far away, luxuriating in how comfortable they were together, how they’d managed to establish a close, easy intimacy even though they hadn’t had sex.

  “Not worth that much, I’m afraid.”

  He took her hand in his. “I’ll be the judge of that, ma’am.” Mike said in an exaggerated southern accent.

  She nestled against his chest and picked up Hearts in Atlantis. It was due back at the Exeter Public Library the following week. The hardcover book teetered in her lap while she lay next to Mike, so she straightened up and flopped to the other end of the couch. There, that was better.

  Mike was reading Katharine Graham’s autobiography, Personal History, which he’d borrowed from Tris’s collection. He slumped down, positioned himself in the opposite corner of the couch, cracked the spine of the paperback and dug in.

  What a bonus that he shared her love of books. He’d minored in English and told Tris how jealous he was that she had a master’s in English Lit.

  There’s nothing sexier than a man who reads.

  Mike was in the kitchen making dinner when Tris woke up. His book was open, face down, on the coffee table. Hers rested companionably on her chest. She had no idea how long she’d been out.

  Something sizzled, and Tris remembered that they had bought flank steak and vegetables. Mike was making fajitas. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. It had been a long time since a man had cooked her a meal. In fact, she wasn’t sure anyone ever had. Bron had been a take-out guy, and she’d been more than willing to go along.

  Mike talked a lot about the importance of diet. Pilots were frequently forced to eat whatever they could find on the road. Exeter in particular had only a few healthy offerings in the terminal. The closest place to eat near Westin Charter was a Pizza Hut that made those greasy individual pies in bulk and left them to congeal in semi-heated servers. The guys all called them “death discs.” Tris avoided them at all costs and only grabbed one when her blood sugar tanked and she was desperate.

  Tris walked up behind Mike, who was playing air guitar with a spatula. She pinched his butt while he strummed.

  “How did you learn to cook?” she asked playfully, reaching for the spatula, which he now held above his head, out of reach.

  “My ex-wife taught me.” Matter-of-fact.

  Tris stepped back. “Your ex-wife? You were married?”

  Mike moved the food around in the pan. “I was. Hey, can you get me the red pepper flakes, please?”

  Tris slowly moved across the kitchen to the pantry. “Yeah? What was your favorite dish she used to cook?”

  He smiled and pointed toward the cast iron skillet full of sizzling sliced steak and vegetables. “This one.”

  Mike seemed at home in the kitchen, his red and black flannel shirt untucked over his pants, feet bare, spatula in hand. He hummed as he stirred.

  And he’d opened the door.

  “You never mentioned an ex-wife.”

  “She cheated on me. We got divorced. Then she died.” He said unemotionally, as if he’d tasted a piece of skirt steak and declared that it “needs salt.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?”

  He lay the spatula down on a spoon rest and ignored her question. “Dinner is ready in five. You’re hungry, I presume?”

  The man tells her that he’d been married to and cheated on by an ex-wife who since died, and then smiles like Wolfgang Puck. He moved closer to her, but she wrenched away, awkwardly pretending to grab something from a cupboard she had to turn her back to open.

  “I am. For dinner. And for information. Mike, every time I ask about your past, about things you’ve brought up yourself, you blow me off.” She couldn’t let it drop.

  “Not now. This isn’t the time. Let’s eat.” He grabbed the plates he’d already stacked and topped with napkins and silverware and headed to the living room where he proceeded to “set” the coffee table. All the while, he softly sang a U2 song. She couldn’t remember the name.

  Twenty-Four

  While a late winter snowstorm raged outside, Tris and two of the Westin mechanics were in the hangar telling pilot jokes.

  “Hey Tris, what’s the difference between a pilot and a jet engine?”

  Tris could not count the number of times she’d heard this joke. “I have no idea.”

  “The jet engine stops whining when it gets to the gate.” All three of them laughed before getting back to discussing the minor mechanical problem that arose during flight. The familiar smell of dust and machine oil rose from a dirty rag tucked in one of the guys’ back pockets.

  Tris was giddy, almost manic, to have landed safely in Exeter before the storm hit. She and Bruce didn’t think they’d make it. Des Moines was their alternate if they couldn’t get in, but neither pilot wanted to end up there. They got lucky.

  Phyll popped her head through the door to the main office and motioned her inside. She cornered Tris in the vestibule, blocking her entrance to the waiting area and Woody’s office. The dark space was illuminated by Phyll’s paisley leggings, neon green turtleneck, and pink feather boa.

  In contrast to her clothes, Phyll’s voice was soft and her expression grave. “I think you might want to wait a bit before you go in.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  Phyll hesitated. “Woody just got back from lunch and is quite keen to speak to you. About staffing. Pilot staffing, right?”

  Tris had to be careful here. Had Woody mentioned something to Phyll about Bruce? Please don’t let him fire Bruce.

  An exterior door slammed, and Tris looked instinctively toward the noise. First, she heard Woody’s voice, then another man’s, oddly familiar. His partner Jimbo? She thanked Phyll and continued inside.

  “Hey Tris. Finishing up the trip?” Woody had his golf bag slung over his shoulder. Mike stood beside him.

  “Tris. You know Mike Marshall. Mike, I believe you’ve flown with Tris Miles.”

  Tris grabbed Mike’s extended hand. Mike faced her with smiling blue eyes that last met hers when he kissed her goodbye at his apartment door.

  “Hi Tris.” He shook her hand in a business-like manner.

  “Thanks. Nice to see you again.” Still in uniform, she straightened up and twisted her shoulders slightly to emphasize her epaulets. Someone had to be the alpha in this encounter. It might as well be her. “So, uh, Mike, what are you doing here?”

  Woody laughed. “Tris, Mike’s an old friend. That’s why he was available on short notice that day Bruce couldn’t fly. We hit some golf balls over lunch at the indoor place.”

  Both men chuckled at some subtext that lingered between them.

  “Oh. Nice,” she said. It was anything but. Mike had failed to mention that he was playing golf with her boss.

  “Tris, follow me. Mike, wait here a minute.” Woody opened his office door.

  Tris bumped Mike’s arm as she walked pas
t him. He smiled in her direction. Her muscles relaxed, and she closed the door to Woody’s office behind her, sat back in her chair and crossed her legs.

  “Aw, crap on a—okay, sorry.” Woody was thumbing through some phone messages and then pulled a piece of paper out of the pile on his desk. She recognized the training outline she’d prepared for Bruce.

  “Yeah. So, Tris. About our plans here . . .”

  “Look, Woody, if this is about Bruce’s upgrade, please listen. I know you’re disappointed, and I know I was the one who suggested it. Our last conversation was pretty short, and I can give you some additional details about why I changed my mind.”

  Woody cut her off. “No, this isn’t about Bruce. Well, maybe. Listen, Tris, about Mike Marshall.” He motioned toward the door. “We’re getting close on that second airplane. And who knows, maybe a third. Business is good, we’re growing. Mike’s qualified on the Royal. He was a training captain on it before he went to the airlines.”

  Tris reached for the arms of her chair to brace herself, then realized the chair had none, so she grabbed the seat instead. She almost mouthed Woody’s words along with him.

  “I’m hiring Mike, Tris.”

  “Here? As what?” She forced her voice not to crack.

  “A captain, of course.”

  “Instead of Bruce then? For the second airplane?”

  Woody considered his desk. He didn’t like conflict. Rummaging around, he pulled out the Chief Pilot training outline she’d prepared.

  “This is great, by the way,” he said.

  Tris clung to the edges of the flimsy metal chair. “Woody, what’s Mike’s title?” She could barely contain her anger. Promises had been made. And earned.

  “Okay, look. He’s qualified to be Chief Pilot. He’s done the job before, at another charter company, and with a Royal. I don’t need two Chief Pilots aboard. I said I’d give you a chance. If you still want it, of course I’ll consider you.”

  “You’ll consider me. After promising me the job.” Woody raised his hand in protest, but Tris cut him off. “And if I don’t get it?”

  Now it was Woody’s turn to assert his authority. “Tris, I’ll choose the best pilot for the job. And if I don’t choose you, you’ll still be a senior captain.”

  She fired back. “Senior, except for the Chief Pilot. If you choose Mike, that is.” Tris thumbed toward the door. Anxiety coaxed her to say something sarcastic, maybe even hurtful, to Woody. Her years of training checked her tongue.

  “Yes. That’s right. If you want to look at it that way, yes, I’d be bringing in Mike ahead of you.” Woody paused. “Mike thinks he can get Bruce upgraded. Look, Tris, I have to say, I’m not sure I agree with you about Bruce. Mike shared some ideas he had . . .” Woody cupped at the air in front of him, as if he were trying to grab words that accidentally escaped.

  Tris gasped. When did all of this happen? “Woody, has Mike even flown with Bruce? Ever? Because Bruce has sat beside me in the Royal for a solid year. And I’m telling you that I’m sure he’s not ready. Let me tell you more about the flights . . .”

  Woody dismissed her with a wave of a hand. “Yeah, let’s get him upgraded,” he said, shuffling papers on his desk. “He knows our procedures, he’s reliable, and we can use him as captain when neither of you is available or hire him out to other charter companies and charge a fee for his time. Otherwise, he’ll fly as first officer, exactly as he’s doing now. And if we get a third airplane, we’ll need him.”

  Tris squirmed in her seat. “Woody, really, please listen—”

  Woody shook his head. “No.” His extended hands, palms flexed, pushed away her comments. “Tris, you are a critical piece of what we’re building here. You know I plucked you out of that flight school over every other instructor who was drooling for this job, and I’ve never regretted it. Hiring Mike, considering him for the Chief Pilot job, those were my decisions to make as well. And I’ve made them.”

  “Thanks Woody,” she muttered.

  She opened the door to face her competition—the man she’d shared her bed with two nights before.

  Twenty-Five

  “Hey, Tris, come on. Come on,” Mike called, his voice an octave higher than usual. She walked as fast as she could to her car without breaking into a trot, to make sure it didn’t seem like she was running from him. But she couldn’t speak to him, not right now.

  “Please stop,” he called. She didn’t.

  Her fingers frantically combed the depths of her purse for her car keys as Mike came up behind her. He didn’t touch her, but his sheer size blocked any escape. If she turned to face him, he’d see her shame. She’d failed to earn Woody’s undivided loyalty. She’d slept beside this man who had betrayed her either all on his own, or along with Bruce, someone else she’d trusted.

  “Why?” she snapped. “What for? Workday’s done, co-worker. I’m headed home.” She shuddered, and not just from the cold.

  He touched her shoulder from behind. She wriggled toward the car. This was ridiculous.

  “What do you want, Mike?”

  “Look, Tris, give me a second.”

  “Why? To figure out how you’re going to sell this to me as something other than what it is? That you went behind my back and talked Woody into hiring you, and now you’re competing with me for the Chief Pilot position?”

  Instead of defending himself, Mike nodded. “Yup. That’s pretty much what happened.”

  “That night at my house? You know, the first time you slept over? You said you had a job interview. Was this it?” She gestured behind her to the Westin hangar.

  “Yes. It was.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  Mike looked away. “I didn’t want to interrupt . . . to change the mood. Hell, I didn’t want to upset you. We’re just getting started.”

  She huffed. “Right. So. When I told you at the party I was being promoted to Chief Pilot at Westin, is that how you got the idea? Or from Bruce? Or both?”

  The snow had stopped, but the blustery wind pummeled them.

  “Hey, look, can we get in the car and talk about this? Can we please do that?” He walked around to the passenger side of her well-traveled Corolla.

  Wordlessly she unlocked the car doors and got in. As soon as he heard the click, he sat in the passenger seat. Tris started the engine and turned on the heat. Ice-cold air rushed from the vents.

  Tris stared out at the dumpster on the side of the hangar. She took silent inventory of the cadre of homeless men who lived there. Billy-Bob, Big Sal, and Shlomo were huddled near the wall. Where was Ike?

  Tris tried to summon the tools Dr. C had taught her. Tried to be true to herself, be vulnerable, honor her feelings. The words all sounded so good in Dr. C’s office, in the closed, guarded capsule where the two women discussed Tris’s secrets. Out here, in the open, with no protective shield, her emotional muscle-memory yanked her toward a tried and true response—silence.

  Mike looked out the windshield and took a deep breath. “Tris,” he said, and then stopped. When he faced her, his eyes were soft, acquiescent. “Here’s what happened. You know I’m related to Heather, Bruce’s wife. After you and I met again at the party, well, I wanted to know more about you. So, I asked Bruce.”

  “When?”

  “Before you get upset with Bruce, it started innocently enough. I was asking him, you know, what you were like, what it was like to fly with you. Look, I told you I was looking for a job. And, hey, it was you who said you’d be looking for a pilot.”

  “A co-pilot, Mike. I said we’d be looking for a co-pilot.”

  The temperature of the air spewing from the vents started to warm. Her internal ice wall cracked along its full breadth. Behind it, Tris found her power.

  “I said I was going to be the Chief Pilot and that we, the company that is, would need to fill Bruce’s seat when he upgraded.” She smacked the steering wheel for emphasis, in contrast to her softly spoken reply. />
  Mike nodded. “Yes. That’s true. But then Bruce came to me. He mentioned that you’d pulled his upgrade.”

  Her anger rose again, warming her cheeks. “He told you that? So he figured, what, if you were Chief Pilot, he’d have a better chance?”

  Mike’s head wagged back and forth. “It wasn’t like that. Look, he asked for my help. My advice. What was I going to do? What would you have done?”

  The weak plea left Tris undaunted. “It sounds like my pilot-in-command decision to delay the upgrade of my first officer was why you decided to compete with me for a job that you knew I fully expected to get. That I prepared the training outline for. That I earned working for Woody for the last two years. Sound right?”

  “And you still might get it. Woody told me, and said he would tell you, that he hadn’t decided. He really respects you. I respect you. Hell, everyone respects you.” He smiled and bent in closer to her. “And some of us more than respect you.”

  She looked him in the eye. She wasn’t buying it.

  Mike slumped in the seat. The curves of his frown straightened into pursed lips. “Woody and I have known each other for years. Bruce mentioned me, told him I was looking.”

  A shrill, caustic laugh jumped from her throat. “And what? He called you? Just like that? And then he ends up hiring you. Fancy that.”

  The wind buffeted her old car. The snow had started to fall again, and if she didn’t get going, she’d have to dig her way out of her parking spot. If she kept talking to Mike, she would surely cry—from frustration, from the inability to say what she really wanted to. That she’d been screwed. By Bruce and Woody, and by him.

  Mike leaned toward her, as close as he could without touching her, close enough for her to smell those cherries.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “I’ve got to go.” She put the car in reverse and waited.

  “Tris,” he said faintly, got out, and slammed the passenger door.