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She wanted it.

  “Tris? What’s that smile about?” Woody asked.

  Tris realized she hadn’t responded to him. “I’m just happy. And . . . surprised. I wasn’t expecting this so soon. Thank you.”

  “Good. I’ll need the new Chief ready for that angel flight. I’ll confirm with our friends at the FAA, but I think I can do all the training in-house and complete your qualification. Unless the FAA wants to fly with you.” He rolled his eyes at the mention of the federal agency. “Can you put together a formal training plan?”

  “Sure. I’ll get started right away. You’ll let me know if we need to involve the feds?”

  “Will do.”

  “Great.” Tris hesitated, then made a decision about something she’d been meaning to ask Woody for a while. The company was expanding. She’d be its Chief Pilot. There would never be a better time to ask.

  “Woody, I’d like you to approve a captain upgrade for Bruce.”

  Woody’s eyebrows rose but his expression stayed non-committal.

  She pressed him. “Look, he’s worked hard, done everything we’ve asked of him and more. And with another airplane, you’re going to need a second captain.”

  Woody squinted, then shook his head. “I don’t know. You sure about him, Tris? I mean, he’s a good co-pilot and all . . .” He pushed the brim of his baseball cap up and rubbed his forehead. “You sure you’re ready to tie your own success to this guy?’

  “He’s earned the chance, Woody. I trust him.”

  “And I trust you,” he replied, tugging his cap back down. “All right. Let’s get him upgraded.”

  The tiles were set, each domino perfectly placed. How they fell would be entirely up to her.

  Three

  The parking lot was full, forcing Tris to drive around several times before a space opened up. With each circuit, her grip on the steering wheel tightened and she slid further down in her seat. She couldn’t be too careful.

  The squat, three-story medical building where Dr. C had her therapy practice also housed the offices of a couple of Aviation Medical Examiners. Tris hadn’t known about the AMEs and the steady stream of Exeter pilots in and out of the building when she’d chosen Dr. C. By the time she realized that she might be recognized, she’d already bonded with her therapist.

  Dr. C had helped Tris immeasurably as she struggled with the emotional consequences of losing Bron and the year at Tetrix that followed. With her help, Tris wrestled with depression, re-learned how to exist in the world without constantly questioning other people’s motives, and discovered how to trust people—a very few people—again. Seeing her was worth a calculated risk.

  Tris parked her old Corolla in a spot vacated by a huge sedan. A few feet away, a woman pushed an older man in a wheelchair. Nearby, a couple of high school girls carrying backpacks smoked cigarettes and drank Diet Pepsi. No one she knew.

  Still, she pulled her ski hat down just above her eyebrows and zipped her parka all the way up. It was 35 degrees outside, so bundling up wouldn’t attract any attention. With only five minutes left before her appointment, she crossed her fingers and walked as close to the building’s outer wall as possible. Tris had an explanation prepared for why she was there—she always did—but it was better not to be put on the spot.

  Safely in Dr. C’s waiting room, Tris took off her outer layers and thumbed through the magazines for the latest issue of People. A bit lowbrow for someone with a Masters in English Literature, but she loved celebrity gossip. Another thing she was good at hiding.

  The red light next to Dr. C’s office door meant she was with a patient. Tris flipped the pages of the glossy magazine and leaned back to read an article about Tom Hanks. The Green Mile had just come out; she’d wait and see it until after she read the book.

  A hinge squeaked as the entrance door to the waiting area opened. Tris instinctively bent her head and shifted her body toward a corner of the room. She imagined Woody, or one of the local mechanics—anyone who knew she was a pilot—sitting down next to her, looking confused, asking, “Hey Tris, what are you doing here?” She’d have to make up something, anything but the truth. A hasty lie formed in her mind.

  Thankfully, it was only the mailman. He left some letters by the closed door to Dr. C’s office and went about his business. Her skittishness was not a put-on. It had been over a year, and she still hadn’t told anyone—not even Danny or Diana, her two best friends—that she was seeing Dr. C.

  Her pulse was still racing when the red light clicked off, the door opened, and Dr. C appeared. Petite, with white-blond hair, she wore a twinset, skirt, and her usual sly smile. Oh, the things she must hear in that room. Naturally competitive, Tris wondered whether she was the most troubled person Dr. C had ever treated.

  “Are you all right?” The doctor asked, noting her uneasiness.

  Tris jumped up. “Sorry. The mailman spooked me.” She rushed past Dr. C to the office. “I know, I know. After all this time, it’s just silly. But still . . .” Tris’s words trailed off as she balanced on the edge of an armchair. She rubbed her hands up and down her thighs.

  Dr. C closed the door and sat on her office chair. “Not silly at all. I completely understand your career concerns.”

  Tris had explained how the FAA dangled a sword of Damocles over pilots who sought counseling. Therapy was considered a danger sign, regardless of the reason. Even a whiff that a pilot was in treatment resulted in swift and devastating action. Her medical certificate could be suspended; without it, she couldn’t fly. She knew a couple of male pilots who’d openly sought marriage counseling, but so far, they were the only ones to get a pass from the FAA.

  Tris remained at the edge of her chair, her forearms on her thighs, hands clasped.

  Dr. C extended her hands, palms down. “Relax. I know you had a fright, but it’s over. Or is there something else going on?”

  Finally, Tris leaned back against the chair’s soft cushion. “Woody may have found another airplane to buy. He’s stepping up the timeline on my promotion to Chief Pilot.”

  Dr. C nodded. “I see. When we last talked, you said you wanted the promotion. Now that Woody wants to move more quickly, is that still true? How do you feel about it?”

  Tris bit back a fine, deliberately fighting her learned response to always say something positive. Here, in this room, she didn’t have to be the good soldier. Her answer could be stripped to the bone, honest.

  “Well, I guess I should be happy about it.”

  “You should? Who told you that?”

  “No, I mean—of course I want it. And I’d never say no to Woody. No, that’s not exactly right. I don’t want to say no to him. After what he did for me? After Tetrix? If it weren’t for him, well, I’m not sure where I’d be.” She shook her head, still unable to believe her good fortune.

  Dr. C sat poised with her pen hovering over the notebook in her lap. Her look softened, conveying real concern.

  “Please, go on, Tris,” she said.

  Tris stared at a framed print of a large empty field with a small airplane flying in the background. She couldn’t recall seeing it there before. “I really like my job as it is, flying the Royal, just a regular captain doing trips. The promotion will mean way more work, more responsibility.” She paused. “But what if . . .”

  Dr. C scribbled on her pad, then looked up. “What if what?”

  Tris didn’t answer right away. The two women considered each other in silence, and then Dr. C broke the stare by jotting down another note.

  Tris noticed a new throw pillow resting against the divan’s plump cushions. She preferred to sit upright rather than recline on the couch. These meetings were too important. If not for Dr. C, she’d still be riding the constant swells of depression and loss.

  “What if I can’t? I mean, what if I can’t do it?”

  The old insecurities bubbled up, born of early career challenges and the trying year at Tetrix, where her every move was questioned. Her many successes still couldn’t qui
et the doubt. What if they never could?

  Dr. C shrugged. “Woody offered you the promotion. He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t sure, would he?”

  “No.”

  The older woman fingered her string of pearls and cocked her head slightly to the side. “If he’s sure, why aren’t you? You’ve come a long way, Tris. Is there anything—anything real—in your training or experience since you’ve worked for Woody that supports your concerns?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is this really about, Tris?” As if she could read her mind, Dr. C asked, “Will this promotion give you what you need? Or just more responsibility at work, without any new challenges outside of it? Will that satisfy you?”

  “Will it satisfy me? I still don’t know what my career is supposed to look like. I have to move forward, move up, and I have. Woody pulled me out of his flight school and made me his very first charter captain at Westin. Wasn’t that moving up?”

  “Of course it was, Tris. But I wonder . . . do you think it’s finally time to do more in your personal life?”

  Was it? She was still alone. Bron was gone. She’d held Danny at arm’s length long enough for him to move on and marry Em. There was no one else on the horizon. Work, home, her cat. Was it enough?

  “I want to be satisfied with what I have. I’m sitting here, my heart is in my throat, and I want to tell you I’m satisfied. But I’m somehow . . . unfinished. Like there’s something I’m missing.”

  “What’s missing, Tris?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Those internal toxins, guilt and shame, coated Tris’s throat like bile. She still hadn’t mentioned the angel flight, the contact with Tetrix she would be sure to have over the following weeks, or her recent visit with Bron.

  Dr. C smiled what Tris thought of as her “little” smile, the one she used as a segue between topics, as opposed to the “big” smile she used when Tris made her laugh.

  “Time to figure out what that is, eh? What’s missing.”

  Now it was Tris’s turn to smile. “I guess so.”

  “So, anything new to share about your life outside of work?” Dr. C leaned forward, pen lying on her pad. The movement was meant to gently prod Tris into a conversation she might not be ready for.

  “I went to the cemetery.”

  The space between them buzzed with faint, low-level static. She’d done the one thing she’d told Dr. C, promised herself, she wouldn’t.

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  Tris raised her hands in the air and exhaled in surrender. “Sitting here, right now, I feel stupid. And weak.”

  Dr. C’s brows cinched. “And while you were there?”

  “At peace. Comforted. Like there was no place I’d rather be.”

  Four

  Danny Terry’s MOBILE phone rang as he cleared the sliding glass entrance door to the Denver Airport Inn. “The Wife” popped up on his caller ID. Emily.

  “Hey baby.”

  His roller bag bumped along the uneven hallway floor and snagged on raised areas of carpeting rife with amoeba-shaped blotches in all colors and sizes. If he got bored later, he could wander the halls and count the stains. The rug-freshener-and-mold scent of intermittent cleaning matched the scuffed trim and faded wallpaper.

  Danny stopped in a vestibule, loosened his tie one-handed and listened to Em tell him about the dishwasher repair she scheduled for the next day as he checked the rest of his missed calls. One missed call earlier from Em. Nothing from crew scheduling. Damn.

  The ink on their marriage certificate had still been wet when he got the call to interview for his dream job, flying for Legacy Airlines. It was all coming together—the plum job, the wedding, the life—like it had for so many of his friends.

  Danny had been almost forty when he got married. It was time. He and Em had a big wedding in the same banquet hall as her parents had. She’d worn her mother’s dress, and her dad had cried when he walked her down the aisle.

  The planning had been a bitch. Danny was relieved to be flying during most of it and dreaded the end-of-day calls with Em about flowers, bridesmaids, and bands. Her parents were paying for it, sure, but he could never wrap his head around the fuss. How silly to spend so much effort and money on a party that would only last six hours.

  When the day finally arrived, the wedding was amazing. Watching as the details that had once annoyed him came together in a beautifully arranged pageant, Danny gained a newfound respect for Em’s planning and organizational skills. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been a prop in that big show. His job was to reflect Em’s glow, answer her vows, slide on her ring, feed her cake, and balance out the photos.

  Maybe all grooms felt that way.

  Em loved him. He was sure of it. And now they were taking the next step and trying to have a baby. But not tonight.

  “Hey. You in the hotel?” She’d turned the conversation back to him. She wasn’t really one for small talk. It was one of his favorite things about her. Em got to the point. Just like Tris.

  “Yup. Spent the whole day on call in the crew room. And this hotel sucks. I’m almost afraid to lie on the comforter even in my uniform. I shouldn’t be here long, though. I’m sure I’ll get a trip. Especially with all the weather in Exeter. A crew’s gotta be held up somewhere.”

  “Right. So, hon, there’s no chance you’re going to be extended this time, is there?” Em was referring to the last reserve stint he did. Legacy Airlines crew scheduling kept him on duty an extra day, which they could do under the pilot contract.

  “Why? What’s up?” Had to be a family thing. There was always something going on with her people.

  “Did you forget it’s Bruce and Heather’s anniversary party this weekend? How could you forget?” Em zoomed from asking a simple question to accusing him of something. It was one of Em’s personal habits that he didn’t care for. He let it pass.

  He remembered the party all right. Em had practically taken Bruce’s head off when she learned that he’d invited Tris, and she’d accepted.

  “Right. Yeah, I’ll be there. They can only extend me for a day, which would mean I’d be home on Friday night at the latest.” And tired. And not in the mood to do anything but sleep over the weekend. Em knew it, too.

  “I’ll pick up a bottle of champagne and sparkling grape juice for Heather,” she replied cheerfully, the tension of a few seconds before gone. “I mean, it’s an anniversary party, after all. Can’t wait to see you, baby.” And he knew she meant it.

  “Me, too. Love you, Boo.” He was pretty sure he meant it.

  The lock to his hotel room clicked open. What the hallway had previewed was spot on. The room had barely enough space for its full-size bed, three-drawer chest and shelf that doubled as ersatz desk. The uneven particleboard surfaces looked bloated and water soaked. He flipped the light on in the bathroom. Clean enough.

  His first trip to Denver, ever, had been to interview for the Legacy job. He’d taken an interview prep course “guaranteed to land the job,” the ads promised. The company’s consultant, a tiny woman with a slight lisp, had actually told him how long to count in his head between hearing a question and answering it, what questions he should joke with the interviewers about, when he should smile. It was surreal.

  And it worked.

  Now that he was on the seniority list of this mammoth airline, every passing day would bring him closer to a better schedule, nicer overnights, and more money. His current ride, the Boeing 737, was the smallest plane in Legacy’s fleet. Since airline pilots were paid by the number of passengers they carried (how many people they could kill at any one time, as the gruesome inside joke went) when he had enough seniority to fly the big iron, the 777 with almost 300 passengers, his lifestyle would look a lot different.

  Maybe then—with more money, more time off—Em would relax into their marriage, forget about his history with Tris.

  Maybe they both would.

  Five

&n
bsp; Lemaster Regional Airport sat in the middle of a cornfield fifty miles west of Exeter. Typically hosting small single engine props whose owners lived to poke holes in the sky, its one runway was so narrow no jet could land there, so the airport rarely got commercial traffic.

  Tris and Bruce brought in an executive to visit a nearby corn-processing plant. After landing, Tris expertly negotiated the tricky taxiway, a cracked concrete strip that dead-ended outside of a Mobile Mini trailer.

  The corrugated steel container sported an “Executive Terminal” sign. Adjacent to its western wall was a larger structure used as a hangar and mechanic’s shop. Its interior was warmed by a small space heater. Coffee cost twenty cents and was dispensed into paper cups by an old vending machine.

  Tris and Bruce expected a long sit at the remote location waiting for their passenger. Then Phyll paged and said their itinerary had changed, they needed to return to Exeter, asap. Woody had hired mechanics to do an oil change on the Royal when their passenger’s trip added an overnight stay.

  Bruce looked up from the small card table where they were studying their dispatch release and surveyed the room.

  “What’s up?” Tris asked.

  “Where’s the lav?” Bruce stood and looked around again, as if he had missed something in the 300-square-foot box. Other than a teenaged girl sitting behind a folding table with a phone on it, they were the only people in the room.

  Tris grinned. “Methinks this transaction will be ‘au natural,’” code for behind a bush outside somewhere. It wouldn’t be the first time either pilot pursued that option. Bruce grimaced and headed for the door.

  As he reached for the doorknob, a loud whoosh of air pierced the silent ramp. Then something exploded. The building’s thin walls shook.

  “Fire!” someone screamed. The cry sounded like it came from the ramp.

  “Bomb!” another voice bellowed.

  Tris pushed past Bruce, who was frozen in place, and yanked the door open to the sight of a large fire burning on the ramp right outside the hangar. Plumes of thick smoke obscured her view of the fully fueled Royal, mere feet from the blaze. She looked around for a fire extinguisher. Her mouth was open, but no words came out.