Chapter 1
Like cattle. We are treated like herded cattle,” I said to myself, edging toward my seat, trying not to commit grievous bodily harm to a seated passenger with my carry-on bag. When the flight attendant, a perky young woman who was at the beginning of the 6-hour flight, rather than the weary, falsely cheerful woman she’d be at deplaning, offered to help me stow my bag, I gave her a tight smile, a “merci”, and allowed her to heft it into the overhead compartment.
When flying, I wrap myself in a mantle of Frenchness. I’ve found it discourages idle conversation and, for some reason, garners more respectful treatment. I am unfailingly polite, but I just want to be left alone. I travel for business, so airtime is work time and I don’t appreciate some random, anxious, first-time flyer trying to strike up a conversation.
“Merde,” I whispered under my breath, eyeing my assigned seat. I hated the center seat. Trapped. No window view and no easy egress for the lavatory. Just me squeezed between two people, like the filling in a panini sandwich (Please don’t be obese. Please don’t be obese!).
As I sat though, setting my purse and laptop at my feet, I saw that my fellow traveler at the window seat was neither hefty nor likely to be garrulous. He appeared to be average height, maybe slightly tall, and lean. As a bonus, he did not even look up as I sat, his hands cradling his head full of dark, tousled curls.
It seemed like I’d won the travel lottery when the aisle seat passenger sat next to me. A slight, elderly lady who put in earbuds, adjusted a pillow behind her neck, and promptly closed her eyes. Ah, heaven! I might actually get some work done this flight. I pulled out my laptop as the cabin crew went through the preflight instructions and opened the files for the meeting. I checked and rechecked each agenda item, then sighed.
The problem was that I didn’t have much to do, really. I’d gone over the presentation so many times that I could deliver it in my sleep, if I had to. I had other projects that needed my attention, but since they were dependent on the outcome of the meeting, there were none that I could work on till my current project was wrapped up. So, I pulled my French edition Vogue out of my bag and started idly flipping through the pages as the plane took off.
Halfway through an article about the exciting fall collections being shown on the runways, I could feel someone looking at me. I glanced at the man seated next to me, his curious gaze on the magazine, but when he saw me noticing, he looked back down at his hands. I flicked my eyes back to the magazine, my face impassive. Outwardly serene, on the inside I was jumping up and down, squealing, hands waving like a 13-year-old fan at a concert. Because there, in the seat next to me was none other than Jack Garcia, the amazingly talented and oh so handsome founder of the band PRTY! My inner fangirl was fighting to get out and jump in his lap and profess my true love for him, but the outer, mature, professional woman was in charge, and I continued coolly flipping through my magazine.
Sneaky side glances told me he’d resumed his previous head-in-hands posture. What was up with that? Was he scared of flying? Feeling sick? I had seen none of the classic signs of either—white knuckling the armrest, sweating, or clutching the airsickness bag.
My musing was interrupted by the drinks cart coming down the aisle, the attendants carefully scooping ice into plastic cups and pouring beverages. I knew better than to ask for plain water (the water hold in the plane was never washed out), so when the attendant, Caryl, offered me a beverage, I asked, in a thick French accent, for sparkling water. She obligingly poured it out and handed it over. She then asked if my companion would like anything. Jack had not moved at all during this exchange. I tentatively tapped his back and asked, “Would you like somesing to drink?” in my heavy French accent.
His head came up and he gave me a level, assessing look, then told Caryl, “An orange juice, please. No ice.” I kept my expression bland as I handed him his cup and napkin. Then I deliberately turned back to perusing my magazine. I sensed a look of—bafflement? sorrow? —before he turned back to gazing out the window.
I did not see any books, paper or digital, or devices poking from his duffle. How on earth was he going to entertain himself for the whole flight? Maybe he’d write a song, and when it played on the radio, I’d be able to look back with a smile and remember that I sat next to him. But he made no move to get out any distraction from his bag, merely sitting, looking out the window at the clouds below us.
When his breathing shifted, turning ragged, I snuck another look. His eyes were tearing up. Oh, no, he wasn’t scared or panicked. He looked…sad. I couldn’t help it. I knew how annoying the unwanted conversational overture was, but I had to say something.
“Are you all right?” I asked in my throaty French accent.
He glanced up, startled, and ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”
“D’accord. So sorry to intrude. Eet just looked like you had much you were zinking about.”
One side of his mouth twitched up as he said, “Yeah, you could say that.”
“I only ask because sometimes eet is better to share ze soughts when zey weigh you down. If you would like ze sympathetic ear of a stranger, I would be happy to listen.”
“Strangers on a Plane?” he asked with a smile that twitched both corners of his mouth.
“Oui, but not Strangers on a Train. I would not keel someone for you, just listen.”
That made the smile a bit broader. “That’s a very kind offer, but I’d hate to bore you with my troubles. I can see that you’ve got work to do.”
Polite, thoughtful. Who would have guessed Jack would possibly be a nice person?
“Mais, non, my work is all…how you say…taken care of. I now have nossing to fill ze hours but ze tedious fall fashion disasters being foisted on us by Givenchy and Chanel. I would be happy to share my magazine, but zen you would be even more triste…I mean sad.”
He looked back down at his hands clasped in his lap, shaking his head for a moment. Then, straightened and looked at me, his dark brown eyes intense. “I am sad, but there’s a bunch more and it’s all complicated. Too much to unravel.”
I met his gaze with a small smile and gestured around the airplane. “I have nowhere to be. I am your captive audience for ze next—” I snuck a peak at the dainty Piaget on my wrist— “four and a half hours.”
He bit his lip, thinking. “It’s all tangled together. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
I gave him my calming smile, the one that I used to smooth over awkward situations. “Then we shall start with ze easy zings. What is your destination?”
“Ok, that is an easy one. Scottsdale.”
“D’accord. Zat really was a simple one. Now we make it a bit more difficile… difficult.” I paused and let him take a breath. “Why are you going to Scottsdale?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “A funeral. Well, a memorial service. For my best friend.” His eyes filled with tears again, looking back over the years. “He was my best friend growing up, but, well, things got complicated, and we haven’t spoken in years.”
