I force my nicest smile—force myself to meet his eyes—to combat whatever suspicions he may be feeling.
“We’re just heading to nineteen R,” I say.
“Hop on. I’ll drop you.”
Bailey jumps in, a little too fast. “We’re all set. Thanks.”
His tilts his head, takes us in, suddenly suspicious. I look over at her and see her as he must—her skinny arms, balancing those heavy bags. Why on earth wouldn’t she want the help? Most people coming through here expected it.
“You seem a bit weighed down with those bags,” he says. “Let me drop you.”
“No,” she says. “All good.”
He nods, but he reaches for his radio, probably ready to call someone to check our IDs, to look further into what we’re doing here. He reaches for that radio on his holster. By his gun.
I move toward him.
“You know what?” I say. “My daughter here can speak for herself. I learned as soon as I turned forty, you don’t turn down a lift…”
The security guard gives me a small laugh, liking this joke. Liking the chance to be helpful. His hand leaves the remote and he reaches out to make room for my bags on the back seat of the golf cart.
I hop onto the golf cart, sit down next to him.
Bailey gives me a look and I meet her eyes, trying to convey to her that this is the best choice. The only choice. She reluctantly gets into the golf cart’s rear-facing row, holding her bag tightly on her lap.
The guard swings the golf cart back into drive, moving us in the direction of the apron, the large plane, takeoff.
“Where is today’s destination?” he asks.
“That’s a birthday surprise for the young lady behind you,” I say.
“Ah,” he says. “Lucky kid.”
“Not so much a kid anymore as she is quick to remind me…”
“Can you not talk about me like I can’t hear you?” Bailey says. She sounds surly, but I know she is leaning into what I’m doing here—adding this security guard to it. To our side.
“She sounds just like my two,” he says. “Just celebrated my youngest’s thirty-fifth. And let me tell you, I still see him as three years old.”
“I hear grandkids help?” I ask.
“More than anything.”
He offers me a smile and drives us the rest of the way to the plane in silence. I keep the smile plastered to my face, watching him. I don’t breathe though. I don’t breathe until we are off the golf cart again and standing by the plane’s boarding stairs.
The three people I saw from a distance are now a few feet from us, and visible to me: a flight attendant; a young pilot who I don’t recognize in his uniform; and the other pilot—slightly older—also in his uniform. This other pilot, who I do recognize.
Daniel.
Daniel, who moves toward me. “Ms. Roberts,” he says. “Always nice to see you.”
He reaches out his hand to shake mine—somewhere between formal and cordial. Somewhere between knowing me and working for me. And it occurs to me that he is trying to strike a balance—to convey that we’ve been here several times before, boarding a private plane, on a chartered flight I have hired him to pilot for me.
Daniel motions toward the flight attendant. “Sally will be taking care of you today,” he says. “And this is my copilot, Ryan.”
The younger pilot, Ryan, gives us a nod and walks on board. Sally stays by Daniel’s side.
“Thank you for having your assistant send over the passports,” Daniel says. “That expedited everything, and we should be ready to get going shortly.”
