Be slow to speak and quick to listen.
Maisy had listened, and she didn’t like a single word the Grump had spoken. While she’d like nothing better than to give him a talking-to, she hesitated and mulled over their brief exchanges.
His wine was delivered, and he wasn’t happier with the chardonnay than he’d been with the first glass. “This isn’t fit to drink,” he said as he handed the glass back after a single sip.
Maisy had heard enough. She sighed, remembered hergrandmother’s wisdom, and bit her tongue. “Excuse me,” she said, turning to face him.
“What now?” He groaned the question.
“You seem to be in something of a bad mood.”
“Not your concern.”
“True,” she answered agreeably. “But it’s my understanding that when someone is unpleasant or rude, there’s generally something else going on. Whatever it is in your case appears to have caused you to be mad at the world.”
His eyes narrowed as he glared at her.
Maisy continued. “I refuse to believe you’re the kind of person who goes through life lashing out at everyone within the range of your voice.”
He snickered, then closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat.
Maisy had tried, and that was the best she could do. Refusing to allow him to ruin such an enjoyable meal, she finished eating and then thanked the patient attendant who collected her tray. She could only imagine how many unpleasant passengers he had to deal with on every flight.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
Maisy removed the napkin from her lap and thanked him. “Thank you, but no. It was a wonderful lunch.”
“My pleasure,” he responded with a smile, and then frowned at her seatmate, who remained sitting with his eyes closed and his arms crossed, as if blocking out the world.
Sometime later, the pilot announced that everyone needed to buckle their seatbelts for rough weather ahead.
Mr. Grump sat up, tightened his seatbelt, and then glanced at Maisy. Sighing, he whispered, “My mother died.”
It took half a second for Maisy to understand that he was speaking to her. Instantly, her heart filled with sympathy. Reaching over, she placed a comforting hand on his. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked at her hand and then at her. “I’m not. She wasn’t much of a mother.”
His words shocked Maisy. “Still, she was your mother.”
He huffed and rolled his eyes. “She was a drunk. She never cared about me or anything else except how long it would be until her next drink. Yet I’m tasked with making her funeral arrangements and seeing that she’s properly buried.”
“This is why you’re flying to Seattle?”
“My only reason. I’ll meet with the funeral home this afternoon and fly out this evening. The sooner I’m done with this matter, the better.”
“How sad,” Maisy said, and realized she’d spoken the words aloud when she hadn’t meant to.
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but her death certificate stated she died from liver failure, which was inevitable. As far as I can figure, it took longer than it should have.”
“Did you have any contact with her toward the end?”
He laughed as if she’d joked. “No way. I haven’t spoken to her since I was in grade school.”
“Did she reach out to you?”
His smile spoke more of sadness than humor. “She tried, but I wasn’t interested. There wasn’t a single thing she had to say that I wanted to hear.”
“That is incredibly sad,” she said again. “Sad for her and even more so for you.”
