Come Fly with Me

Chapter Fourteen Judy

Chapter Fourteen

Judy

I have been avoiding Joe.

Well, as much as I’ve been able to, considering that we spend five days a week in the classroom and have done so for nearly six weeks. But after that kiss, and after the surge of emotions I felt when we were squeezed together in the galley of that sliced-up 707, I didn’t trust myself to be alone with him.

So I am startled when I arrive at the steps of the Villa Vizcaya and hear a man call my name. I look up and there is Joe, holding a fedora in his hand and waving to me from underneath one of three elaborate stone arches. He puts his hat on and hurries down, taking almost two steps at a time, and sidestepping a full-plumed peacock that seemed to appear out of nowhere. I see the metaphor that this display from the exotic bird is its mating ritual, and I try to put the comparison out of my mind.

Joe is out of breath when he approaches.

“There you are,” he says.

I’m not unhappy to see him. Not at all , I’m afraid to admit. But I was not expecting it.

“Where is Beverly?” I ask, immediately sorry that I wasn’t kinder in my response. Whatever the source of the confusion, this does not seem to be his fault.

“What do you mean?” Joe put a hand up to his face to shield himself from the unrelenting sun. He is wearing a pale-yellow shirt today. Not much of a departure from white, but enough that I notice.

“I’m supposed to meet Beverly here. She said that we had to see these gardens before we leave Miami. She said that they’re ro—”

And then I realize what had happened. Romantic. Beverly had said that the gardens are romantic. She’d planned for Joe to be here all along. To take her place.

“She said they’re what?”

“They’re ... robust examples of a Floridian version of Italy.”

It sounds ridiculous coming out of my mouth. But I sure as heck was not going to say that other R word.

Oh, she’s good. She’s really good.

I can’t say that I’m sorry about it.

Joe looks a little confused. “Yes. I suppose that’s one word for it. But Judy—you look like you’re surprised to see me. Beverly told me that you’d been dying to come here. Her words. And that you wanted me to meet you here.”

I smile thinly. I am so happy to see him. This casual version that I’ve been able to see when he is not restrained by the classroom. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. But before I can assure him, he takes a step back and answers. His eyes grow wide.

“Ooooh. I see what happened here. Judy, I’m sorry. I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me. But I can leave if you want me to.”

“No!” I say. A little too quickly, too emphatically. And then I cover it with softer tones, pressing my hand against his arm to reassure him. “No—please stay. I’m—I’m glad that she did this. She took care of what I was too afraid to.”

He leans in, concern growing in his expression and his voice mellowing into a tender whisper.

“Why would you be afraid of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you. I’m—”

I don’t really know how to finish that sentence.

He takes my hand in a gesture that feels more friendly than intimate, and I try to dismiss the rush of heat that goes through me as he does so. The dizziness I feel can’t be attributed to weather, though I wish I could cast the blame there. “I’ll tell you what,” he suggests. “I’ve never been to Villa Vizcaya, either, but it looks incredible. Shall we walk around for a bit? I mean, we’re already here.”

“Yes.” I don’t try to hide the delight I feel at this invitation.

Joe grins and holds up two tickets. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

I pull my ticket from his hand, the most delicate way to separate from him. But immediately, my skin feels the unmistakable prickle of loss. How long had it been since contact with a man had made me feel appreciated?

Already, I am parched for his touch again.

But that lifts as soon as we pass through the entrance of the beautiful Villa Vizcaya.

“My God!” I exclaim. I look at Joe, and his expression matches my enchantment.

It is a wonderland.

We stand in the presence of an enormous white Italianate mansion, ornate with columns and scrolls and arches. Its red-tile roof is adorned with a weather vane that reveals that the scant breeze is coming in from the east. Mangrove trees surround it, thick to the point of appearing like a forest and swaying like they know a mysterious tribal dance belonging to long-ago natives.

Elaborate scrollwork adorns marble arches, and koi fish swim in the waters of a fountain, their bright scales an orange shade that rivals the sun. Rounded balcony upon rounded balcony line the gardens, every one of them reminiscent of where Juliet might have stood as she longed for her Romeo. We hear the tropical-sounding calls of birds that we cannot see, and we see multicolored lizards that scatter in silence.

I will have to write to Ronelle about this, though it might sound garish because words fail my ability to adequately describe it. It would surely miss the mark.

I hope that they will have a gift shop, and I can send her a postcard. Without a signature, of course, and with disguised handwriting. In case, for some reason, Henry were ever to see it.

Joe slides his hand into mine, and everything else is forgotten. I sense that his gesture is less about the growing rapport between us than the need to simply connect with another human being in the face of something so transcendent.

I don’t mind. And I don’t pull away.

“Look at the stones, Judy,” he says as he points to the path in front of us. “They’re fossilized . Fossilized!”

And, indeed, before us lays a carpet of large, flat stones that were embedded with all sorts of ancient impressions—shells, ferns, and other flora and fauna that I cannot name but certainly marvel at.

“Can you even imagine where they found them, let alone how much they paid for them?” Joe asks.

“Or how they got them there. They didn’t have Pan Am Cargo services to help out back when this was built.”

Joe throws his head back and laughs, which breaks the spell of the place for both of us. And I am thankful because it is this Joe—this casual, lighthearted, dear Joe—that I had fallen for that early evening in Miami.

The one whom I have resisted ever since.

Or tried to.

“You sound like an advertisement, Judy. Maybe you should be writing in our offices rather than flying off to the other side of the world,” he suggests.

For one heartbeat, I want to take him seriously. If I could work in Miami—if I could stay near Joe—what might happen?

Maybe when I am free. And once I’ve had my chance to explore the world. This venture started as a way to protect myself from my husband. But the last six weeks have tantalized me with dreams that I had never thought could come true. The real possibility that those colored pins I’d stuck on that childhood map might become flesh-and-blood experiences for me. I’ve already let love derail that once before. I owe it to myself to see this through.

“How about this, Clayton?” I ask with just a tinge of flirt in my voice. Perhaps Beverly has rubbed off on me, and for that I’m grateful. “You save an office spot for me here in Miami, and I’ll think about coming back after I’ve checked off every place I’ve been longing to see.”

“I might hold you to that.” Joe has my attention, and I can’t look away.

My pulse quickens, and I don’t know how to answer, but something in the background catches my eye and gives me the perfect escape.

“See that statue?” I ask. The part of the gardens we’ve walked to now is an outdoor gallery of crisp white figures that look like they belong in the Louvre. Or so I believe from the photographs I’ve seen.

Joe follows my gaze as I look at one that depicts a bearded middle-aged man strumming a lyre.

“The nymph?”

“No—the one to the right.”

He nods.

“That one reminds me of my father.”

Joe cocks his head. “In what way? Is he a Greek god of music?”

“Was.”

He looks confused, and then he realizes my use of the past tense.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light.”

“It’s okay,” I say as I shrug. And I find myself feeling happy as I say it. Like I can speak about Dad to Joe in a way I haven’t done before. Henry would shut me down whenever I mentioned him. He probably didn’t like that I’d ever loved another man, even if it was my own father .

I have always wondered, if my dad hadn’t contracted the pneumonia that turned fatal, if he would have joined Mom’s soliloquy of concern over my chosen spouse and given me more pause to consider their instincts.

Maybe the united voice of my parents would have raised the concern in me that my mother’s alone didn’t.

“It’s okay,” I say again, retreating from those well-worn ponderings. “I feel—I feel like that statue is him giving me his blessing. He’s the one who gave me the Come Fly with Me album in the first place. And my map to mark the places I’d want to visit. He had a beard like that, and a jawline almost as square. And played the violin for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”

“I’d love to hear more about him.”

That is the very, very best thing he could have said to me. But between that and the peace I feel from the statue—as if it is a little hello from Heaven—I don’t necessarily want to revisit nostalgic moments that will only dampen this time.

“Thank you, Joe. Let’s do that. But another time. Today is about—” I almost said us . “Today is about this beautiful place.”

And the goodbye ahead of us.

I look up, and the hands of the clock on Villa Vizcaya read 12:05 p.m. Just an hour ago, I was looking forward to spending the afternoon with Beverly. We don’t know where we’ll each be assigned, so this week could very well be our goodbye as well.

Instead—and not unhappily—I’m here with Joe.

“Judy—look at that!” I turn around, and Joe is pointing to a magnificent white crane, its wings outstretched as it glides over the lake waters in front of the mansion. Its image is reflected on the ripples, and as it gets nearer, the bird and its twin become one. With its large stature, it frightens away a number of geese that were gathered, and they emit angry squawks at the disruption to their peace.

Joe grins. “Speaking of family, I was thinking that my sisters would love this place. There are four of them. All older than me. Then I came along and invaded their little nest.”

“Four! How did you survive that?” Though, in truth, I am envious. I have always wanted siblings and the built-in friendships they might provide.

“Well despite the times when they put curlers in my hair and gave me the enduring nickname of Noelle on account of my Christmas birthday, I think I’ve done pretty well for myself!”

I can’t help but grin at the image, but I don’t want to outright laugh. “Christmas?” I manage to say. “What a day to be born.”

He shrugs. “Mom went into labor just before midnight Mass. If my dad hadn’t gotten her to the hospital when he did, I might have had a starring role as baby Jesus.”

This image, too, makes me smile.

Joe makes me smile.

It’s easy to feel disarmed around him. Even though I’ve grown such armor around myself.

We arrive at the edge of the lake and find a spot of grass to sit on. In front of us large poles rise out of the water, like what I’d seen in pictures of Venice. On the dock sits an enormous iguana, easily three feet long, and I’m stunned by the presence of the prehistoric-looking creature. This place is indeed Florida and Italy combined, the intention of the builder of Vizcaya on full display.

“Tell me about your sisters,” I say, remaining in territory that deflects all that I am feeling right now. “Surely you have lots of stories.”

Joe picks at a blade of grass, tearing it in half, and then looks at me with those water-like eyes. “Well, they are all fans of Pride and Prejudice , and since I was not the girl they wanted, the fifth sister, they recruited me into playing the part anyway whenever they’d get the notion to stage a production in our basement.”

“I’ll bet you looked cute in a pinafore.”

“Perish the thought.”

I grin and nudge his shoulder with mine. “This is very, very valuable information, Joe Clayton. The sort of thing that could be quite useful in case I ever have the need to blackmail you.”

“It would be. Good thing there’s nothing else to blackmail me over. Call me boring, but I’ve lived a pretty basic life.”

I look at him as if I don’t buy that for a minute. “Says the man who was a steward for Pan Am, has lived in New York City, and just moved to Miami.”

I wonder if Joe misses being a steward. For the foreseeable future, Pan Am is only hiring women for that role—the days of male stewards have all but passed. I am about to ask him, but am interrupted.

A goose waddles over to us and tilts her head before wandering off. Her honk echoes across the vast space, making her sound like there are dozens of her, though she’s the only one I see.

“I guess boring isn’t the right word,” Joe continues. “But I never got myself into trouble. I worked my way up to Eagle Scout by the time I was a senior.”

I bite my bottom lip as I consider this. The man is literally a Boy Scout. Either I am phenomenally gullible or I’ve been given the second chance of a lifetime.

I look at him slyly, goading him to reveal a misstep. “No dalliances with a Girl in Blue?” Surely, being surrounded by so many beautiful women donning the Pan Am uniform has been a temptation, at least.

He scoots closer to me and raises his eyebrows in an exaggerated way. “Not. Yet. ”

I feel my cheeks redden. And my heart beats faster. I want to believe him. And something tells me I can.

Then he grows serious and pulls back a bit. Maybe my initial reaction to seeing him today makes him hesitate. “Actually, this is never something we directly covered in training, but Pan American insists on a certain classiness for its employees despite the culture’s prevailing theory that a job in the air somehow equates to a looseness of behavior. I’m not going to say that there is never an occasional affair or that some passengers don’t try to push their luck. But it’s not the—pardon me here—mattress romp that people imagine our career to be.”

I’m thoroughly blushing now. I can feel it. I hope he doesn’t notice.

But I’m glad to hear it. I think on some level, I’d known it to be true. Other airlines featured drawings of the stewardesses in their advertisements. Short skirts. And even men looking out from their seat as she walks past, the roundness of her rear end emphasized by the artist. Some of the more innocuous posters are produced by Air France and United, but even they still emphasize the stewardess over the travel.

Pan Am is different. Their magazine advertisements are about the destination . They promise exotic locales. Palm trees. World-class cities.

Joe stands up and helps me to my feet, letting go more quickly than I would have liked. I smooth my skirt as he brushes some grass off his pants.

“There’s a sign for a maze over there. Want to walk through it?”

It looks like it’s got an abundance of shade and would be a welcome change from the sun that is now directly overhead. I feel sweat bead along my hairline, and I see it doing the same to him.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Joe takes one of my hands again. And I let him, relishing the newness of this feeling. Or maybe not newness. Dormancy. Awakening something that has been slumbering. I never dared to hope that I could feel this blush, this anticipation again. We walk side by side toward the maze grown out of shrubbery twice our height.

My pulse quickens at his nearness. What did Beverly tell him that made him think that I would welcome this ... this ... advance? She must have led him to believe that I wanted this.

And maybe I do. Because I don’t pull away. It’s sweet. There is even a shyness about him as we walk along.

I take a deep breath. I need to say something, anything, to break the silence because I’m overwhelmed by the romanticism hanging in the air around us. The statues. The koi fish. The exotic birds. Even the stepping stones that are cut from fossils. Impressions that are millions of years old tell me that they were here long before I was and will be long after I am gone.

They give me permission to give myself over to this moment. It’s a drop in the eternal waters of time.

But I’m afraid to let my emotions run away with me. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong. I no longer wear my wedding ring, and I do plan to pursue a Mexican divorce, but I’ve never imagined myself to be a girl who would cheat on her husband.

And yet, if Ronelle or Beverly were here, I know they’d tell me this: that it was Henry who broke our vow. The first time he laid a hand on me. And every time since.

How long were women supposed to sit quietly and withstand that kind of treatment? Or would this relatively new decade be the chance for us to have an equal voice in what happens in our lives?

Joe speaks before I can think of what to say. Certainly these worries of mine are a little too intense for a conversation so early into our—friendship.

“To get back to the culture at Pan American,” he begins, “there is one rumor that is founded in a lot of truth. Many of our regular clients have gone on to marry stewardesses.”

I’d love to avoid the topic of marriage. But I never seem to be able to escape it.

“Is that why Delores told us that the average career for a Pan Am stewardess is only eighteen months?”

“Exactly. There’s a good chance in that time that the stewardess will meet some dashing character in first class. Champagne in Paris and before you know it, he’s bought her a huge diamond on the Via Veneto in Rome.”

I stop as we consider which way to turn in the maze. I pull Joe to the right.

“Well, that won’t be me ,” I say decidedly. I realize as the words come out of my mouth that I probably sound like the kind of woman who has no interest in being tied down. But that isn’t the case for me. I liked being married. I wanted to be married. The reality of it, however, had been debilitating.

I knew that they weren’t all like that. Look at my parents. Happy until the end. It was possible.

“Why not?” Joe asks, reacting to how declarative I must have sounded. “You’re not the marrying type?”

I don’t know if this is casual conversation, or if he is already imagining a future for us right here on our first—accidental—date. I decide on the former.

“I am the marrying type. I am. It’s just not something I can think about in my life right now.”

Joe is looking at me. We’re still holding hands. Time seems to pause and even the breeze stills.

He decides not to press it. And I find him all the more endearing because of his discretion.

He steps back, saving me from making a mistake.

But he still hasn’t let go of my hand.

And I still haven’t pulled away.

We take a left, and then another. Then a right, and before I know it, there are no more people around, and it is as if we are the only two people in the world. The trees cast their shadows across us, enveloping us in privacy.

“Judy,” he whispers with a pressing urgency. He lets go of my hand and turns toward me. We are only inches apart, and I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck. I am engulfed in the scent of flowers wafting from somewhere within the maze, and I think that if these were different circumstances, it might feel like a movie.

“Yes, Joe?” I answer. I feel my heartbeat in every part of my body, and I purse my lips to keep control of myself.

I want him to kiss me. To make a declaration that will assure me that all I am feeling is not merely my imagination.

But his words are not the ones I expect, and his voice is laced with sadness.

“The base assignments were posted at the training center before I left. Your friends should all know where they’re being sent by now.”

I am conflicted. All I’ve wanted all this time is to be far away. As far away as possible. And now when he says these words, I find myself wanting to be right here. It is a strange thing that a decision made by someone else will have an impact—a big impact—on me for the rest of my life.

“Do you want to know where you’re going?” he asks. He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

I nod. I want him to say Miami. I want him to say Miami. I want to stay and see what could happen between us. Come what may.

Joe pulls me close, encircling me in his arms. My skin tingles where we touch, and I feel overwhelmed. I stand, hands to my sides, but I lean into him because I fear that I will fall with the magnitude of all that is about to happen.

I feel the heat of his breath again, this time on my ear as he whispers, “San Francisco.”

A reel passes through my mind with every image I’ve ever seen of it. The Golden Gate Bridge. The fog. The vineyards. The Pacific. It is everything I wanted. Right up until this moment when I would have given anything for him to tell me that I didn’t have to leave Florida at all.

That I wouldn’t have to leave him.

“San Francisco,” I repeat, my face pressed against his shoulder.

We stand there, swaying just a little, consoling one another. And although I am struck by how little sense it makes considering that we hardly know each other outside these weeks of training, I feel a sense of loss and can tell that he feels it too.

The loss not of what had been. But the loss of the opportunity for what might have been .