Chapter 34Bryan
Chapter Thirty-Four
brYAN
Truittism No. 17: You rarely end up where you think you’re going, but you always end up where you’re supposed to be.
Turns out, leaving Mayhem, Minnesota, is a lot easier than getting to Mayhem, Minnesota. It takes me less than an hour to clean out my desk at the Gazette, leaving King all my nifty new office supplies along with a brief letter of thanks and an extra check for his troubles. The Pink Lady Slipper Inn is a little more complicated. I feel awful about just leaving like this without so much as a good-bye, but it just can’t be helped.
The huge Victorian is still at this hour, the only sound the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the parlor. Trying not to so much as creak one of the floorboards, I pack up my suitcase and write a more personal note to Miss Lucy, which I leave on the lace-covered sideboard on my way out the door. I’ve also left her my parka and boots, asking her to find them a good home.
The roads are a nightmare, and I white-knuckle my way, skidding and fishtailing, out of town. Once I hit the interstate, it improves vastly, and I breathe a little easier. I don’t know how I’m going to get home to L.A., but I’ll figure it out when I get to the airport. I sent an email to Helen before I left, but it’s so early, and with the time difference, it’s the middle of the night in California.
I keep seeing Hennessy’s face. The look of disappointment that turned to disgust in an instant. The coolness of her voice. I slam a fist on the steering wheel in a moment of rage and frustration.
“Damn!” I yell out to the frozen and deserted landscape as it flies by in the darkness. I swore I’d never do this again. I’d never trust my heart to another living soul. So what was I thinking?
I’d been thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was time that I got to be happy, too. But apparently I was wrong about that.
…
Figuring I could get more flights out of a bigger airport, I bite the bullet and drive the three hours to the Twin Cities. Somewhere in there, Helen has retrieved my email and called. She doesn’t ask too many questions, just assures me that she’ll make my travel plans and send me the details. It’s nearly noon central time when I finally return my car and catch my first flight, which has me changing planes in Chicago.
I literally cringe when I walk off the Jetway and into the terminal at O’Hare. The lights are too bright. There are too many people moving too quickly. And the noise…
“Hey, do you mind?” an irritated man complains from behind me as he tries get around me.
“Slow down, why don’t you?” I suggest.
“Yeah, well, some of us have real lives, buddy,” he says, squeezing past in his custom-tailored Armani suit. “Hey, do us all a favor and go back to whatever hick town you came from, why don’t you?” he shoots over his shoulder at me, shaking his head in disgust at my jeans and plaid shirt.
I move to the side so as not to hold up any other rushing passengers and watch the man walk away, cell phone now glued to his ear. That was me. Not two months ago, I was that arrogant, impatient jackass on my way to my next score. My next conquest. I take a look down at my new, casual look and try to see myself through his eyes. Through my eyes, not so very long ago. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I pull my phone out of my pocket and switch it out of airplane mode and see that there’s a text from Helen.
Terminal 2 concourse E Gate 16. 12:45 departure.
E-ticket to come
.
Ticket to come? They’ll be boarding by the time I get from Terminal C to E. I text a message to Helen, but when she doesn’t respond in a couple of minutes, I grab my bag and start my sprint toward the shuttle. Thankfully, I’ve been through this airport often enough that I don’t need to waste time figuring out where to go. Still, it takes longer than I thought, and I’m startled to hear my name crackling over the airport PA system.
“Airfleet USA Flight 1229, paging Mr. Bryan Truitt. Your flight is ready to depart out of Gate E16.”
I sprint down the long terminal, past gate after gate of departing flights, barely registering the people around. When at last I have the desk in sight, the gate agent has her hand on the door, about to close it.
“Wait! Please, wait!” I cry out, wheezing, sweating, and shaking when I finally arrive in front of the perfectly calm and composed blonde in the navy uniform.
“Mr. Truitt?” she asks. I nod, unable to speak.
“Just a second…” I try to catch my breath while she goes to her computer, prints out a boarding pass, comes back and scans it. She tears the bottom off and hands it to me.
“You’re in first class, Mr. Truitt, Seat 13B.”
I nod again and prepare to run, but she puts a hand up to stop me.
“It’s okay,” she says gently.“This plane isn’t going anywhere without you. Take a breath, and then take your time.”
I’m stunned by the unexpectedly kind words. “Thank you,” I say with a weak smile, rolling past her and down the ramp to where another woman, this one a petite brunette, is waiting for me.
“Mr. Truitt! So glad you made it. Here, I’ll take your bag and find a spot for it. Once we’re at thirty-thousand feet, I’ll come by and make sure you get a cocktail.”
“Oh, bless you,” I murmur gratefully as I pass her the handle to my bag. I spot my aisle seat and sink down into it before buckling myself in. I close my eyes and finally allow myself the luxury of a long, deep exhale.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” Helen says from next to me.
Wait. What?
I open my eyes and gawk at the orange-haired woman with the rhinestone-studded glasses sitting in the window seat. My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes are wide with shock as I try to process a scenario in which she should be here with me on this flight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board Airfleet USA flight 1229 with non-stop service to Charlotte, North Carolina…”
“Charlotte?” I yelp so loudly that the flight attendant pauses to give me a quizzical look. She motions for her colleague to stand by for a moment and comes to hang over my seat.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Truitt?” she asks with concern.
“I–I think there’s been a mistake,” I stammer. “I’m supposed to be on a flight to Los Angeles…”
Helen reaches over to put a pink-nailed hand on my leg. “No, dear,” she says quietly. “You’ve got business in North Carolina. There’s a garment bag with a black suit hanging up front, and I’ve made reservations at a hotel near your mother’s house.”
The flight attendant is looking back and forth between us. “We’re fine, really,” Helen assures her. I’m so stunned that I can’t disagree.
“What the hell, Helen?” I hiss when we’re alone again. “Shh,” she says quietly.
“Helen, I don’t…”
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, patting my shoulder now. “It’s okay, Bryan.”
I have a moment of pure, blinding rage. How dare she?
How could she possibly presume to know what I want or need or…
“Look at me,” she says. I do, certain that the anger I’m feeling is written across every square inch of my face.
She just smiles at me sweetly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers softly, leaning close to me. “About your father. About Hennessy. About all of it.”
“How did you know about Hennessy?” I manage to ask.
She gives me half a smile. “It’s my job to know, silly,” she says, grasping my hand and giving it a squeeze. “And, more than that, I want to know. Because I care about you.”
Her words should surprise me, but somehow, as I study her well-worn face, I realize that she does care, and that I’ve always known that. I squeeze her hand tightly and feel the anger melt away.