Chapter 2 #2
“I gave Randal your number. He’s passing it on to the pilot who’s standing by for confirmation before they take off.
It’ll take an hour and a half to BHB from Portsmouth, and they should be getting airborne the minute I give the okay.
You should get a call or a text when the plane is an hour out.
That way you can arrive at approximately the same time. ”
“Sounds like a plan. And for the record, Spence, I really like this windfall if what you’ve described is true. But just a warning. My mind is already putting together a diving museum in our free space.”
Spencer laughed. “You’re the man with the plans,” he stated without hesitation. “I trust whatever you’re envisioning.”
“Thanks, Spence.”
Trask couldn’t have asked for better brothers. Yeah, they were often irreverent idiots, but they were giving him a lot of leeway with his future ideas for the business, and that went a long way to making him feel like an integral part of Diver Downeast.
After hanging up, Trask quickly got sucked down a rabbit-hole, researching WWII diving gear, and had just begun an impromptu drawing for his imaginary museum, when his phone pinged with a text.
Jett here. ETA at BHB, one hour. Keep an eye out for a Cessna 180, 1297-Lima-Peru.
Jett, huh? A good solid military handle if Trask had ever heard one. He immediately added the person to his contacts, then responded; Roger that. I’ll be there.
That was it. End of communication, and Trask already felt good about the pilot. No nonsense. Just the facts. Exactly how Trask liked things.
Trask donned his heavy winter coat, grabbed the keys to his new truck, and was just about to lock up when…
Shit. Spence hadn’t said anything about money.
Just in case his brother was back in class, Trask sent him a text.
Bro. Am I bringing cash? A company check?
His phone pinged almost immediately.
Randal is donating the stuff to us. He just wants honorable mention on a card or a plaque, wherever it ends up.
Trask’s mouth fell open as he texted back. Wow. What a score.
It is, Spence replied. Now stop bugging me. I’m missing shit.
As if.
Spencer probably had more experience diving for the merchant marine than all the instructors at the school, combined. But Trask liked to follow the rules, so he’d honor Spence’s wishes and stop texting.
Trask’s thoughts went back to the goods being delivered, and his excitement grew.
Of course, he didn’t know what kind of shape the diving gear would be in, so he might be getting ahead of himself.
Having been stored in a barn, the suit and boot material could be mouse-chewed, or leaky-roof-damaged.
The thick, copper and brass helmets could be dented and scarred, but still, the acquisition had great potential, and it had kick-started Trask’s brain, big-time, so he wasn’t going to judge until he saw the stuff.
However good or bad the equipment turned out to be, he’d make it work.
Locking the office door behind him, he noted that the snow squall from this morning that had dumped an inch or so on the region, was already melting away in the mid-afternoon sun.
Not that the clear streets would last long.
There was always more snow in Maine, and Trask liked that.
He’d been born to this weather, and having been stationed for a lot of his career in California, he’d missed it.
He was looking forward to his first real nor-easter in years, which was actually being forecast for the following weekend when he was scheduled to train recruits in Orono.
He couldn’t wait. For either occurrence.
Turning toward his truck, a large hunk of snow from the building’s overhang chose that moment to break loose and fall down the back of his neck.
Fuck. Cold.
Okay. Maybe the universe was telling him it wasn’t going to be all unicorns and roses here, or… Maybe it was simply time to grow out his military haircut; give his tender skin some adequate protection until he got used to being a Mainer again.
He’d take it all under consideration.
Trask noted, as he walked toward his new, navy-blue truck, that the once pristine chassis was already dirty and salty, having traversed the heavily treated streets earlier.
Trask would take care of that, soon. He preferred the shiny newness the vehicle had loudly declared as he’d driven it out of the showroom.
But…the dried slush did make his ride blend in like a real native.
Once he was on the road, Trask turned up the heat, shed his coat, then blanked his mind as soon as a favorite song by Disturbed came on.
He cranked the volume, appreciating now that his truck had come with a streaming service.
None of the few available local stations this far north played much in the way of metal or heavy rock.
But he was okay with that. Satellite provided him with more than enough choices.
The trip to Trenton went by quickly. The traffic was light this time of day. Still, the Staties were out, so he set his cruise control for four miles an hour over the speed limit to prove to himself he could defy authority sometimes. To a degree. He wasn’t always an uptight rule follower.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was going to be early, so he pulled into a car wash.
There was no need to make a bad first impression on the person who was blessing him with a hopeful treasure-trove of gear.
Once his truck was clean, signs for BHB eventually led him off the main road and onto a slightly smaller venue, where he finally spotted the airport.
Pulling in, he quickly located the tie-down area for smaller planes, and searched for the craft whose tail number he’d been given, but he didn’t see it.
Trask checked his watch. He was still a few minutes earlier than what he’d been told, so he pulled on his shearling coat, got out of the truck, and leaned against the chassis while watching planes land.
It was a beautiful day to be alive.
He’d only been squinting at the sky—behind his dark, aviator sunglasses—for a few minutes when he saw a likely looking aircraft headed in.
It was the right size, its gear down, but also equipped with pontoons that he hadn’t been expecting.
It was steady in the crosswind as it made its final approach.
Trask noted that the tail numbers were correct.
He couldn’t see the pilot from where he stood, but whoever it was, proved to be more than competent, making a seamlessly smooth landing.
Trask visually followed the Cessna’s progress as it headed toward the visitor tie-down area, and once the plane came to a halt and the prop stopped spinning, he jogged over to stand ten feet or so away, not rushing the pilot whose head was down, perhaps logging hours, or powering off some instruments.
The door eventually opened, and…
Trask blinked.
Out jumped a spectacular looking, lithe blonde—a female blonde—with legs that didn’t quit.
He couldn’t take his eyes off those lower extremities, picturing her jumping up to wrap them around his waist.
As she turned to grab something, Trask swallowed at the added sight of the woman’s pert little ass, encased in jeans that clung to her like a second skin.
Damn. So good. But…
He was being pervy.
He forced his eyes off that compelling posterior.
His insta-lust, however, didn’t let up as he caught his first good look at her hair; a riot of bright golden curls that gave the appearance of an out-of-control halo, brandishing itself in the vivid sunlight.
He brought his gaze to her face.
She had a strong, square chin, and her aviator sunglasses—matching the ones he wore—were perched on a pert, freckled nose.
She walked toward him with a natural swing to her hips.
“Trask Sothard, I assume?” she questioned in a warm, lilting voice. She stuck out her hand, then moved her sunglasses, pushing them up to sit amongst her curls.
“Uh. That’s me.” He shook her hand almost without it registering because...
Trask, hardly ever at a loss, had trouble find his voice.
Wow. He swallowed his amazement. The woman had one lash-framed emerald green eye, and the other…was azure blue.
She didn’t look bothered by his scrutiny at all. She actually appeared delightedly amused.
“Hi Trask. I’m Jett. Jett DeLuca. And yeah. I know,” she emoted with a hearty giggle, although he hadn’t actually posed a question.
“If you’re wondering, it’s called complete heterochromia.”