Chapter 16 #2
But that didn’t mean that walking out on him was fair. She should have stayed to fight another day.
Another day…
That got Trask thinking about yesterday as he walked back downstairs, and how worn-down Jett had been before she’d gotten her second wind in his bed.
Shit, he’d probably overtaxed her even more by being so demanding. Which begged the question, how the hell had she managed the wherewithal to leave the house? How had she had the energy to fly home in the middle of the night—if that’s what she’d done—when she’d been so fucking exhausted?
Trask growled. He’d driven Jett to this, and he needed answers.
He went over and looked out into the mudroom.
Of course, both dogs were gone.
Maybe Jett had found a motel that would take both of them, and had holed up there, but he wasn’t about to call her and find out.
He needed more information.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Trask scrolled until he found the website he wanted, then dialed the number listed.
“Hancock County Bar Harbor Airport,” a cheery, female voice answered. “How can I help you?”
“Uh, there’s an area at your airport where small aircraft tie-down. I wonder if the hanger out there has a phone, and if you could connect me?”
“Oh course, sir. Hold on, please,” the woman replied.
Trask paced as the phone rang once, twice, three times, then let out a breath as a hurried, “H’llo” was barked into the phone.
“Good morning,” Trask began, affecting his best “colonel” voice. “I’m looking for a woman.”
What were her tail numbers again? Trask closed his eyes and conjured them. “She was flying a Cessna, registered as 97-Lima-Peru.”
“Gone,” the man clipped. “Wasn’t here when I got in this morning at five. Anything else?”
“No. But I—”
Click.
Wow. So much for niceties.
Now, at least, Trask knew that Jett was gone, and he had so many recriminations. Acting like he did. Scaring her away in the night. Causing her to fly when she had no business being behind the yoke with how tired she’d been.
All kinds of guilt reared its ugly head, but… At least she’d made it back to Portsmouth. If she hadn’t, a plane crash would have been all over his breaking news feed this morning.
He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair.
What the fuck did he do, now?
His brothers were expecting that they had a new employee.
Maybe…?
Could he have one of them call to straighten things out? Lord knows if he tried, he’d probably end up alienating Jett even more.
Since there was certainly nothing he could do about it, right now, for what it was worth, he needed to get on with his day. That would start by him driving all of the vintage diving gear to the shop, then losing himself while placing the best of the best items in their windows.
Trask had also promised his father that he’d start at the lumber mill later this afternoon, looking over the books and meeting all the employees for the part time, managerial duties he’d end up taking.
Good. It looked like he might not have to think about all the Jett shit anytime soon if he could keep himself busy.
It was a plan.
Two hours later, inside Diver Downeast, Trask was deep into making executive decisions about what equipment to save for a possible museum and what to put on display immediately, when Sheila came walking in, followed by two dogs.
That’s right. She was taking care of Spence and Tabbi’s lab, Duck, as well as Buck’s poodle mix, Cooper, while his sibs and Tab were still engaged with classes.
Not that Tabitha’s sister didn’t look pleased with her charges.
It was simply hard to tell from the normal, neutral expression she always wore.
Sheila was a genius, but also very much on the spectrum, so you never knew what you were going to get with her.
Still, she ran the office with a tight precision that they’d all truly come to appreciate.
“Good morning, Sheila,” Trask called out to her.
“Where’s the new employee? The new employee. Jett DeLuca?” Sheila inquired without giving him a preliminary greeting.
Trask sighed. His siblings must have told her about Jett. “I, uh, think she might have changed her mind about working with us and flew home.”
“Not what Spence said. Spence said she was excited to be employed here. Spence said to get her set up in the system.”
Trask was suddenly hit with an epiphany; a great fucking idea.
“You know what, Sheila? Maybe you should call her. Find out her intentions. If she’s still interested in the job, you can take down all her information. That way you’ll already have the ball rolling when she comes back.”
It was devious, and a little cowardly to have Sheila make the call, and Trask knew it. But he needed to find out the state of Jett’s mind, and this seemed to be the best way.
Not knowing of Trask’s manipulations, Sheila walked directly to the desk they’d set up for her, sat down, and woke up her computer.
“Randal DeLuca,” she stated, staring at the screen. “I have his contact information. Randal. I’ll call him first.”
“Uh, that’s not necessary. I have Jett’s number if you want to contact her directly.” Trask had entered the frustrating woman’s contact info into his phone when she’d first texted him, back when he’d thought that maybe she was a dude.
Cripes, had he been mistaken about that.
“Give it to me,” Sheila demanded.
Trask rattled it off, knowing Sheila’s steel-trap of a brain would commit the digits to memory, then he shamelessly set aside a copper diving helmet he’d been handling, to listen in.
“Hello. This is Sheila at Diver Downeast. I was expecting you this morning, and now you’re not here. You’re not here,” she repeated. “Are you coming back?”
Try as he might, Trask couldn’t hear anything being said to Sheila, and it bugged the shit out of him. He wanted to know if Jett was ripping him a new one to their office manager, or if she was making vague excuses that would get him off the hook.
“Yes. I understand. I’ll tell Spencer.”
Another pause ensued.
“Of course I will,” Sheila stated in response to something. “I will. Let me write it down.”
Now Trask’s curiosity was really piqued.
Sheila scribbled a bunch of words on the paper in front of her.
“I have it,” Sheila said without expression.
Of course, nothing would show on her face that would give Trask a clue.
Per usual, Sheila hung up without saying goodbye, and Trask wondered how Jett would take that.
He didn’t remember if he’d mentioned Sheila’s autism to her, and he hoped she didn’t feel in any way rebuffed.
He’d done enough of that to the woman. The last thing he wanted was for Diver Downeast as a whole, to be on Jett’s shitlist. If it was just him she hated, his brothers might be able to sweet-talk Jett into giving them another chance.
“Uh,” Trask cleared his throat and approached Sheila. “What did she say?”
Sheila picked up the paper in front of her and read from it, verbatim.
“I’ll be in touch with Spencer about my plans moving forward. A few things have come up that might have me reconsidering employment there, but I’ll give it a day or two, then call him when I have a clearer head.”
Sheila looked up at Trask, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a glint of humor in her normally pragmatic eyes.
He groaned. “Okay. What else?”
“She said. ‘On another note, you can tell Trask he can go take care of himself’,” Sheila narrated.
“Take care of myself?” Trask repeated dumbly.
Sheila actually looked delighted for a moment.
“No,” she snorted. “That’s just what I wrote. I wrote that. What she really said was, ‘Tell Trask to go fuck himself’.”
Task blinked, and Sheila continued.
“But if I said that, it would mean I’d have to put a dollar in the swear jar.”
Trask pulled two bills from his pocket and handed them over.
He’d take care of that for her, and…
“Well, shit,” he sighed.