Chapter Five Take an Unplanned Adventure
Chapter Five
Take an Unplanned Adventure
Frankie
“Are you game?” I flash a deck of cards at Charles.
“What is it?” he asks, pushing down a pair of reading glasses to the bridge of his nose so he can peer over at the purple-colored card game. He’d been deep into a crinkled issue of The Wall Street Journal ever since we boarded.
We’re thirty minutes into our flight to Bozeman and are currently seated in row two of the airplane—I’ve never been in first class before and am trying to play it cool.
The flight attendant has already stopped by, confirming our lunch menu, and is delivering drinks row by row to our fellow first-class passengers.
I followed Charles’s lead, and since he didn’t order alcohol, I opted for a ginger ale.
“It’s a get-to-know-you type game.” I give him a playful wink.
It’s also geared toward people who are dating, but whatever. I missed that detail when I ordered it from , and even though I was packing up to leave when it arrived, I was hoping this would help Charles and I get to know one another a little better.
I still wasn’t quite sure how our arrangement would work.
Would I even be a good travel companion?
What if his standards were impossibly high and he fired me?
Or worse, what if he turned out to be a creepy old man and I had to fly back to New Jersey with my tail tucked between my legs.
I didn’t know if I could handle too many more massive failures this year.
It’d be better if he and I got to know each other, to determine if this whole thing would work or not.
If not, I could at least cut my losses early and head home.
Charles folds his newspaper in half and deposits his square reading glasses into his jacket pocket, giving me his full attention.
I remove the cards from their packaging. At the airport, we discovered we share the same birthday—May 15—which felt like a small sign from the universe that maybe I was on the right path.
“How do you play?” he asks.
“I guess I read the question, and we both answer?”
“Sure,” he says.
“A unique food or special treat you enjoy,” I say, reading the top card.
My brain flashes back to the chocolate muffins I bought us in the coffee shop.
“That’s easy. Liverwurst and onions.”
The vomit emoji flashes through my brain, but I manage to keep that to myself. “Never had it. What’s liverwurst?”
“It’s a kind of sausage made from liver.”
Vomit emoji. Crying emoji.
“Mmm,” I say, forcing myself not to gag.
He nods. “You’ll have to try it sometime.”
I flip over the next card. “Guilty pleasure?”
“I don’t understand the concept of a guilty pleasure. If something brings you pleasure, why should you feel guilty about it?”
The man has a valid point.
“Favorite hobbies?” I try next.
“Pass,” he says.
Why do I sense that he doesn’t have any besides dabbling in the stock market or checking his bank statements? I let it go.
“Pet peeves?” I ask next.
“Card games like this one.” He gives me a pointed look.
I flip to the next card, undeterred. “The perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon?”
“Enough with the cards.” He places his hand over mine, lowering the deck of cards to my tray table. I think I’ve annoyed him with my questions, and I suddenly feel childish that I didn’t read his mood, that I couldn’t rein myself in.
He’s right. This is silly. What, did I think we were going to share our favorite colors? Or bond over our shared love of friendship bracelets?
Maybe he prefers to read quietly on a flight, or maybe he wants to nap. He is pretty darn old. Maybe he does need to nap or he gets cranky like a toddler. I tuck this information away for later.
When I meet his eyes, I realize that Charles is studying me with a soft smile. Maybe I haven’t annoyed him, after all.
“Tell me about your life, Frankie. About your family.”
And so I do.
I tell him all about Tessa and her lovable quirks, about how she’s the one who encouraged me to take this job. How she’s always there for me, the kind of family you choose.
I steer clear of my rocky dating history, thankful when he doesn’t pry.
Old people tend to do that. They want to know why you’re still single.
But he doesn’t pester me about it, which is a relief.
I also successfully swerve around the topic of my father, satisfying Charles’s curiosity with the fact that I’ve never met him, so there’s not much to tell.
But I do tell him all about my mom, Hannah.
She raised me as a single mom in the working-class neighborhood where I was often alone until nearly bedtime because she worked two jobs.
I smile, telling him about our tradition of volunteering at the soup kitchen every Thanksgiving and how we used to make gingerbread houses from those little store-bought kits every Christmas.
We didn’t have much, but Mom always made everything feel exciting and special.
“My best memory of her, though—” I pause as a twinge of sadness settles in my chest. I swallow, proceeding cautiously—the last thing I want to do is cry in front of my new boss on day one.
He’ll think I’m a basket case. “Is one summer—I think I was in the seventh grade—you know that awkward age where you start to worry about what others think. Well, we didn’t have money for a proper summer vacation, we never did.
But Mom was determined that year. I had several friends who were all out of town, traveling to faraway places with their families.
I tried to tell Mom it didn’t bother me, but I think deep down she knew it did.
She said if she couldn’t afford to take me to Paris, she would bring Paris to me.
“She made each room in our apartment a different theme—a different country. We had warm croissants and played French pop music in the kitchen. She’d taped a huge photo of the Eiffel Tower to the fridge.
We ate grocery store sushi and listened to traditional Japanese music on the balcony.
And that night we camped out on blankets in the living room, eating New York–style pizza and watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s on the TV.
We painted each other’s toenails Tiffany Blue. It was the best day.”
When I finish, I realize I didn’t do a very good job at keeping my emotions at bay. Tears silently streak down my cheeks, and I sniff and wipe them away.
Charles pats my knee with his warm, wrinkled hand.
“I’m sorry,” I manage around a lump in my throat.
“Don’t be,” he says encouragingly. “Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that leave the most lasting impressions.
Your mom didn’t need a passport to take you around the world—she gave you something far more valuable: the magic of making the best out of what you have.
That’s a gift not everyone knows how to give. ”
I sniff again. “I guess I never thought about it that way. I just liked spending the day with her, being silly. She worked so much. It was nice to just be together.”
“Thank you for telling me that story. Reminds me that sometimes it’s the simple moments that shape us.”
I huff and give him my best side-eye. “Yeah, but that’s the thing . . . I have no idea who I am.”
Charles studies me for a beat. “Maybe not. But I think you’re someone who keeps going, even when it’s hard. Someone who feels things deeply and doesn’t pretend otherwise. That says something.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, throat tight.
It’s more grace than I’ve given myself in a while. And somehow, coming from someone who barely knows me, it hits even harder.
I’m saved from any further embarrassing emotional displays when the flight attendant appears with two trays.
I fumble with my tray table as she delivers our lunches.
There’s real cutlery and tiny crystal salt and pepper shakers.
And the food looks delicious. Those poor suckers in coach . . . How would I ever go back?
I place the white cloth napkin in my nap and watch nervously as Charles inspects his pasta primavera. We got very deep, very quickly. Which is mostly my fault, I realize, but I decide to roll with it.
“What about you?” I ask, carefully forking a cherry tomato. “Life story?”
Charles uses his butter knife to smear softened butter onto his multigrain roll. “You want the condensed version? I am eighty-two, you know?”
I make a show of glancing at my watch. “It’s a three-hour flight. I’ll take the long version.”
He’s surprisingly talkative once I get him going.
He tells me about his late wife, Betsey, and how they met at a dance hall.
She was there with a date, but he stole her away.
They were married within eight weeks. I can’t even imagine such a thing nowadays.
Red flags galore . . . but I can tell that what they had was real.
So much so, that when she passed away from ovarian cancer when they were still in their early thirties, that was it for him.
He never dated or felt the desire to move on.
It’s heartbreaking, honestly. To live your whole life alone like that.
Although he also had plenty of adventure.
He loves his work, and he’s traveled extensively.
Despite his young heartbreak, he’s had a great life.
It’s strange, listening to someone who’s acutely aware they’re on the final leg of their journey.
But he doesn’t seem sad or depressed about it.
“Did she share your love for liverwurst?” I ask, hoping to keep things upbeat—in light of both of us essentially sharing our greatest losses.
“God no,” he laughs. “She couldn’t stand the stuff. Even the smell of it would turn her stomach. I had to sneak it when she wasn’t around.”
It sounds like Betsey and I had at least one thing in common.
When we land, there’s a uniformed driver waiting for us, holding one of those signs like you see in the movies, but instead of containing the name “Winthrop,” it says “Wincock.”
I flash Charles a curious look, raising my eyebrows.