Chapter 45 Flying to New Orleans—Skye
Flying to New Orleans—Skye
Skye stood frozen at the foot of the airstair, her gaze locked on the airplane’s open doorway, ready to swallow her whole. A paralyzing fear seized her.
The glint of the morning sun off the aircraft’s polished frame made the machine look predatory, not man-made.
It was sleek and silent, like a shark skimming beneath the surface of the sea.
She’d never seen a real shark in person, only glimpses in a book, but her instinct screamed that it would look precisely like this sea monster.
Clay and Marcelle approached the airstair, and Skye stepped aside, twisting the ends of the scarf tied at her throat. “Go on. I want to enjoy the… um… sunshine for a couple more minutes.”
Remy kissed her neck as he peeled her hand off the handle of her suitcase. “I’ll take this to the baggage handler.”
Skye found her legs heavy, her feet sinking into the unforgiving tarmac.
Marcelle emerged in the doorway, climbed down the airstair, and took Skye’s trembling hand in hers.
“Do you remember how terrified I was when you found me that scary night in Chicago?” she asked softly, her gaze steady and reassuring.
“That turned out okay for both of us, didn’t it?
So will this, I promise. Just remember to breathe.
” A gentle smile touched her lips as she added, “Has Remy shown you how to listen to music on your iPhone yet? It might help quiet the noise.”
Skye shook her head, shivering from nerves, not the temperature.
“Shame on him. I’ll show you, and you can listen to nonstop jazz, along with a new genre or two. That will help you relax. So will a Bloody Mary.”
“What’s that?” Skye’s teeth chattered.
“A perfect remedy to shake off your jitters as soon as we get up in the air, and we can’t do that if you stay out here. You don’t want Elliott to come get you, do you?”
“God, no,” she gasped, the words barely a whisper. “I didn’t realize I was holding things up.” She’d wanted to wear heels, but Remy had insisted running shoes would be better for the airplane. He probably didn’t realize that the flat soles would also make it easier to run away.
Remy returned and gently yet firmly placed his hands on her trembling shoulders. His voice was a calm, reassuring balm as he murmured, “Take a deep breath. You’ve got this.”
She ascended the steps with leaden feet—Marcelle in front of her, Remy behind—and made it inside the cabin, but the air felt thin, and she couldn’t take another step.
To her immediate left was the brightly lit cockpit, with an array of fancy controls and blinking lights that only fueled her mounting terror.
What if they forgot which button to push or pull?
“This must be our sky marshal,” the man at the controls said. “Glad to have you aboard, Ms. Marshall.”
“I’m not sure I can say the same.”
“Try not to worry. I’m going to get you safely to New Orleans, or the boss man will fire me.”
“I hope he won’t have to!”
“Skye, meet Captain Jim Dillard, First Officer Neil Yeager, and out here is Heather Jensan, our flight attendant. They’re all going to take good care of you.” Remy then asked Doolittle, “How’s the weather?”
“We might run into some turbulence over Alabama, but I’ll try to fly above or around it. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
“What does he mean?” Skye asked, twisting her hands instead of her scarf. “Even the word is scary.”
“It means you might have to hold your Bloody Mary instead of leaving it on the table.” Remy turned her to face the plush interior of the private jet and guided her toward their seats.
Elliott and Meredith, ensconced in oversized cream-leather armchairs, faced each other across a polished wood table. Opposite them, David and Kenzie sat in identical chairs.
“Welcome aboard, lass,” Elliott said.
Kenzie reached for Skye’s hand. “As soon as we can move around the cabin, I’ll come chat with you.”
“So will I,” Meredith said.
“I hope I’m still coherent by then.” Skye smiled as she said it, but the effort showed—the laugh catching just enough to hint at the tightness lodged beneath her ribs.
“Keep going,” Remy said, pointing. “Our club seats are back there.”
Clay and Marcelle sat side by side in rear-facing seats, with two empty ones across from them.
“Are those ours?” Skye asked, steady, though her fingers curled briefly at her side before she made herself relax them.
“Yep. Window or aisle?”
“I don’t want to look out.” Her voice stayed level as she lowered herself into the oversized seat, but her shoulders remained drawn, as if bracing. Remy reached across to show her how to secure the seatbelt, his presence a quiet reassurance rather than a rescue.
Heather sealed the heavy cabin door, then walked back down the aisle to gather empty glasses. A few minutes later, she returned to deliver safety instructions to Skye, Marcelle, and Kaitlyn—the only individuals aboard who had never flown on the aircraft.
“Now, I’m even more scared,” Skye said.
Remy squeezed her hand. “Did you work on your song list for Rick?”
“You’re trying to distract me. It won’t work.” A deafening mechanical whirrrrr clawed at her nerves. Her shoulders instantly tensed to her ears. And her free hand gripped the armrest until her fingers ached. “What was that?”
He nuzzled her ear. “It’s the engine. If there’s reason to worry, I’ll let you know. Now tell me about your song list.”
She couldn’t even think about her list right now.
“Skye, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“You think I’m being silly,” she said, a tremor in her voice she couldn’t quite mask, “but this absolutely paralyzes me. I’d rather travel with the brooch—walk, crawl, anything but endure this…
this airplane.” She compared two minutes on a carnival ride to almost three hours locked in this luxurious sky-trap soaring thousands of feet above solid ground, and the airplane came up wanting.
The very thought made her palms slick and her stomach churn. “So why didn’t we?”
“What? Use a brooch? If I’d known how terrified you’d be, I would have suggested it. I know the loud sounds will trigger a chain reaction of anxiety and panic. But let’s talk about music. That might help. Tell me about your list.”
She wasn’t sure it would, but it might be worth a try.
“Kenzie helped me write a text message to Rick, and he even wrote back that he was looking forward to singing with me.” She released the armrest from her clutches and retrieved her phone from her jacket pocket.
“Look!” She pulled up the message and showed it to Remy. “Do you think he really wrote this?”
Remy’s brows furrowed as he read the message. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know.” She lifted one shoulder in a quick shrug. “Rick doesn’t know me.”
“He knows you’re an amazing woman.”
“How could he?”
A corner of his mouth tipped up. “Because he knows I’m an asshole. And for a woman to care about me, she’d have to be.”
“You’re not an asshole—you just like people to think you are.” She studied him, thoughtful. “You’re passionate about music and fiercely loyal to the people you care about. Rick must not know you very well.”
“He knows me as well as any brother could.”
She tilted her head, puzzled. “Does he call you that because he loves you?”
“Probably.” His smile turned wry. “But you can ask him yourself.”
“I struggle with your sense of humor,” she admitted, shaking her head. “It keeps knocking me off balance. But I can’t wait to meet Rick. Meredith and Kenzie are crazy about him.”
“He took a ton of responsibility off Meredith’s shoulders when he accepted the role as president of her winery. And Kenzie and David have been on adventures with him.”
The engine began thrumming with a low vibration as the plane taxied to the runway. Every shudder and bump on the tarmac was, to Skye, a catastrophe waiting to happen.
A sudden surge of power caused the whine to rise into a deafening roar as the plane sped down the runway. The sound intensified into a powerful mechanical rumble, holding a constant pitch as it rose into the air. She braced for impact, knowing the jet would come crashing down any minute now.
The powerful thrust pinned her deep into her seat, and she dug her fingernails into Remy’s hand and the armrest. She sneaked a peek out of the panoramic window. The landscape receded, shrinking to tiny specks. The sound finally tapered off as the jet climbed toward cruising altitude.
She knew she was extra sensitive to every little sound, and her imagination had magnified the whines and roars, bumps and vibrations, but that didn’t make her less fearful.
Eventually, the pressure in her chest lessened, and she could breathe easily again.
She put her head back and tried to smile at Remy.
“Are you okay?”
“That was rough, but it’s not bad now.” And then she groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I remember talking to the wife of one of my bandmates when she was pregnant. She told me she loved being pregnant until the day she realized the baby would have to come out. That terrified her. Remembering that conversation made me realize that this plane would have to land, and I’ll be terrified all over again. ”
“You’ll be fine,” Marcelle said. “After a Bloody Mary, you won’t care. Then, after two or three, you’ll want to fly the plane. After four, you’ll take Remy to the lavatory.”
“When can we start?” Skye asked. The question came lightly, but a faint tremor slipped through.
“Heather’s bringing a tray of drinks right now,” Remy said.
Marcelle and Skye each accepted a Bloody Mary.
“You don’t want one?” Skye asked Remy after a careful sip.
“Heather’s bringing me a whisky on the rocks.”
Clay scrolled through his phone. “Rick just texted me. He was asking about you, Skye.”
“Why?” she asked, the edge in her voice dulled now, her pulse finally settling as the warmth of the vodka spread and took some of the tightness with it.