Exit Row (2 page)

F
ROM THE OPEN
car window, Fiona could hear the hum of a departing plane and smell the exhaust riding on the August air. Soon that plane would be in a high arc above the Long Island Expressway, rising above farms and beaches. It reminded her of the picture she had stolen from her social studies book, an illustration that showed all modes of transportation at once—a plane over a busy highway, next to a train being raced by a horse. On the horizon an ocean liner sailed.

From her earliest moments, all she had wanted to do was get away.

After smuggling the picture home, she had taped it into the scrapbook she kept hidden under her bed. The scrapbook, her lifeline to a larger world, had started life as a hymnal with ornate leather tooling, but Fiona had covered “Amazing Grace” with pictures of Japanese pagodas. She planned to visit all those places when she left Lamb's Tongue, Iowa, and was no longer Emma Lou Jensen.

By eleven she had mined the old
National Geographic
magazines in her adoptive aunt and uncle's shed and was augmenting the travel pictures with glamorous couples sipping champagne on balconies beside the sea. And her dreams had come true, at least some of them.

Fiona locked the Toyota and crossed the asphalt to the Islip-MacArthur terminal. It was originally designed in the 1940s to look like a flying saucer, with a round upper story and oval windows overlooking the runways. Subsequent additions and expansions lessened its charm. In her short career as a travel writer, she'd written about more beautiful airports. Her favorites were in Seoul and Dubai.

Quickly glancing at her watch, she saw that Lee's plane from Denver should be just touching down. He had been gone only four days, but it seemed like longer. It was the first time in the seven months they had been together that they had been apart. And they had a special reason to celebrate. Just before he left, they decided it was time for them to find an apartment together.

Tomorrow the search would begin.

A
S
F
IONA MOVED
through the automatic glass doors and found the arrivals board, she saw that the flights were listed as “On Time” except for one: Voyager Flight 886 out of Denver was marked “Delayed.”

Well, it was still only four thirty in the afternoon. Around her, the small airport was jammed with sunburnt vacationers, especially teenagers laboring under backpacks and poster tubes. It was the last Sunday in August, and people were heading wearily home. Infected by their mood, she decided she needed black coffee while she waited.

The woman behind the Starbucks counter had a harried, defensive look—a look Fiona had come to know well during her brief foray as a lawyer. Had this woman spawned Billy, her first case in juvenile court, who stole only luxury cars? Or Gina, who had stuck a knife in her enemy in gym class as easily as slicing into butter?

Thank God those days were behind her, that she had saved enough money to travel and write her blog. Only . . . She looked around her and then carried her coffee to a dark gray upholstered chair in the waiting area from where she could see the arrivals board. Balancing her cup on the armrest, she pulled several papers out of her bag. For the last few months, she had been writing feature articles for
Gusto!
This month's was titled “How Being Beautiful Can Kill You!” and was supposed to highlight the dangers of cosmetics. The risks of plastic surgery were well known, but Fiona was writing about how tinted contact lenses could make you blind and unsanitary manicures leave you with infected fingers. She still had to research deadly lotions.

Mitzi, the articles editor, demanded to know Fiona's own beauty routine. “Your hair is so shiny! Your skin is flawless!”

Fiona didn't have a beauty routine. Moisturizer with SPF in the mornings, shampoo, and conditioner—whatever was cheap—several times a week. Lipstick from the dollar store. Growing up, her looks had not been valued. She had been too thin, with odd coloring—black hair, but light gray eyes and olive skin, which her aunt said sadly came from “that Indian.”

Skimming what she had written so far, Fiona realized the magazine would be pushing her for more experts' quotes. She sighed. Could she invent a couple of cautionary doctors? A temptation, but probably not; the magazine fact-checked everything.

She glanced again at the monitor and saw that Flight 886 had arrived.

Thank God! Fiona walked over and stood at the back of the crowd in the waiting area. She waited next to a half-sized model of a famous Long Island dinghy and watched as the passengers funneled through the swinging doors. They were soon engulfed in tiny explosions of love. She knew Lee wouldn't be elbowing people out of his way to get off the plane; he was too relaxed for that. After five days in Indian country, she imagined him wearing jeans and a wrinkled cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He cared even less about clothes than she did.

As the people in front of her drifted off, Fiona moved closer to the doorway. But the trickle from the plane was drying up, flight attendants now wheeling navy canvas bags with the Voyager logo of red feet. The women were chatting and shepherding the last of the stragglers through the double doors.

Fiona approached a pretty black woman with elegant cornrowed hair. “Excuse me. I'm supposed to be meeting someone flying in from Taos, but he hasn't come through.”

The woman gave her an exhausted smile. “People with checked luggage sometimes exit through there.” She pointed toward another door.

“He didn't check anything.” Lee kept his expensive camera equipment in his navy backpack, cushioned by a few changes of clothes. “He was on the shuttle out of Taos to Denver and then on Flight 886.”

“Did you say from Taos?” An older man in a tan Western shirt with a bolo tie spoke up from behind the flight attendant. Something about his silvery mustache reminded her of an actor. Had she seen him before? “I was on that flight. We were late leaving Taos and had to change planes midflight, so the Denver plane had to wait for us. But the shuttle from San Diego was late too. Guess they got smogged in.”

“Do you remember anyone on the plane with light hair and tinted sunglasses? An English accent? He had a navy backpack and maybe had his camera out.”
He was born in South Africa. He has an unforgettable face.

But the man blinked apologetically. “I'm afraid I don't remember him. I fly so much, I don't pay much attention to anyone else.”

“Really? I look at everybody.”
I try to imagine what their stories are.

The man touched his Stetson and moved on past her, the scent of his cologne making her nose wrinkle. She did not wear perfume—it gave her headaches—but this man's aftershave seemed expensive. He was headed for the Hamptons, she decided.

When the double doors finally stayed shut, Fiona took out her phone. She must have missed the text from Lee explaining what had happened. She hadn't heard a beep, but sometimes she didn't notice.

Nothing.

Quickly she texted him:
Where r u?
She knew he would not have been able to contact her from the plane, and when she'd heard nothing from Denver, she'd assumed he'd been rushed onto the connecting flight with no time in between. But if he had missed Flight 886, where was he?

F
IONA HEADED IMMEDIATELY
for the Voyager counter. There was a lull in check-ins and she walked right up to the agent, a stocky blond with long comb-over strips of hair and the white company shirt of red feet. Looking past him she noticed the smaller logos of Day Star, Dakota, and WestAir on the back wall.

“Any luggage?” He bestowed a welcoming smile on her, enhanced by two front teeth outlined in gold.

She smiled back. “No. I'm here to meet someone who was supposed to be on Flight 886. But he wasn't, and he hasn't texted me or called.”

He tilted his head up like a squirrel sensing danger. “Where was he originating?”

“Taos. Someone from that shuttle
did
make the plane; he told me it got to Denver late.”

The agent considered. “Your passenger might not have gotten to the boarding gate fast enough. Or gone off in the wrong direction by mistake. Or stopped to pick up lunch. Was he waiting for a wheelchair? When they're holding the plane to begin with, they don't hang around.”

“Wonderful.” She reminded herself not to take her annoyance out on this man and added moderately, “What happens if he did miss it?”

“Nothing. He'll get put on the next plane to Islip.”

“Really? Even if it was his fault?”

“We honor the Flat Tire Rule.” He winked at her, leaning his elbows on the counter. “One of the industry's best-kept secrets. If you miss a flight, but show up at the counter within two hours, the government says we have to honor your ticket.”

“That's still in effect?”

“Not all airlines honor it anymore,” he agreed. “We do, though. The next flight from Denver is due in forty minutes. He'll probably be on that.”

“That's not too bad.” They'd have to hurry to make their dinner reservation in Brooklyn, but it was still possible.

He looked pointedly past her and she moved away, realizing that other people were now waiting. Away from the queue, she stopped and took out her phone again. There had been no beep signaling a text. Was the server down? The server must be down.

B
ACK IN THE
waiting area, she saw several people sitting in the circle of gray seats nearest the arrivals door. They were carefully ignoring each other, and especially avoiding a woman with a boy in a tray-table wheelchair and a beautiful little girl with red-gold curls. Around the trio was the evidence of their sojourn: plastic toys, used napkins, crushed paper cups, upside-down books. Waiting for Daddy? The woman, her pleasant face heavy with freckles, was paging through a
Madeleine
book.

As soon as Fiona stepped into the circle, several of the people looked up hopefully. “If you're waiting for someone who was supposed to be on Flight 886, they'll probably be on the next Voyager flight. It's due in about thirty minutes,” she said.

A man about twenty-five with dark hair slicked back into a narrow ponytail stared up at her. One muscular arm hugged a red JanSport backpack, and the other hand was cradling a phone. “
Thirty minutes?
Are you kidding? How do you expect us to make the connection to Portland that's leaving in ten? Answer me that!”

“Sounds hard,” she agreed. “You're flying to Oregon from here?”

“
Duh.
Try Maine. You airline people don't know shit.”

Airline people? “You think I work for Voyager?” She was astonished. “I don't work for the airline.”

“Oh, right.” He closed his eyes and settled back in his seat as if he couldn't be bothered talking to her anymore.

Who is this jerk?
Fiona looked at the others and spread her arms. “You think black bicycle shorts and a chartreuse T-shirt are the airline's uniform? I'm just here to meet someone.”

The freckled mother gave her a commiserating smile. “I'm glad you told us about the next flight. My father was supposed to be on the one that just came in, and when I didn't see him I got worried. He gets so confused since my mother died.”

Fiona made a sympathetic sound.

“The last time he was here and read stories to my kids, he skipped whole pages.” She rolled large green-speckled eyes. “He didn't even notice when it didn't make sense. I'm Maggie, by the way. And Derek and Brenda.”

She looked desperate for human contact.

“I'm Fiona.” She finally let herself look at the boy. He had the same dark-red hair and attractive features as his mother, but his mouth stayed permanently open. He was slumping forward in the chair now, his leg twitching. Did he know he was at an airport?

“Does he have cerebral palsy?” In her travels, Fiona had found that most people liked to answer questions.

“No. Car accident. My husband was driving.” No smile now.

Life's arbitrary spoilers, waiting in the shadows to strike out. Had the husband died?

“Mom-mee!” The little girl slid off her seat and faced them, stomping a tiny pink sneaker with a mermaid's face on the toe. “I want to go home! You said we could go home. You know what? You lied!”

Maggie sighed and raised an eyebrow at Fiona. “Brenda's my little devil.” Then she bent over to straighten Derek in the chair and wipe the drool from his face, and Fiona looked around at the others before sitting down. A stocky, dark-haired man in a red Planet Fitness T-shirt was paging through the
National Enquirer
,
chuckling to himself. It was the first time Fiona had ever seen someone read the paper outside of a supermarket line.

She knew she should work on her column but felt too restless to concentrate. The other people felt intrusive, in her way, though they seemed absorbed in what they were doing. The woman across from her, whose wiry black-and-silver hair haloed her elegant face, was circling titles in the
New York Times Book Review
. She had on a silky white T-shirt and a skirt of giant red poppies, with red sandals on her narrow feet.

The woman looked up suddenly to glare at Brenda, who was rhythmically kicking her feet and hitting the underside of her seat. “Don't do that, little girl! You're giving me a headache.”

Brenda squinted at the woman and kept kicking.

“Brenda, stop, or no watching
Frozen
when we get home.” Maggie made a grab for her daughter's feet, but Brenda squirmed away.

“You know what? You're the meanest mommy I know!” But the kicking slowed, then finally stopped.

The woman gave her a syrupy smile. “Thank you, honey. It's just that I'm on a tight schedule, and this delay is not helping.”

“Here.” The man with the
National Enquirer
held it out to her. “You'll enjoy this.”

The woman stared at him, as if trying to decide whether she had been insulted. “Thank you, but I don't read tabloids.” Her tone was dismissive, and Fiona was surprised to see the man's mouth turn up in a secret grin.

It made Fiona laugh. “I read it when I'm in line at the check-out and there's a headline I can't resist,” she told him. “My favorite is ‘Titanic Survivor Found on Iceberg in Norway
.
'
” When she read stories like that, she tried to figure out how they could somehow be true.

“It was here when I came,” the man added, distancing himself from the offending paper. He took out his phone and, after a moment, the woman picked up the
Book Review
again. She continued circling items.

Fiona checked for messages on her own phone, then glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. “Are you a librarian?” she asked the woman.

“A librarian? No.”

“An editor?” she persisted. Who else would be analyzing the
Book Review
?

“You can tell?” The woman seemed to relax and tossed her silver-black hair as if pleased. “They'd love to get rid of me, but I'm hanging in. It's not the money, of course; my husband was a well-known dentist.”

“Lucky you.”

The backpacker snorted, but the woman's dark eyes were amused. “What do you do besides ask questions?”

“I write. I had my own blog that was syndicated in a lot of newspapers—
The Eccentric Traveler
.
Now I'm freelancing.”
And trying to pick up the pieces of my professional life.

Fiona expected the usual polite smile, but the woman tilted her head, amazed. “Really? That's you? I loved that column! Hang-gliding over Cairo. Getting Greek cab drivers to take you home to dinner. Getting lost wherever you went. Why ever did you stop?”

Because something so terrible happened that I had to come home.
For a moment she felt overcome by that dark terror again.
Stop! I'm sitting in an American airport. Lee is almost here, and we'll have a wonderful evening. Tomorrow we'll find our dream apartment, and I'll be safe.

Realizing the woman was still waiting for an answer, she said, “You know how the economy is. Newspapers can't afford outside writers anymore, and the Internet thinks everything should be free.”

“I'm waiting for one of my writers.” The woman was suddenly animated. “She's just wonderful!”

Fiona tamped down a feeling of rivalry. “What does she write?”

“True crime. She's reading at a mystery bookstore tonight and doing
Good Morning America
on Tuesday.”

“Wow.” Her competitiveness gave way to awe. “What's her name?”

“Susan Allmayer. She was an investigative reporter in Phoenix, but moved to Santa Fe. I think
Examination in Blood
will be her breakout book.” She included the whole circle in her glance. “It's a terrific story! All about a college professor who kills a pregnant student and mails her body parts to universities around the country. Unfortunately—for him—she was the college president's daughter at the school where he mailed her head.”

The backpacker, who had been scowling at his phone, looked up at that. “Does that kind of writing pay?”

She studied him severely. “Yes, but it's hard work. You have to do a lot of research and be able to understand the human heart. You need to interview people skillfully and write well. And you've got to have sympathetic victims, women or children, preferably from the middle class or above. Or at least with aspirations. People need to be able to identify with them.” Her hand crept into her white straw bag as if looking for something, then retreated. “Don't tell me you're a writer too. What are the odds?”

“Nah, computer science. But I'm looking to retire.”

The editor choked on a laugh. “Retire?”

“What's so funny about that? I'm almost thirty. All it takes is one great idea, and you're set for life.”

“That's what your generation thinks, isn't it?”

“Well, good luck to you,” the man with the
Enquirer
said. “I don't think I'll ever be able to retire.”

“What do you do?” Fiona asked.

“Pool maintenance. I have my own outfit. But my daughter's only twelve. She's who I'm waiting for.”

At that moment, the “Arrivals” notice flashed on the monitor, and there was a garbled loudspeaker announcement.

The editor stuffed her
Book Review
in her bag and pushed up from the navy worsted chair, giving an unselfconscious groan. “Lordy, these seats are excruciating!”

The rest of the group stood up too. Then, except for the backpacker, who was biting a knuckle, they smiled politely at each other.

Their
voyage together was over.