“Looking for a place to crash,” I said, squinting at my laptop. “But everything is either completely out of my reach, or in Kew Gardens.”
“So why don’t you stay here?” She removed her Chanel reading glasses and placed them on the table between us.
“We’ve already been through this,” I said. “I’m allergic to the cats, and I don’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing; you’d be house-sitting,” she said.
“Where’re you going?” I asked, cringing as I remembered the last time I was in charge of the cats’ well-being.
“Greece.” She smiled.
“What?” I stared at her, my mouth hanging open.
“It’s time for a change,” she said. “And Yanni has the most beautiful homes in Athens, Mykonos, and Spetses.”
“Are you getting married?” I asked, while actually thinking, Again?
“Who knows?” She shrugged, reaching for her coffee mug. “All I know is that I’m ready for the next chapter in my life. How about you?”
I gazed at Kat sitting across from me. She was well into her fifties, and still beautiful, vibrant, and full of excitement. Not to mention that her life already held so many chapters it read like an intricately crafted thousand-page saga. Whereas mine felt as sparse and unplotted as Baby’s First Bathtub Book. “Look, that sounds great and all, but eventually, when you return, I’ll still have to find somewhere to live. So wouldn’t that just be delaying the inevitable?” I asked.
“Hailey,” she said patiently, eyes focused on me. “I need someone to stay here. I’m not selling, and I’m not bringing the cats just yet. And you’re the best choice I can think of.”
I looked down at the three cats lying at her feet. Well that’s what allergy medicine was for, right? “But what about Jonathan Franzen?” I asked, still holding out.
“What about him?”
“Well, wouldn’t that be like, jeopardizing his safety? Making him share a space with three cats?”
“He can have his own room.” She shrugged. “So, what do you say?”
I glanced around the beautiful kitchen, with the granite-topped island and gourmet stove. I can save money, finish my novel, and it wouldn’t be freeloading since I’m doing her a favor. . . . “Okay,” I agreed. “But on one condition. You promise to kick me out the second you return.”
“Deal.” She smiled.
It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you live in a quiet Fifth Avenue penthouse with a glorious park view, plenty of Allegra-D, and no skanky roommates to distract you. Kat had wasted no time saying good-bye and heading to Greece, and I, no longer burdened with paying rent, became very choosy about the trips I’d fly. No more thirty-hour Podunk layovers for me. I now had the freedom to fly only the fun trips, or I wouldn’t fly at all. And even though, technically, I’d only migrated a few avenues west, the difference between Lexington and Fifth was like a whole different world.
So after three weeks of shutting myself in, leaving just long enough to indulge my daily latte habit, I’d finished my manuscript. And hoping for a fresh perspective when I returned, I left it behind and headed out for what was advertised on the Atlas trip list as a nice twenty-four-hour layover at the St. Francis hotel in San Francisco, but which, because of inclement weather in Atlanta and a mechanical in Cincinnati, had quickly deteriorated into a barely legal seven-hour lean-over in some dingy Kentucky motel with lumpy mattresses, questionable sheets, and no hot water. And by the time I returned from that hell trip, I was determined to tackle my novel with renewed enthusiasm, polishing it up and going over it again and again until it was the very best I could make it.
And just as I was putting six printed copies into six different envelopes to be mailed to six major publishers, my cell phone rang.
“Hailey?”
“Yeah?” I mumbled, sealing the final package and adding it to the top of the stack.
“It’s me, Max. How are you?”
I dropped onto the nearest chair and stared at the phone. I’d completely given up on him, thinking he was like one of those socks you put in the dryer and never see again. But here he was, calling as though seven weeks hadn’t really passed. “I’m great,” I said. “You?”
“Well, I’m leaving for Paris tonight, and I was hoping I could see you.”
“Uh, you mean in Paris or at the airport?” I asked.
“Paris.” He laughed. “There’s this new restaurant I’m dying to show you.”
“Well, that sounds great, but France isn’t exactly part of my normal route. Getting a trip like that involves a lot of bribing, and one or two death threats, you know.”
“I’ll be there for the next two weeks. I’m staying at the Ritz. Call me if you can make it?”
“Okay. Sure,” I said, logging on to the Atlas swap board well before I’d even pressed END.
On my way home from the post office, I stopped in at my local Barnes & Noble so I could see just where my book would fall on the “new releases” shelf. Pushing through the revolving glass door, I went straight for “new fiction,” gazing at the competing titles while imagining mine among them. I mean, how cool would it be to see “a novel by Hailey Lane” placed next to my favorite authors?
I noticed a slim book with a beautiful gold cover and ran my hand over the front, then quickly flipped it over to check out the back. And when I glanced down at the author photo, my breath caught in my throat.
There, in the far left corner, was a small, square photo of Cadence, looking gorgeous in a crisp white blouse and jade earrings, while her glorious dark hair fanned out around her as though she’d just been caught in a random, yet very flattering, breeze. And then, only out of curiosity and not because I cared, I quickly scanned the first few pages, curious to see if she’d mentioned Dane in either the dedication or acknowledgments.
“It’s a pretty good read, but you don’t have to buy it. I can get you a copy.”
I turned to see Dane standing beside me. “Oh, hey, I was just . . .” I trailed off, placing the book back on the shelf and shrugging lamely. “I guess that’s one of the perks of knowing the author, huh? Lots of free copies.” I laughed nervously.
He ran his fingers through his floppy brown hair and smiled. “I was just heading upstairs to grab a bite. Care to join me?”
Let’s see, I was living on Fifth Avenue, I’d just mailed out my manuscript, and now two cute guys in one day had offered to share a meal with me. As far as days went, this was definitely one of my best.
Sitting at the small, square table, I watched while Dane ordered at the counter and thought how strange it was I kept running into him. But New York City was weird like that. You could have the same roommate for five straight years and hardly ever see them. But then every time you went to the corner deli you’d run into the same three random faces.
“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I got you this,” he said, placing a vanilla/almond biscotti next to my latte.
“So is this your usual lunch spot?” I asked, already breaking into the biscotti. “Seems a little far from midtown.”
“I live nearby,” he said, biting into a turkey sandwich.
“So that explains it,” I said, sipping my coffee and looking at him. “You know, the whole stalking thing.”
He looked at me and laughed. “Well, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen you around Starbucks lately. Did you finish your book?”
“Yup, I just mailed out six copies,” I told him, still amazed that my manuscript was finished, printed, and on its way to six editors’ desks.
“Where’d you send it?” he asked, reaching for his water bottle and twisting the cap.
“Some big-name publishers,” I said, unable to keep from grinning as I took a sip of my latte and waited to be congratulated.
“Any agents?” He tilted his head back as he sipped his water.
“Agents? Um, no.” I shrugged. Jeez, I hadn’t even considered sending it to an agent. I didn’t think an ag
ent would even want me unless I’d been published. But maybe I was wrong? I mean, should I have tried to get an agent?
“Well, did you at least check their submission guidelines?” He looked at me, his eyes full of concern, and lips pressed all tight together.
“Um, no. I guess I didn’t do that either,” I said, shaking my head and avoiding his eyes, my mood turning as quickly as a carton of milk left in the sun.
He shook his head, his face bearing a dire expression. “Well they have pretty strict rules, and they won’t so much as glance at anything that doesn’t adhere. They’ll either trash it, send it back, or let it languish in the slush pile for the next year and a half,” he informed me, finishing his sandwich and using his paper napkin to wipe the crumbs from his mouth.
I stared at the tabletop, feeling like a birthday balloon that had just gotten popped by a big bully with a long, sharp pin. “Well, before I saw you, I was feeling pretty darn good about just having finished it,” I said, my throat all tight and choked with anger, and maybe even, God forbid, the possible threat of tears. “I mean, that alone felt like a pretty big accomplishment.” Until you came along, you buzz-killing, dream-stomping sadist!
“Hmmm,” he mumbled.
Hmmm? That’s it? Just “hmmm”? I mean, excuse me for not being a critically acclaimed literary genius like Cadence. But would it kill you to give me a little high five? Or even a halfhearted “atta girl!” I mean, what’s with you? And why did you even ask me to join you anyway?
“So how’s Harrison?” he asked, immediately segueing into new conversational territory, since obviously there was no reason to waste any more time on my poorly executed, ill-advised, mass-mailing blunder.
I took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “Harrison’s great,” I lied. “He’s a really cool guy.” There, let him think Harrison advised me to bypass the submissions guidelines.
“Really?” He looked surprised.
“Really.” I nodded, finishing my coffee. All I wanted was to say “adios” and get the hell out of there. This guy was toxic. And he was totally dragging me down.
But he just shrugged and said, “Well, I have to get to the office. But I was wondering, are you free this weekend?”
I stared at my recycled-paper coffee cup that I had unconsciously bent and folded until it was completely misshapen. Is he serious? I mean, why would I want to go out with him? So he could give me a point-by-point synopsis on just how much I didn’t know about the world of publishing? Jeez, what an ego! I mean, he’s a lawyer, not a writer, and just because he’s dating an author doesn’t make him one. This guy’s a total creep, and it’s time I find another neighborhood to buy my coffee and books in. “I’m spending the weekend in Paris,” I said finally, narrowing my eyes as they met his.
“Lucky you,” he said, holding my gaze for just a fraction too long, considering he had a girlfriend. And considering how much I hated him.
Then, without another word, we grabbed our things and headed for the escalator, with me standing in front so I wouldn’t have to look at him. And when we got to the bottom, he rushed to the door and held it open. Then we headed out into the sunshine, each going our separate ways.
Flying to Paris without Clay wasn’t nearly as much fun. The eight-person crew was unfriendly and cliquish, having instinctively divided themselves into three sharply defined groups well before we’d even finished briefing. And even though I’d been in similar situations before, I’d always been lucky enough to have at least one fellow outsider to hang with. But this time I was on my own, with everyone unanimously agreeing that I would be the odd girl out. And as we headed for the gate with them all happily paired off, and me lagging behind, I knew I was in for a long flight.
First there were the Atlas Pioneers, comprised of those who began their careers back in the days when flight attendants were stewardesses and Atlas was just a small-time regional airline. They’re convinced that their place in the Atlas family is an exalted one, and that behaving like good, obedient children can only result in management responding like a fair and trusted parent. Yet this seemingly loyal, unquestioning commitment to their kin also fuels a deep, dark animosity toward any new recruits, especially the Foster Children, whom they’ve resented since their arrival.
The Foster Children are a group of multinational, multilingual, multisexual flight attendants adopted by Atlas when their original airline went bust several years ago. But even though they’ve been successfully placed in a new, more conventional and stable home doesn’t mean they’ve assimilated. Because having spent their formative years with a more worldly, glamorous, globe-trotting airline, they are way more sophisticated, far more jaded, much more urbane, and deeply disdainful of their provincial Pioneer siblings. And like tourists on a cruise ship, they tend to stick together.
Then there were the French Speakers, consisting of two recent Berlitz school graduates who with only three and a half years of flying between them are allowed to skip the usual seniority trip-bidding rules and fly to all the foreign destinations falling within their corresponding language skills. This alone makes them the object of resentment by the Pioneers, the Foster Children, and oddly enough, each other.
And then there was me. With no clique identity, and a seniority number ranking well below the others (except perhaps the French Speakers), I was promptly relegated to all of the duties no one else wanted to perform. And a few more that were invented purely for my benefit.
You’re going to Paris, where you’ll have dinner with Max, and hopefully get to kiss him again became my mantra as I picked up trash in the aisles to avoid the backs tabbing in the galleys.
And just as I was shoving my third overstuffed trash bag into the already full garbage cart I heard someone say, “Who wants to feed the pilots?” And desperate to get away for a while, I was the first (and only) to volunteer.
“Mind if I hang out?” I asked as I handed Bill and Ted their meals.
“Must be pretty bad out there, if you’re seeking refuge in here.” Ted laughed.
I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. I wasn’t about to elaborate.
“Got any layover plans?” Bill asked, sipping Diet Coke From a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid, a sort of Atlas-mandated sippy cup for pilots, so as not to spill on the instrument panel.
“I have a date.” I smiled. I’d known Bill for years, as he was a good friend of Michael’s; but he was also a really great guy, so I didn’t hold that against him.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked, cutting into his steak and looking up at me.
“Maxwell Dunne. I met him on a flight a while hack,” I said, gazing out the window as we flew high above the clouds.
“Is he French?” Ted asked, cutting into his chicken.
I shook my head. “Nope, but he sure knows his way around the city.” And a girl’s neck, I thought, feeling myseli blush at the memory.
“Sure we can’t talk you into joining us for dinner?” Ted asked. “I was thinking of taking everyone to this little place over on the Left Bank.”
“I should warn you, it’s like a civil war out there,” I told him. “But if you’re up for knocking down borders and building bridges, then more power to you.” I smiled.
“That bad?” he asked.
“Worse.” I nodded.
“Well still, it may be one of the last times I treat, especially if management gets that fifty-five percent pay cut they’re after.” He shook his head.
“Jeez, we really are going to hell, aren’t we?” I said, watching as he buttered his dinner roll.
“No doubt.” Ted nodded.
Bill looked up then and, wiping his mouth with his linen napkin, said, “You sure you’re okay, Hailey? I mean, without Michael and all? It’s a hell of a time to be out there on your own. Especially in New York City.”
But I just shrugged. While it was nice of him to be concerned, I didn’t take the city comment seriously. I knew very few pilots who had a good word to say about Manhattan.
&
nbsp; “Ever think about moving back home and commuting? Could be the best thing for you.” He looked at me, nodding his head while chewing his food.
Going back home? To live with my mom? Was he kidding? He was looking at me, waiting for a response. And even though I knew he meant well, I still couldn’t resist saying, “Well, right now I’m living in a Fifth Avenue penthouse and looking forward to nothing more than my date in Paris, who happens to be completely amazing.” I shrugged. “But other than that, I’m just taking it one day at a time, Bill, just one day at a time.”
Then I grabbed their empty trays and headed back into the cabin, wondering how much of that would get back to Michael.
Before I’d headed out to JFK, I’d tried calling Max at the Ritz. But when he didn’t answer, I left a brief message on the machine informing him of my arrival and accepting his dinner invitation. So by the time I made it to the front desk at the Grand Hotel, I was hoping for a note of confirmation, if not another bouquet of flowers.
“Is this it?” I asked, staring at the lone key card. “Because I’m expecting a message.”
“Non, no message,” the clerk said, already moving on to the next in line.
Clutching my key, I headed for my room, scolding myself for feeling disappointed. Get a grip. You’re in Paris, I thought, unlocking the door. It’s one of your favorite cities and you’re being paid to be here! And if Max blows you off, so what? You know your way around! You don’t need him. You can buy your own dinner!
I dropped my bags on the floor and peeled off my uniform, anxious to grab a short nap before heading out to explore the city. Forget Max. Don’t even think about him. Just sleep.
Rolling over to set my alarm, I noticed the red telephone message light was flashing. And trying not to feel overly hopeful, I held my breath and lifted the receiver.
“Hailey, the front desk said you just checked in, so you’re probably on your way up. Anyway, I’m glad you made it, and if it’s okay with you I’ll pick you up at. seven. It that doesn’t work, leave a message at the Ritz. Otherwise, I’ll assume we’re on. À bientôt!”