“Miss, I know you expected Mr. Roach. He had some business to attend, but will meet your plane in Nice.”
She had expected him. Where was he that he could have been with her in Boston and will still meet her plane in France? The question was fleeting as she realized that Phil Roach would be just another person to look at her with relentless dissatisfaction as she told her story about flunking out of Harvard.
Taking another step, Natalie squinted. Beyond the covered drive, beyond the signs of different airlines, the ground was quickly becoming covered with a blanket of white. “Do you think they'll delay the flight?” she asked.
“No, miss. They know your father is waiting.”
Normally he didn’t like to wait, but for his baby, Natalie knew he would.
Chapter 2
Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and pulleys. ~ Emma Bull
“You made it,” the man in seat 2B said as he stood, allowing Natalie to move past him to her seat beside the window.
“Why, yes,” Natalie sighed more than said, shoving her carry-on bag into the overhead compartment and making a brief assessment of her travel companion. “Even with PreCheck, the security lines were unreal.” Settling into her seat, she looked up. Since the man was still standing, she couldn't see his face. Instead, she started with his long legs and moved upward to his trim waist, firm torso, and broad shoulders. She liked the view, even contemplating that perhaps the flight wouldn't be as bad as she'd expected—until he sat and spoke again.
With his jaw clenched, his words came out harshly. “Why wouldn't you expect that? You should have allowed for the delay. It's the holiday travel time. In a few more minutes, they'll be closing the door. Do you realize that you could have missed the flight?”
His crass tone and cool eyes took her aback. It was as if he were reprimanding her. “Excuse me, do I know you?”
At once, his stern demeanor melted, thawing the ice from his eyes and raising his cheeks as a smile bloomed. He lifted his hand. “We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Dexter, Dexter Smithers.”
Years of manners were impossible to forget, even with this man's unusually stern introduction. Slowly, Natalie extended her hand and they shook. His grip was firm and warm, a nice contrast to the temperature outside. “Nice to meet you. I'm Natalie. My friends call me Nat.”
“My friends call me Dex,” he said, “but to be honest, I hate it.”
She laughed. Maybe the flight wouldn't be so bad.
As he buckled his seatbelt, she stole a sideways glance. Now that Dexter's expression had softened, he definitely looked like the type of man she would consider handsome. Probably a few years older than she, with dark blond hair that covered the tips of his ears and blue-green eyes, he had a sexy, suave Norwegian look. When she first arrived, she'd rushed past him so quickly that she couldn't be sure of his height, but based on the fact that he'd tilted his head within the cabin to stand and the way he filled the first-class seat, he was easily over six feet.
Natalie found taller men more attractive. She'd inherited her father's height, towering over her mother and topping off at nearly five feet nine inches. Being a fan of high heels, she thought tall men made the best arm candy.
There was something about him that seemed familiar, as if she’d seen him before. Maybe they’d passed one another in the terminal, or perhaps it was her imagination.
A loud noise drew her attention away from her thoughts to the window. The deicer truck was farther back, shooting something hot against the wing. The snowy air filled with steam as a loud hiss permeated the cabin. “I really hate this. I wish they'd just postpone the flight instead of taking all of these precautions. I don't feel safe.”
“Safety is simply a matter of trust. No one is ever really safe. There is always someone else with more power. Besides, postponing wouldn't do. My plans have been in place for too long.”
She took a deep breath, momentarily closed her eyes, and leaned back against the soft seat. “I guess I need to trust the airlines. They wouldn't take off if it were dangerous, right?”
“Danger, now that's another concern altogether. It implies harm.”
A cold chill scattered over her skin.
“Your plans?” she asked, her eyes now open as she spoke, hoping to shake the strange feeling that this man brought on. She rubbed the arms of her sweater, taming the goose bumps materializing underneath. “Are they for the holiday?”
“The holiday? No, my plans are for much longer than a few weeks.”
“Really? Do you live in Europe?”
His lips quirked upward. “Not permanently, but with the isolation, it seemed like the perfect place to begin. Wouldn't you agree?”
His words left her uneasy. Instead of concentrating on them, Natalie thought back over her various travels. “I've found Europe to be magical—the castles and history.”
“Tell me, Natalie.” He leaned closer. “I'd like to get to know you better before I call you Nat...”
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Where is the attendant?
As Dexter spoke, she scanned the cabin, fighting the restlessness coming to life somewhere below her consciousness. There was something about this man that put her on edge. Something about the intensity of his stare, as if he could call her Nat, as if he somehow knew more about her than she did about him. But that was silly. She'd never met him before.
Her imagination was playing tricks. With her concern over facing her parents, flunking out of Harvard, and the cold temperatures in France, she hadn't been sleeping well. This agitation was all part of the stress. If only she could get away from it all instead of flying into the lion's den of her parents' rented vacation home.
“Did you hear me? Are you listening?” His scolding tone pulled her from her thoughts.
“No, I'm sorry. I think my mind was wandering. Have you seen the attendant?”
“I asked you if you believe in magic.” When she didn't answer, he continued, “You said that Europe is magical.”
“Not literally,” she scoffed. “Not as in wizards, witches, spells, and wishes. If those were real, I'd be going somewhere other than France to spend the holiday with my family.” She looked around the cabin.
“Where would you be going?”
Her eyes narrowed as her tone took on a hint of sarcasm. “Tell me, kind sir, are you my fairy godmother, or should I say father? Are you here to grant my wishes?”
He lifted his hand and pushed the button near the overhead lights. Within seconds a woman in a blue blouse and skirt with the airline's emblem on her name pin materialized. “Sir, do you need anything?”
“Yes.” He turned to Natalie. “What was it that you needed?”
His response surprised her. “Um, a glass of water. Thank you.”
The attendant nodded and with a quick pivot hurried toward the hidden area beyond the seats and before the cockpit.
“You didn't need to do that. I was late getting to my seat. That's why she didn't come by. I'm sure she's upset that we're throwing off her schedule.” The sound of beeps turned her attention outside the window to where the deicer truck had begun to back away. “We're probably about ready to take off.”
Dexter shook his head. “I've never gotten out of Logan flying commercially without at least a twenty-minute taxi. Sometimes it seems as though we're driving instead of flying. Besides, you asked for the attendant. It was your wish.”
Within seconds the woman was back with a plastic cup filled with ice water and a napkin. Reaching for the drink, Natalie thanked the attendant and turned to Dexter. “It was my wish and you granted it? So you are my fairy godfather?”
He took the napkin dangling from her fingertips, ran the soft white paper over his palm, before placing it on the armrest between them. “I'm too young to be your father. Go ahead and drink your water. As for the rest of my story, it's a long flight and many hours before we reach our destination.” He leaned back.
From Natalie's
view, she caught Dexter Smithers's profile—his protruding brow, high cheekbones, and chiseled jaw as well as the concentration in his stare. The way the muscles in his neck and cheeks flexed as if he were clenching his teeth, as if he were mulling over some serious matter that required his utmost concentration. Despite his lighter complexion and coloring, the look was reassuringly familiar, a focused expression she'd witnessed many times.
After she took a swallow of her water, the plane began to move. She turned his way. Dexter's eyes were open, yet she had the feeling he wasn't seeing what was visible—the back of the seats in front of them, the small screen, and pocket of traveling supplies reserved for overseas flights.
“Is everything all right?” she asked as she placed the cup on the napkin.
He turned her way. With the cabin lights now dimmed, his eyes were darker than before, more aqua blue, the shade that grows darker in the ocean's depths. “I was thinking about what you said. You mentioned history.”
“Yes, I've always found European history interesting. American, not so much.”
“So things that happened in your own country, even closer to home, don't interest you?”
The plane came to a sudden stop as it joined a line of waiting departures. Dexter reached for the cup of water as its contents sloshed about.
“Thank you for saving my water.”
Dexter smiled. “I can’t let your wish spill.” He pointed toward the window. “It looks as though they’re clearing the runways.”
He was right. There were numerous trucks with plows, undoubtedly the reason for the backlog of planes.
“I was asking about your interest in things that happened in the past, those things closer to home.”
Natalie turned back and shrugged. “I guess that I’m not as interested in that as I am in the royals and dynasties of the past.”
“I've found the old adage to be true.”
“Which one is that?”
“Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
Chapter 3
Neither comprehension nor learning can take place
in an atmosphere of anxiety. ~ Rose Kennedy
Traveling east as Natalie was doing, away from the sun and into the future, caused the loss of time. Hours disappeared with each mile in the figurative rearview mirror and with each kilometer through the windshield. Different units of measurement couldn't explain the phenomenon. The time in Boston and Munich was never the same. Hours were forever lost, fading into obscurity like the faint cloud of exhaust left in the plane's wake.
Caught within the confines of her first-class cabin, in seat 2A, time accelerated. Nat's body may only have aged six hours, yet the clock ticked faster, progressing twelve hours. As she left Boston behind, reality, too, slipped away.
Natalie watched what happened around her, touched, tasted, and even smelled it. She was never alone. She had help, ever-present, omnipresent assistance. With each tick of that clock, Dexter became more attentive as her comprehension lessened. His hand covered hers reassuringly. He helped her order her meals, even ordering wine.
Natalie wasn't old enough to drink, not legally, in the United States. That didn't mean she never had. She'd had the occasional glass of wine at family dinners and parties. She'd attended parties at school. Yes, even Harvard had those kinds of parties.
Even so, she'd never over-imbibed. She'd seen friends stumble and slur their words. She'd helped some back to their apartment and put them to bed. She'd even assisted with the obligatory ponytail hold. Yet she'd never been the one who lost time, never been the one to wake and ask what she'd done. After all, while her parents were complacent about certain things, other things were unforgivable.
An unforgivable sin was impairing appearance. There were always people watching. A person was never completely alone. That was true of fellow students with phones that could instantly transmit a picture over social networks reaching hundreds, thousands, or more people. That was also true of fake-news organizations that would jump on the story depicting the youngest daughter of a renowned businessman behaving poorly in public. It was even true in her own home. The cameras were for security, but surveillance never stopped.
It always was. Natalie's mother accepted it. Her siblings had done their part to fight it, but it continued. Like the rising and setting of the sun, it was beyond her reach.
Why fight what you cannot change?
That was something her mother told her more than once, something Natalie had taken to heart. It was what it was—learn to accept it. Perhaps it's the reason she accepted her failure at Harvard. Could she have changed it?
As they approached Munich, nearly seven hours after leaving Boston, Natalie couldn't answer that question. It wasn't the only question she was incapable of answering. Simple equations, her favorite color, the name of her first pet...
Essentially everything was slightly beyond her comprehension and thoroughly beyond her articulation. All of the information was just out of reach...as if she were watching instead of participating.
After helping her back to their seats from the bathroom, Dexter reached for her boots from under the seat ahead of them. “Nat, it's time to get ready to disembark.”
The boots sitting in her lap were hers; she recognized them. Why were they in her lap?
“I-I...”
He shook his head disapprovingly. “Dear, don't tell me that little bit of wine still has you this confused even after your rest?”
Dear? Rest?
Her eyes narrowed. “I-I don't know you.” The words were thick and her tongue sticky. She took a better look. “Do I?”
“Sir, is everything all right?”
It was the woman in blue. Maybe she could help Natalie understand. Yet before Natalie could speak, Dexter spoke. Nat couldn't make out their words though their lips were moving. The woman smiled and nodded. Nat turned to Dexter; he was doing the same.
The woman leaned down to Natalie. “Congratulations. You're a lucky woman. I'd be celebrating too.”
Natalie's head shook, but words didn't form. Not at the necessary rate for conversation. One person spoke and then the other. Long pauses made for uncomfortable silence.
Finally, when Dexter squeezed her hand, Natalie thought to smile—wordless communication. It worked. The woman left.
Wait, was that what she wanted?
“Let me help you,” Dexter said, lifting her legs over the center armrest until both of her bootie-covered feet were in his lap. Tenderly, he removed each paper covering, the ones provided by the airlines, and slipped each foot into her black boots. Once they were zipped, he gently placed her feet back upon the floor.
“Thank you,” she managed, “...but why?”
“Let me get your bag in case you want to freshen up.”
She remembered his blue-green eyes, long legs, and smile. She liked it when the smile reached his eyes. Why did that matter?
Dexter opened her messenger bag, the one she always used for traveling, and rummaged inside. She wanted to stop him, to remind him about privacy, yet the connection was still missing. The words were in her head, but they wouldn't move to her tongue.
Suddenly, a passport was in her hands, opened to the page with her picture.
He leaned close and spoke, his volume low with a tone that bid her attention. “I know you aren't feeling like yourself. That's all right. Look at this.” He tapped the information within the small folder. When she looked down, he went on, “We don't have much time. Listen closely and do as I say. Customs should be easy, but they might ask you a question or two. I'll explain that the combination of alcohol and sleep deprivation has you confused, but it's important to know your name.”
She blinked, making the words come into focus. “My-my name is Natalie—”
“Your name is Nellie Smithers.”
She shook her head again. “No, Natalie—”
“Nellie Smithers.” His timbre slowed. “Say it.”
“Why?”
&nbs
p; He didn't answer, only repeating the name she didn't know, each time slower than the last. She tried to block him out, looking closer at the passport in her hand. It was her picture, but it wasn't her passport picture. This picture couldn't be more than a month or two old. Where did it come from? The picture in her passport was taken four years ago, when her childhood passport had expired. In the picture in her hand, she's her current age with long brown hair and big green eyes.
Though their personalities couldn’t be more different, Natalie was the spitting image of her older sister, Nichol, if her sister had green eyes. Instead, her sister had inherited their father's brown ones. Nat always thought they made Nichol appear stronger, a more formidable force like their father. That wasn't what her dad said. When he looked at Nat, he'd say that she—his baby—was the perfect combination of light and dark.
Her mom and her dad.
“No...I have a flight to...” She tried to remember where she was going. It was somewhere cold. Her parents were already there. And Nate, her brother. No doubt, Nichol was coming too. “...to...I'm going to...” Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy.
Hadn't she slept? She thought she remembered sleeping.
“Nellie—”
“No, Natalie!” She spoke too loud, too drawn out. People would stare.
Dexter smiled. “That's right, dear. I'll take care of it all.”
He'd take care of what? Why was he happy? She'd said Natalie. Quietly, she said the name again, more of a whisper to herself rather than to him. “Nat-lie.”
It didn't sound right. She licked her lips. The T was soft, though consonants are rarely soft. It wasn't coming out as two syllables.
“Naalie...”
No, that wasn't right.
It was then she noticed her left hand, the rings.
Dexter must have seen her lift her hand because he helped her, raising it higher until the combination of diamonds and gold was right in front of her. “I'm so happy that you like it.”
It's a strange sensation when an aircraft begins to slow. Tons of metal, hundreds of people, the weight exceeding anyone's imagination, suddenly decelerating its forward thrust, hanging precariously in the air as if at that moment the aircraft could drop to the earth. It's a frightening sensation—the passengers unable to change the deadly trajectory.