His father looked hard at him for a moment and then chuckled. “You're kidding, right?”
A rush of heat filled Connor's cheeks. “No, Dad. I need the money. I've already made up my mind. The airline has me stationed across the country from Michele, and the FAA investigation is—” Suddenly he stopped short.
He watched his father's eyes narrow and grow angry, disapproving. “What investigation?”
Connor gave his father a short version of the story, heavily weighted in his favor. But still the old man sat unmoving, his arms crossed. Connor finished with, “So that's why I want out. It isn't worth it. Michele and I are fighting all the time, and the girls won't even know me. I need to get back to Florida.”
“You need to obey the rules.” He gave an abrupt shake of his head and smacked his lips. As if Connor had buzzed the control tower or done a 360 loop with a plane full of passengers. “That's always been your trouble, Son. You think your opinion is all that counts.” He hesitated. “Stay in the air and you'll never be sorry.”
Connor's control dissipated like early morning clouds over Phoenix. For the next hour, he and his father debated—sometimes in loud voices—Connor's request for the money and his father's staunch refusal to write Connor a check.
The last thing Connor said before he left was this: “If you won't help me, I can't possibly call you my father.”
His dad stood up and followed him to the door. He wasn't ready to give in, but he was clearly concerned by Connor's statement. The elevation of his tone made that much clear. “Don't be childish.”
“Look, Dad …” Connor spun around and met his dad's gaze head-on. Anger filled his heart, anger that had been building toward the man for decades, anger about his expectations and lack of expressed love. All of it came to a head. “I always wondered how you really felt about me.” Connor bit the inside of his lip. “Now I know. You think I'm cocky and arrogant, irresponsible.” A chuckle that was more angry than funny came up from him. “I'll tell you what. Until you change your mind about the money, our relationship is over.” He took another few steps toward the door. “I'll be waiting.”
He hoped his father would reach out and grab his shoulder, tell him not to be crazy, that it was all a misunderstanding and yes, they could talk about the loan, or at least they could talk about their relationship. After analyzing that moment for so many years, Connor was convinced the argument that day wasn't about the money. At least not on his part.
It was about seeking his father's approval. The airport and the loan to fund the purchase was only the means by which Connor sought it. But the combination of the man's attitude and his callous statements convinced Connor that the relationship had suffered a heart attack that afternoon.
After that confrontation, Connor felt like a lost boy, confused and out of sorts. At times that week, he wondered if he'd become a different person altogether. He was no longer satisfied with being a commercial pilot. He suddenly no longer had a father—or a passionate interest in his wife.
And whatever his waning feelings toward Michele, she felt even less excited about him. The loss of her mother and her frustration with his living in Los Angeles had brought back her depression. The few times they were together each month, Connor found himself afraid the wife he loved might never return. Gone was the woman who looked into his eyes, hearing not only his words but his heart. Instead Michele's expression seemed distant. Dead.
Often she handed Susan to him the moment he walked in the door. “Here, she needs a new diaper. I'm going back to bed.” Then without another word, she'd turn and head for their bedroom.
Their bond badly frayed, Connor avoided coming home.
All of these feelings weighed on him that fateful Thursday in August 1996. He'd already had a one-night layover in Honolulu, and that morning he checked out of his hotel. But because of the storm, his early afternoon flight was delayed first one hour, then two. By the afternoon the tropical storm grew to hurricane levels and took up residence just off the islands.
Winds were too strong to fly in, so while Tropical Storm Henry did its slow dance around the Hawaiian Islands, Connor and hundreds of pilots, flight attendants, and passengers sat grounded. Hotel rooms were gone in less than an hour, full with both the outgoing and incoming tourists. Some people gladly roomed with strangers. Whatever it took to find a safe place to stay.
He saw Kiahna for the first time Thursday night, when the storm was building at a rapid rate. From the beginning, something about the young woman reminded Connor of Michele. The way she angled her head, or the light in her eyes when she talked to the waiter. Not the flirty, forced look some flight attendants had with men, but something deeper. A sensitivity, maybe.
She was pretty enough—light tan island skin, and vivid green eyes. But even so he wasn't interested. Intrigued, yes. Curious about the way she reminded him of Michele, but nothing more. Their tables were adjacent, close enough that he was aware they had ordered the same thing. When the waiter returned to the kitchen, her eyes met his and held. What would it hurt? He had plenty of time to kill. Besides, he wanted to know exactly how much like Michele the woman was. So Connor spoke first.
“You live here?”
“Yes.” An odd sadness haunted her eyes, but she smiled. “My flight's delayed. And with the storm, we might not fly at all.” She leaned back and studied him. “You're a pilot?”
Connor nodded. “Finished my layover. Supposed to fly out a few hours ago. The new time is in two hours.”
“Me, too.” She glanced out the nearest window. “But I'm not counting on it. This one could hit pretty hard.”
Their conversation continued. Questions from Connor about the island, and questions from her about the airline he worked for. Before their meals were delivered, they joined tables, and he told her about his plans to own a regional airport. When dinner was over, she anchored her slim elbows on the table, linked her fingers, and rested her chin.
“You know what I like about you?”
The candid way she spoke caught him by surprise. She was so like Michele. The Michele he'd fallen in love with. “What?”
“You're a doer; I can tell. You'll do whatever you set your mind to, and somehow you'll make it work out.”
In the hundred times since, whenever Connor would analyze that scene looking for escape routes, he was certain that comment was the turning point. Back then, Michele was forever telling him he wasn't doing enough. Not enough to find a way out of Los Angeles, not enough to help with the kids, and not enough to keep her happy. But without knowing him, the island girl saw something in him Michele no longer saw.
He was a doer.
The rest of the memory was smudged black and charcoal, streaked with dirty oranges and yellows. He'd tried to get away from her, hadn't he? Hotels and bed-and-breakfasts, even the airport pilot lounge, none of them had been open. And he tried at least what, three times to tell her he was married? Tried to find a way out of the strange circumstances that somehow conspired to bring them together.
But it was no use. His convictions about faith and morality and marriage were no match for the way things played out that night, or the temptations that presented themselves in the next twenty-four hours.
Not in light of her comment.
As time passed, the FAA investigation ended in Connor's favor, with a warning for him to follow control tower instructions. Flying became fun again, and with the help of prayer and medication, Michele found her way out of depression. Before the end of that awful year, he was even stationed back in Florida.
But he would never be the same again.
Because his feelings for his father had all but died. And the secret of what happened that stormy night was locked permanently in the darkest closet of his heart.
In a place where Michele would never find it.
Next to him, his copilot mumbled something, and the sound of it caught Connor's attention.
He let the memory go. Besides, who had time for remembering? He had a plane t
o land, and a future that suddenly demanded his every waking minute. Somewhere in Honolulu he had a son, a boy who maybe even looked like him, a child who needed a home.
He realized something then, something as painful as it was stark and true. He could call Marv Ogle back and tell him no, and none of them would ever be the wiser. Max would never know his father rejected him, and Michele … Michele would never know a thing about that awful summer night.
The muscles in his jaw tightened. How could he tell her a thing like this, that nearly eight years ago he'd had an affair and never found a way to tell her? He sighed and the sound of it filled the cockpit. Beside him, his copilot glanced over.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Connor's answer was quick. “Fine.”
The words tasted bitter and deceitful, because the truth was only just starting to work its way through him. No matter what pain his decision would cost Michele and the girls, he could think of no way around it. He hated himself for what he was about to do, what was about to happen to his life, his home, his family. But now that he knew about Max, now that he understood that somewhere in Honolulu lived a boy that was his own flesh and blood, his mind was already made up.
Regardless of Michele's response, or the lies they'd have to tell the girls at first, the answer was obvious. He could argue with himself, refuse the possibility, even deny it existed. But still the boy would come. No matter what he might want to tell himself about putting Michele's feelings first, or leaving well enough alone, the boy would come.
Connor couldn't live with his curiosity otherwise.
The visit would last only two weeks, a trial run, to satisfy Connor's questions even though the very act of doing so would scar Michele and the girls for life. But if he was honest with himself, Connor would admit he was already looking past the trial run with Max, and on into the slightest hint of a possibility. The possibility of a future with the boy.
A future that in the past few hours had changed to include a son he'd not yet met.
Which was why his throat felt thick, and he had to work to fight the overwhelming urge to hate himself. Because no matter how much pain he was about to inflict on his family, he would do it willingly, all so he could take a chance at being the boy's father. All so maybe, just maybe, he might have the one thing he'd wanted all his life.
A son to call his own.
ELEVEN
The date was Connor's idea, and it improved everything about Michele's day.
He called her before his last flight and asked her to find a sitter for the girls. “Meet me at the beach, at our spot.”
She was finishing a haircut, and the sound of his voice was a balm to her soul. She sank into her desk chair and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What's the occasion?”
“I miss you; we need time alone.”
His answer kept Michele guessing for the rest of the afternoon. Nothing in his tone suggested the talk would be anything serious, but maybe he'd decided to contact his father. Maybe after seeing the car accident the other day he'd realized that life was too short. His father couldn't possibly have long to live, his heart being damaged as it was.
Or maybe it was something else.
Maybe he'd gotten a promotion at work and now he'd be flying international flights again. International flights brought a pilot more hours, which in turn meant more money. Only the most senior pilots had the option of flying international. Though Connor had flown them when he was younger, after the FAA investigation he'd had to work his way back to the place where he was now.
By the time Michele handed off instructions to the sitter, kissed Elizabeth and Susan, and headed for the car, she was almost certain that was it. It had to be. And knowing Connor, he was probably wondering if that type of promotion would actually be good for his family.
Of course he wanted to talk.
She pulled onto the main highway and pictured their spot.
The place was three miles north of the beach where they liked to take the girls. It had more grass, with a beach too narrow for most tourists. A fallen log not far from the sand worked as a bench, and every few months she and Connor made their way to the spot for time alone.
Michele turned her car onto the frontage road. She was almost there now, and her heart beat harder at the thought of his news. Whatever it was. Yes, he'd left only the day before, but life at home had been crazier than usual—missed hair appointments, late clients, and a permanent wave that practically burned the hair off the head of a seventy-two-year-old woman from the school's volunteer library staff.
All morning Elizabeth and Susan fought over which of them owned a certain blouse, each certain that it belonged to her. When Michele told them to work it out, they ripped the shirt in two, and were relegated to their bedrooms as soon as they returned from school.
An hour of quiet intimacy with Connor was just what she needed.
The talks they had at their beach spot were crucial for her, maybe even more than for Connor. It was at their quiet spot that they used to pray together, back before life grew so full and busy. But even without prayer, here she didn't bury her emotions the way she so often did. Passion and depth were a part of her, the same way they were a part of Connor. But it was easier to breeze through the day confident in her work and her time with the girls, listening to her clients pour their hearts out while she did little but interject an occasional yes or no.
Her heart took time to draw out, and Connor was excellent at doing that. He'd start with lighthearted, silly one-liners, and like a therapist or a magician, he'd pull from her a detailed report of her innermost feelings. Whether she'd wanted to share them or not. The thing of it was, she'd spent her life before Connor being independent, not needing anyone but herself and her God.
But Connor … Connor she needed. It had been that way from the beginning, and every year she relied on him more, found herself more in love with him. It wasn't the same crazy, starry-eyed love they'd shared after college. Rather it was something deeper, something that blended love and friendship and complete, utter vulnerability.
The combination was intoxicating. Michele rarely let her mind wander, as she had a few days ago, down the path of what-ifs. Because deep within her, in a place only he was allowed to see, she didn't think she'd survive if anything ever happened to him.
She pulled into the parking lot and headed for their familiar spot. Connor's car was there, and already she could feel the layers slipping away. From the place where she parked she saw him, saw his back to her as he stared out at the Atlantic Ocean.
For a fraction of an instant she wondered if something was wrong. His posture wasn't quite right, not as tall and proud. More defeated, somehow. But she dismissed the thought as soon as it came. Connor didn't call her out here to tell her bad news. What bad news could he possibly have?
She took light steps, and managed to sneak up behind him without gaining his attention. When she was a few inches away, she eased her fingers over his shoulders and loosely around his neck. “Hey …”
He turned just enough to see her. “Hi.” His smile looked forced, and again she swallowed back a surge of doubt. “Thanks for coming.”
“I needed it.”
“Rough day?”
“Very.” She walked around the log and took her place beside him. “Bad hair for Thelma Lynn, a torn blouse for Elizabeth and Susan.” She angled her face and caught his gaze. “But this was a good idea.”
Connor searched her face, then looked back out to sea and a sad sort of moan came from deep within him. Michele could barely hear it above the sound of the surf, but it touched a nerve in her soul all the same.
“Michele, we need to talk.”
“Okay.” She ignored his tone and kept hers light. “I'm here.”
He hung his head and with his right hand, he rubbed the base of his neck. When he looked up, he sucked in a full breath and found her eyes again. “Remember that call the other day, the one from the attorney in Hawaii?”
“Yes.??
? Michele reminded herself to smile. “They want you in Honolulu for a week to testify, and you're taking me along.” She let loose a bit of stiff laughter. “Right?”
“I wish.” Not even a hint of humor shone back at her from his eyes. He took her hand in his and worked his fingers between hers. Without looking away, he exhaled through his nose and gave a single shake of his head. “What I'm about to say is the hardest thing I've ever told you. I want you to know that.”
A lightheaded feeling came over Michele and made her dizzy. She gripped the edge of the log with her right hand and felt her guard go up. What was he talking about, the hardest thing he'd ever told her? She gave a slight nod of her head. “The hardest thing, Connor … what do you mean?”
He turned so that he was facing her and brought his other hand to circle around the one he was still holding. “The attorney was representing the estate of a woman named Kiahna Siefert. She was a flight attendant killed in the Western Island Air crash the other day in Honolulu.”
Michele felt a twinge in her feet—she had the sudden urge to run. Why would an attorney for a dead flight attendant want anything to do with her husband? Did Connor know the woman? If so, why hadn't he ever mentioned her?
And why was this the hardest thing he'd ever told her?
She stared at the path to the beach and wondered how long it would take her to jerk her hand free and run to the surf. She could jump into the waves and swim until she was too tired to move another inch, and when she looked back at the beach Connor would be gone. It would all be a dream, and she would wake up beside him, free from worry or concerns about an attorney or a dead flight attendant or anything that might even remotely involve her and Connor.
Instead she tightened her grip on the edge of the log and found the strength to speak the single question burning a hole in her heart. “Did … did you know her?”