“‘I know you love the island where we live, and our special places where we go for talks. But this trip will be good for you; I believe that with all my heart. My friend has a nice wife and two little girls about your age. If it happens, then God wanted it to happen, Max. If it doesn't, then God didn't plan for you to meet my friend.
“‘It's funny, Max, as I write this I feel sure that you'll never hear it. Because I want to be here with you forever and always. But if not, if something happens, and Jesus brings me home to live with Him, then the things I'm telling you in this letter are very important.
“‘Be a good boy, Max. Whatever you do, remember to be strong and brave, and to love Jesus. When you're sad, remember our song, because it will always be the truest thing I could tell you. And remember that even if you never find your father on earth, your Father in heaven is watching over you. And if God lets me, I'll be watching you, too. Cheering you on when you're up to bat in baseball, pulling for you when you have a spelling test, and believing in you always. Believing that you'll do your best to grow into a young man who will make me proud of you. Even from as far away as heaven.’”
That part stuck in Max's heart like peanut butter. His shoulders began to shake and more tears came. It wasn't right to hear his mommy's words with Mr. Ogle's voice, that's why. And because if she were only here one more day he could hug her and tell her yes. Yes, he would always do his bestest work for her even when he was a grown-up man.
Ramey patted his knee. “You okay?”
He wanted to say no, but then he wouldn't hear the rest of the letter. So he quick moved his head up and down and used his shirtsleeve to wipe the wet on his cheeks. He looked at Mr. Ogle. “Finish, please.”
“Okay.” That's when he noticed Mr. Ogle had wet eyes, too. The man took a slow breath and looked at the paper once more. “‘And here's the best part, Max. Remember our special butterfly days? I'm finally getting my second chance, sport. And one day not so far from now we'll be together again, and we won't scoot around like caterpillars on the ground. We'll fly. Well, that's all. I love you, Max, the most. Forever and ever, Mommy.’”
EIGHT
Connor was coming home.
That thought kept Michele moving through the day, and now that she was almost finished with her last client, she could hardly wait to see him. At just past four o'clock she grabbed her tallest can of Shaper hairspray and applied it in short bursts around the woman's hair. Five minutes later the client was on her way.
Michele was just catching her breath when she heard the door behind her creak open. Before she could turn around she felt his hands on her waist, his breath against her skin. “Hi.”
A warmth radiated out from her heart, the way it always did when he came home. She turned in his arms so that they were facing each other and slid her hands up around his neck. “Hi, yourself.”
“I have an idea.” He grinned and searched her eyes, but before he could say anything more, she brought her lips to his and kissed him. The kind of slow kiss they hadn't ever stopped sharing.
When they pulled apart to catch their breath, she brushed her nose against his. “You always have an idea.”
“Yes”—he gave her another brief kiss—“but that's why you married me.”
She leaned back and lowered her chin, flirting with him the way she'd done since the first time he took her flying the summer after his college graduation. “Is that what you think?”
“Well …” His eyes told her how much he'd missed her. “That and a few other reasons.”
They came together again and she rested her head on his shoulder. “Maybe we should hear about your idea later.” Once more she drew back and this time she could feel the way her eyes danced. “You have four phone messages, a broken window in Susan's room, and the girls will be starving in an hour.” She poked a finger into first one of his sides, then the other. He'd been ticklish as long as she'd known him, and her playing always seemed to strip him of the strain of his job.
“Not that kind of idea.” He chuckled as he squirmed in her arms and caught her hands with his own. “Let's have a picnic. Over at Langley Park by the beach.”
“A picnic?” Michele tilted her head. “Hmmm. Not bad. We could pick up some chicken and skip the cleanup.”
“Exactly.” He was moving closer to her again, working his hands up her back and drawing her into his arms. “Of course the other idea could be even better …”
Connor wiped his hands on his napkin, and eased his legs out from beneath the table. Then he turned to face Elizabeth and Susan. The girls were staging races on the beach, and Michele was acting as the official. He crossed his arms and felt the corners of his mouth work their way up his face.
The picnic had been a hit.
It was warm, not quite eighty, and this April was one of the nicest he could remember. He let his eyes wander from the girls to the expanse of ocean beyond them. Beautiful, blue water that could have been a beach in Cancun or somewhere on the Mediterranean. How was it possible that everything had worked out so well? Back during those awful days in Los Angeles he'd been convinced life could never be good again.
But nothing about that time had been his fault. Life had simply formed a conspiracy against him, and in the course of a few months he figured out a way to deal with it.
But here … now … he was one of the lucky ones. He had it all, and life was bound to keep getting better.
He stood and stretched. Then without waiting another moment he loped over to the place where Michele was about to signal the start of another race. “Wait a minute, count me in.”
Susan and Elizabeth ran to him and grabbed his hands. “Race us, Daddy … come on, race us.” Their voices sounded almost the same as they pulled at him and jumped up and down on the sugary white sand.
“Okay.” He winked at Michele. “But be easy on me. Your old man isn't what he used to be.”
The girls giggled and lined up on either side of him.
Michele lowered her voice and leaned first toward Susan, and then Elizabeth. “Beat him good, girls.” Then she grinned at Connor. “On your mark, get set … go!”
Connor intended to let the girls win, but he ran anyway, so they'd think he was trying. He was fifteen feet out when his left foot caught on a string of seaweed. He reached down to free himself, but before he could, he fell smack onto the ground. Without his hands free, his face planted flat against the sand.
Michele was laughing before he had a chance to sit up.
“Daddy!” The girls were at his side. Elizabeth knelt near him, her curls falling in a cascade over her shoulder. She helped him to a sitting position. “Are you okay?”
Susan stayed on her feet, covering her mouth so he wouldn't see her laughing. “Daddy …” A few short bursts of laughter broke free. “You look like a sea creature.”
“I feel like one.” Connor chuckled as he reached down and pulled the wrap of seaweed from his foot. Sand was in his mouth and he leaned over and spit some of it out. His arms and legs were also covered with sand, and his knees were skinned where they'd taken the brunt of his fall. The picture of competence and dignity.
Michele was at his side now. Her entire body shook from the quiet laughter simmering inside her. “Susan's right.” She laughed out loud this time. “Your face …”
Connor felt his cheeks and chin and forehead. Sure enough. He'd picked up an entire mask of sand. His chuckle joined those of his family, and all four of them fell to the ground laughing.
Almost a minute passed, when Connor gave a flick to Susan's ponytail. “You still didn't win the race, you know.”
Elizabeth and Susan looked at each other, and in a flash they were up and tearing down the beach to the makeshift finish line—a trash can twenty-five yards away. Connor brought his legs up and leaned forward. He could feel Michele near his side as they watched Susan raise a victory hand.
“I won!” Her voice mixed with the sound of the distant surf and faded in the wind.
&nbs
p; They watched Elizabeth give her sister a high five. The two girls wandered toward the shore and began looking for seashells. The tide was out, and the sand was covered with a hundred different types.
“We have the best kids in the world.” He leaned against Michele, his eyes still on the girls.
“Yes.” Michele let her head fall against his. “And they have the best daddy.” She gave him a light elbow in the ribs. “Even if he does look like a sea creature.”
They laughed and the ring of it mingled with the hush of the gentle waves. A breeze had picked up and the air smelled of early summer and salt water. Connor reached out and took Michele's hand in his. “Okay … so tell me about my phone messages.”
Her voice was relaxed and easy, content after their evening together. “The dentist had a cancellation and wants to see you at nine tomorrow for your checkup.”
“On a Saturday?”
“It's new. The guy puts in four hours every Saturday.”
“Wow. Okay … got that. What else?”
A flock of seagulls swooped low over the water just beyond them and their cries competed with the sound of the waves. Michele ran her thumb along the side of his hand. “The guy from the bank wants to set up a meeting, something about rates and refinancing. And the lawn mower part you ordered is in.”
Connor nodded. “Very serious messages.” He turned and kissed her cheek, then locked his eyes on the girls once more. They were moving closer, working their way up the beach, their hands full of sand dollars and clamshells. This close to the water, he liked keeping them in his view. His tone was a teasing one when he continued. “Yes, those are major messages, all right. I can see where the world might've stopped if I didn't hear about those.”
“Now … the dentist was pretty important, you have to admit.”
He glanced at Michele again and remembered something. “Didn't you say I had four of them?”
She nodded. “Wasn't that four?”
“Three. The dentist, the bank, and the hardware store.”
Michele thought for a moment, and then her face lit up. “I remember.” Her smile faded some. “It was a strange one. I have no idea what they want or why they called.”
“Who was it?” Connor's eyes were still on the girls. The sun was setting behind them, spraying pink and blue across the eastern sky.
“An attorney.” She hesitated. “Marv somebody. Said he was from Honolulu.”
Connor felt his body go stiff. He pulled away from Michele so she wouldn't notice. Calm, Connor … be calm. He couldn't draw a deep breath. “Honolulu?”
“Strange, huh?” Michele slipped her legs beneath her and doodled a series of circles in the sand. “Probably one of the lawsuits you have to testify for.”
“Yes. Probably.” Connor took a long breath and held it. That had to be it. What other explanation was there? He had no connection to anyone in Honolulu, not now. Not since the plane crash. But attorneys … they held offices all around the country, didn't they? Of course they'd be stationed in Honolulu. Why not?
“What do you think it's about?” Michele looked at him and he caught the innocence in her eyes. She had no doubts, no suspicions. Only a passing interest at why an attorney from Hawaii would call him at home.
Like lightning, Connor's mind began to flash with possibilities. It wasn't uncommon for pilots to be called into court. And over the years he'd been used by the airline as a professional witness, someone who would articulate the company's policies and standards if a passenger sued for one reason or another. Too much turbulence, too rough a landing, too much pepper in the onboard meal. It could have been a hundred reasons.
He swallowed hard and uttered a dry laugh. “Who knows. These days people sue over anything.”
“And you're the expert because you've testified a dozen times on these cases.”
“I guess.” His voice no longer sounded like his own. With everything in him, he wanted to believe that the reason for the call had something to do with a lawsuit. But the timing was too strange, too close, to the recent crash. He stopped himself from saying anything more.
Michele gave a soft huff. “Why you, Connor? Couldn't they use someone current, someone who flies into Hawaii now? You haven't been there in years.”
“Right.” Connor massaged his throat and managed a smile. “But once you're on the list of expert witnesses for the company, they keep using you.”
It was true. Attorneys working for the airline called Connor three or four times a year looking for him to testify on its behalf. But never had they called from Hawaii. In fact, other than once when a Chicago attorney had contacted him, they consistently called out of Atlanta, the airline's home base.
Chills flashed down Connor's arms and the length of his spine. If the attorney in Honolulu wasn't with the airline, then who was he? And why, just days after the air disaster, was he calling him at home?
The thought kept him distracted throughout the night, and regardless of the ideas he'd had when he first came home that afternoon, Connor let Michele head off to bed alone. When the house was quiet he crept into the office and signed onto the Internet. There, for the next three hours, he searched the Web for every detail he could find about the crash. Who was Kiahna Siefert, anyway, and what connection could he, Connor Evans, possibly have had to the tragedy?
By three o'clock that morning, Connor was convinced that the answer was simple. There was no connection. He hadn't spoken to Kiahna since that long-ago summer night, and he knew nothing about either the airline or the flight in question. The fear he felt was nothing more than an overactive imagination and a forgotten bit of guilt, resurrected by the crash.
First thing Monday at work, he would call the attorney back. Until then he would put the entire matter out of his mind. Obviously his fears were unfounded. Once he was convinced of these things, once he was certain no connection existed between the phone call and his time with Kiahna, Connor climbed into bed next to Michele.
The strange message all but forgotten, he was asleep instantly.
NINE
Connor had fifteen minutes before he had to report to the gate.
He moved at a snappy pace, his single piece of luggage rolling along behind him, smooth and efficient. The pilot's lounge was a few gates from the one he'd be flying out of, but he didn't want to make the call from there. He strode across the concourse to an empty gate across from his.
The area was quiet, and he took a seat next to the sheet of glass windows. He flipped out his cell phone and reached into his pocket for the long-distance number. He studied the scrap of paper and felt his stomach tighten.
Marv Ogle.
The attorney's name meant nothing to him, and neither did the phone number. But here, in the light of day, the reasons he'd dreamed up to explain the message no longer seemed airtight. For half a second, he thought about praying, but he changed his mind.
Prayer was for difficult situations, right? Trials or emergencies or major life decisions. No need to bother God with something like this. He clenched his jaw and tapped out the number sequence. Even with the typically poor airport reception, the call went through without hesitation.
“Ogle and Browning,” a voice on the other end said.
“Marv Ogle, please.”
“Who's calling?”
Connor felt his heart skip a beat. “Connor Evans. Returning his call.”
“Just a moment.”
A tinny version of something slow and instrumental played in the background, and Connor glanced at his watch. Thirteen minutes before he had to report. He was about to hang up and try again after he landed in Atlanta, when he heard a click.
“Hello … Marv Ogle, can I help you?”
“Yes.” His throat was suddenly tight. “Mr. Ogle, I'm Connor Evans. You left me a message a few days ago.”
The pause that followed lasted a lifetime and an instant all at once. When the man on the other end finally spoke, Connor's shoulders relaxed. At least after this he wouldn't have to
wonder.
“Mr. Evans, I'm afraid I have some very sad news for you.”
Connor held his breath.
The attorney continued, his voice a notch more somber than before. “As you're probably aware, Western Island Air Flight 45 crashed last week and left no survivors.” He hesitated. “I represent the estate of Kiahna Siefert, a friend of yours, I believe. I'm afraid she was on the flight.”
A pounding started in Connor's head. How could Kiahna's death involve him in any way? Had she left a list for him to contact everyone she'd ever known? He closed his eyes and found his voice. “Yes, I … well, we hadn't spoken in several years.”
“I'm aware of that.”
Connor wanted to shout at the man. Get to the point! He could do nothing for Kiahna or her estate now. He pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself to sound appropriately saddened. “I saw her name on a passenger list. I'm … sorry about what happened to her.”
“Yes … well, that's only part of the reason why I called.”
He wanted to exhale, but his airways were paralyzed. “I don't understand. Kiahna and I … we had no ties at the time of her death.”
“Actually, you have one, Mr. Evans. A seven-year-old boy named Max Riley.”
Connor's eyes flew open. What? A boy named Max Riley? He stared out at a handful of aircraft parked at various angles across the airport's apron. A seven-year-old boy? How would a child involve him and Kiahna? She had no children that he'd known about.
Unless the boy wasn't only Kiahna's, but …
His brain swirled and in less time than it took his heart rate to double, everything around him stood still. He considered snapping the phone shut. Walking away and pretending he'd never heard the man's last words.
But he'd heard them. He'd heard them and with everything in him he knew he was neither dreaming nor the victim of some sort of prank.
A seven-year-old boy?
The floor dropped away, and Connor felt himself begin to freefall. Faster and faster into an abyss that couldn't possibly have a bottom. The math was not difficult. Seven years old? He'd been with Kiahna the summer of 1996.