The Whitney Chronicles. Judy Baer

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СКАЧАТЬ sleek, designer-clad, Vogue-toting businesswomen, who, after dropping off their Hermès luggage at the counter, walk nonchalantly to the gate, onto the plane and into the first-class section without ruffling a hair. I bring every possibility with me. The weather may be bad and I may not fit into the wardrobe I’d planned. Then again, the clothes may fit after all and maybe I’ll have time to exercise/run/shop/lie by the pool. My logic is that I’ll make my decisions once I get to my destination. And, because I want to be comfortable on the trip, I chug into the airport in tennis shoes, linen drawstring pants and an unstructured jacket, dragging the largest suitcase made, its little wheels splaying outward from the weight inside. I also have a large shoulder bag filled with all the reading and work I plan to get done while I’m gone.

      Since I’ll be in a new environment, I assume that I’ll be able to do heroic things, so I bring everything from magazines dated six months prior, to recipes I want to recopy on cute cards and put into a matching book. That’s particularly interesting, because I rarely cook. There are also the sixteen letters I need to write, those three books that are almost due at the library and the cuticle emollient I’m planning to wear to bed every night until my hangnail is history. And my purse—with PalmPilot, cell phone, gum, breath mints, emery board, lipstick, package of powdered diet shake, apple… It isn’t pretty. And that’s not even considering the condition of my linen suit by the time I arrive at my destination looking like an unmade bed.

      And I’m even worse at flying—at least, I used to be. Every noise was a wheel falling off. Every takeoff or landing was a walk to the gas chamber. If flying is so safe, I wondered, why do we have to come and go from a terminal?

      It wasn’t until I could visualize God in control of my life wherever I am, on the ground or in the air, but always cupped in the palm of His hand, that I conquered my fear. If He can keep the sun and the moon up in the heavens, then He can handle a little old airplane.

      I trundled through to first class, and as I searched for my seat got a major surprise.

      “Whit! Hey, Whitney!” It was Eric. The lady behind me bowled into me with her carry-on, and I stumbled into Eric’s otherwise empty row.

      “What are you doing here?” I greeted him. Dressed in tailored trousers and a polo shirt, Eric looked downright handsome. Immediately realizing I may have sounded less than gracious, I amended, “I mean, hi.”

      “Hi, yourself. Dad called yesterday,” Eric explained. “He bought me a ticket to fly to Las Vegas to meet him for an air show. It’s only vintage planes and will be so cool. They’re having 1941 deHavilland Tiger Moths—both the Canadian and Australian models, a 1946 Piper J-3 and a Piper ’37 J-2. Piper discontinued that model in 1937.” A light dawned in his hazel eyes. “And you’re going to a trade show.” His expression brightened. “I can get you a ticket to the air show if you have time. You’d love it.”

      “Thanks, but I’ve got to work. By the time I get done manning the Innova booth and contacting clients, I’ll be a zombie.” My hip bumped against my carry-on. “And I brought work from home.”

      “Dinner then?”

      “Sure, sounds good.” Then I eyed him suspiciously. “You will remember that you asked me, right?”

      “Aw, Whitney, are you ever going to let me live that down? So I’ve been late a few times….”

      “Three months late?”

      “I meant to call. You know that. I was helping a buddy restore a plane. The money was good, and I just got so engrossed….”

      As always, my heart softened. No doubt Eric slept on a cot at night to be near the plane and ate every meal out of a take-out carton and was completely true-blue. I knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. He just wasn’t seeing me, either. If anything with wings passed by, he was off trailing that.

      “Okay, I forgive you. We’ll have dinner. But no mushy stuff. I want you as a friend. You’re far too unreliable for anything else.”

      He seemed delighted by the idea. “Friends?”

      “Friends.” I glanced around the almost-full plane. “I’d better go find my place.”

      “What’s your seat number?”

      “Row twenty, seat B.”

      “Welcome. I’m seat A.” He patted the chair beside him, and I dropped into it gratefully. Then he turned and looked me straight in the eye. “And, someday, maybe, if things work out, could we renegotiate that friend thing?”

      My stomach did a little flip-flop. I knew what he was asking and it scared me. Why, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because I knew how easy it would be to love Eric. He saw the deer-in-headlights look in my eyes and drew back.

      “Never mind. Just friends.”

      I couldn’t say for sure, but I’m ninety percent positive he added under his breath, “For now.”

      As we walked out of the Las Vegas terminal, waves of heat shimmered up from the concrete. I felt as if I’d stepped into a life-size toaster oven. The linen I didn’t think could wilt any further did, like a lettuce leaf in boiling water. My shoulder-length hair is thick and heavy. (Mom calls it my “crowning glory.”) Unfortunately I didn’t put it up for the trip, and as soon as I hit the heat, it clung to my neck and forehead, making me look as though someone had dumped a glass of water on my head. I was not in great shape to see Eric’s father, who was there to pick him up.

      Mr. Van Horne is the polar opposite of his son. Eric is casual, wears his light brown hair just a tad longer than normal, so he always looks like he has bed-head, shops only at the GAP and believes God would have done us all a favor if we were simply born wearing tennis shoes. His dad wore black trousers, a white shirt and a camel-colored jacket that oozed expensive. His hair was styled, his shoes polished to a high gloss and I’m almost positive his nails had been professionally manicured. Eric and his father did, however, share the same boyish charm.

      Unfortunately, they didn’t share the same taste in automobiles. Eric drives a ten-year-old Jeep with cargo room for an entire apartment. His dad drives a brand-new BMW meant to hold nothing more than a briefcase and golf clubs.

      How humiliating. My luggage appeared larger than the car by which it was piled. But never underestimate a man. Thanks to good breeding, excellent manners and a lot of grunting, groaning and pushing, they got it inside the car and were still smiling.

      “Here you are.” Mr. Van Horne pulled around the spouting volcano to drop me off at the front door of my hotel.

      “I’ll call you and we’ll set a time for dinner.” Eric patted the piece of paper in his pocket containing my phone number.

      Then they left me to the perils of Sin City. How dangerous could it be, surrounded as I was with what looked like the entire population of the Midwest? Grandpas, grandmas, mothers pushing strollers and fathers carrying toddlers swarmed around me like locusts as I made my way to the reception desk. I tried to count how many fanny packs I saw and finally decided it would be easier to count the people who didn’t have them on.

      I tipped the bellhop double for hauling my weighty bags to my room, a cavernous arena with a great tub and blackout curtains. With room service, I wouldn’t have to leave for a month—if the trade show weren’t such an interruption, of course. I flung myself onto the bed to make sure the mattress was up to my standards and debated the question of showering and changing СКАЧАТЬ