Texas fury (57 page)

"That's not it, Amelia. How can you give something away to someone who is almost a stranger to you? Something that means as much to you as those pearls have always meant."

'isn't Christmas meant to be giving? A little to the left— ahhh, that's the spot. Young people today have rediscovered pearls. They're back in fashion. I think Julie will like these. I had them cleaned and polished, and the jeweler gave me a new box. Then I decided she might like the original box, even if it is tattered."

"Amelia, turn around and look at me," Cary said with a catch in his voice. He searched her eyes for a long time. All he could see was love and weariness. "I love you, Amelia. It's damn important that you believe me. I don't ever want you to think that your illness has changed my feelings for you. You have always been and always will be the most important person in my life."

"Darling, Christmas is getting to you," Amelia said lightly. "I was never in favor of bah humbug myself." Her voice turned serious. "I have never, ever, in all the years we've been married, doubted that love. I thank God each and every day, that He has seen fit to keep us together. ..." Wild horses and raging bumblebees couldn't get her to finish her thought aloud: In sickness and health, till death do us part. That was all taken care of. "Kiss me good night, Romeo."

"Yes, Juliet," Cary said, planting a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek. "Good night, honey."

"Hmmmm," Amelia mumbled.

Cary lay awake for a long time. How in the name of God was he going to carry it off tomorrow, and then again on Christmas Day? Julie. How was he supposed to act? What would Julie expect of him? Amelia and Julie. What did he expect of himself? Before he fell asleep he knew that Julie

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would make it all seem right. Amelia, he knew, would ease the situation along and make Julie comfortable. The others, if they sensed any kind of strain, would jump in, like Thad did this evening with the camera. Thank God for Thad. If it hadn't been for him, he might have done something stupid or said something that could never be taken back. Words, as he'd found out, were dangerous.

Amelia knew the minute Cary fell asleep. She moved slightly till she was curled up next to him. "Trust me, Cary; everything will be fine." Before she drifted into a deep, restful sleep, she reached for Cary's hand. His grasp tightened in his sleep, something he'd done for years.

UiUiiii CHAPTER TWENTY )))»)))>

Chesney Brighton shuddered as she listened to the weather report. England was suffering its meanest and roughest snowstorm in years. She wondered if the airport would close down. She should call before she trudged out to Heathrow. As it was, it was going to take her hours to get there. If they closed down, she'd have to make her way back, and then she'd be alone for Christmas. She said a little prayer for the storm to lift. It had started last evening with light flurries, and all the weathermen chortling with glee as they promised a white Christmas. They referred to the snow as a light dusting. The light dusting was now six or seven inches deep and still coming down.

Flying in any kind of bad weather always bothered Chesney, but she dreaded snow most of all. Deicing the wings always made her blood run cold. So much could happen. .. . She wished suddenly that she weren't flying today. She was jittery, and it wasn't just the storm. Christmas was bothering her, too. All her life she'd longed for a family Christmas, and now, when she could have one, she'd turned it down. She'd turned her back on the family that had accepted her as one of them. She wished she could backtrack and forget her stubbornness. She'd cut off her nose to spite her face. Because of that stubbornness, she was going to fly on Christmas Eve in horrendous weather.

She continued to listen to the weatherman: more snow com-

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ing, temperatures expected to drop even lower. Chesney shuddered. Incoming planes would be stacked overhead and orbiting the field. There would be twenty or more planes on the ground, most with engines running, waiting for clearance to take off. The controllers would be pulling out their hair; the work crews and the snow desk would be a nightmare. Once she'd heard a pilot say that clearing a runway of snow was like clearing several hundred miles of highway. Runways had to be absolutely clear. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Call in sick, an inner voice urged. Instead of listening to the inner voice, Chesney dialed London Air and asked to speak to her supervisor.

"Put on your galoshes and say mush. That's another way of saying Flight 214 is still scheduled. I'll look for you shortly," was the response she got.

Chesney's heart sank as she sat down to pull on her fleece-lined boots. She was buttoning her coat when a feeling of light-headedness swept over her. She knew at that moment that she was experiencing total, absolute fear.

She felt weepy when she turned for a last look at her apartment. The Christmas tree lights were off, the telly unplugged; she'd fixed her two night-lights with their timers to go off at dusk. Four presents from friends, still unwrapped, were under the small, fragrant tree waiting for Christmas morning. Everything was neat and tidy. The Christmas cards were on an end table, colorful and cheerful. She wished she'd sent a card to her father and his wife. She'd gotten one from him, along with a Christmas check so large, she'd gasped. It was still inside the card.

Chesney looked at her apartment through strangers' eyes— strangers who would come in here to go through her things if... if she didn't come back. What would they say about her, those strangers who would poke through her things? That she was neat and tidy, that she had a cat. It was an awful summary of her life. She vowed then to mail a card to her father from the airport. Just in case . ..

Chesney arrived at Heathrow three hours later. The terminal was chaos. Thousands of passengers jammed the waiting area. Mountains of luggage were everywhere. Children were crying; parents were screaming and cursing at harried airline employees who were themselves at the screaming stage. She heard the expression "Chinese fire drill" screamed at a reservations clerk, who was Oriental. The young woman threw

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down her pencil and stalked away from her counter amid catcalls and loud hisses. Chesney shuddered.

She was exhausted when she finally reached the door marked AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY. She looked at her watch. It had taken her twenty-three minutes to fight the crowds through the terminal. She pushed open the door and then leaned weakly against it.

"It's hell out there, isn't it?" her supervisor said cheerfully. She could be cheerful, she wasn't flying in this weather, Chesney thought.

"Dorothy, I can't believe we're going to take off in this. Switzerland is..." She let the rest of the sentence hang in midair.

Dorothy was a string bean of a woman, with bright red hair and two thousand freckles dotting her face. She grinned. "They've been scratching flights for the past hour, but 214 isn't one of them. What you have, Chesney, is a sold-out flight with two wheelchair passengers, one youngster age four traveling alone, and an eight-member Olympic ski team of downhill racers whose final destination is Chamonix. You've flown in bad weather before, and this is no different. Relax."

"This is different, Dorothy. You're wrong about me flying in storms like this. I haven't. Rain, yes; snow, no." Chesney's voice was firm and quiet.

The supervisor's voice took on a hard edge. Chesney was a pro, and the other stews looked up to her. If by look or word Chesney showed doubt or concern, the others would follow her lead. What Dorothy didn't need was a stewardess mutiny on her hands. "If the tower gives permission for takeoff and the pilots are willing to fly, then there's no problem, is there? You look absolutely fearful, Chesney, so I suggest you wipe that look off your face, and while you're at it, forget whatever premonitions you have. You're a professional, so start acting like one."

Dorothy had just given a name to what she was feeling: a premonition. She'd never really had one before. She didn't know if she was foolish or not when she voiced her next question. "What happens if I refuse to fly 214?"

Dorothy had heard this before, from other stews, and it always irritated her. Since making supervisor, she'd had 100 percent attendance from her stews. She cracked the whip and they danced, because they knew she would replace them for even one tiny infraction. She was considered tough and rough. "If that happens, you go on report with an automatic sixty-day

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suspension. Your case will come up for review in about forty-five days, and two other supervisors and myself will make the final decision as to whether you stay or not. I should remind you that the suspension does not carry your salary. Look"—Dorothy switched to her most motherly tone—"I was a stew for a good many years. I'd never send my girls up to do something I wouldn't do." It was a bald-faced lie, and both women knew it.

Chesney made no comment; the expression on her face said it all as far as she was concerned. She couldn't exist for sixty days without her salary. She couldn't afford to lose her job, either. Because she had no other choice, she would knuckle under and do what she was paid to do: fly and take care of the passengers on Flight 214.

The stewardesses' locker room was bedlam. Girls coming off canceled flights, girls getting ready for various flights, not knowing if they'd take off or not. All wore weary, frightened faces. The room grew quiet suddenly. Chesney looked around, thinking Dorothy had entered the room. Instead, a tall, shapely redhead named Sheila was standing on a bench waving her hands for silence. When she had the stews' attention, she started to speak. "Girls, you all know me; I'm probably senior to all of you, which means I've logged more hours than many of you put together. My flight to Amsterdam was just canceled. We sat on runway four for three solid hours. We deiced seven times. In all my years of working for London Air, I have never seen a storm like this. It's not safe out there. I'm no pilot, and I don't belong to the ground crew, but I'm not stupid. I slogged through seven inches of snow to get back inside. More than three inches on the runway, and snow gets sucked into the jets, and that's dangerous. The ground crews can't keep up with it. I'd like to see all of you band together and talk to Dorothy. There's strength in numbers. It's worth a shot. My crew and myself are staying here, so if you need moral support, we're here to back you up."

Chesney stood up and told the girls about her talk with Dorothy. She could see the dismay on their faces. "How many of you can afford to go without your salary and the possibility of losing your jobs in the end?" Not a single hand showed. Chesney shrugged. "Good try, Sheila," she muttered.

The stewardesses dispersed. Chesney and the nine stews under her supervision walked out to the lounge. She liked all of them and had worked with them before. "I guess we're going to have to make the best of it. I bet a lot of us are wishing we hadn't

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traded places with the married girls, but it's too late for wishes now. Unless they scratch our flight, we're flying."

A pretty blonde spoke in a shaking voice. "Bobby and I set our wedding date last night. We're getting married February fourteenth."

"That's Valentine's Day." Chesney smiled. "How romantic." The girls congratulated Christine, nicknamed Tiny because of her diminutive size. They immediately started to plan a shower for the first of February. Chesney joined in, knowing they were all forcing laughter and gaiety into their voices for each other's sake. Chesney looked at her watch.

Twenty minutes later, Chesney announced, "We're on countdown. We're leaving from gate six. Don't look so glum, girls. London Air won't send us up if it's dangerous." She hoped her voice carried more conviction than she felt. Her premonition was as strong as before, perhaps more so. She panicked for one split second when she tried to force her thoughts into the future. It was a trick she often played with herself when things weren't going right. She'd focus and try to project, sometimes hours, sometimes days ahead, to "see" where she'd be and what she'd be doing. Now, this second, she could see nothing. There was no Chesney anywhere, just blankness. She shivered.

Patty Mclntyre ran up to Chesney. "What... what's wrong, Chesney? You look like you just saw a ghost." Patty was the youngest of Chesney's crew and had professed a hatred for flying. She only kept her job because it was a good way to meet eligible, wealthy young men, and sometimes older men, who lavished her with presents. Chesney liked her brash honesty and the fact that she could laugh at herself and her fear of flying.

/ saw nothing, so that must be my ghost out there . . . in that void of nothingness. "I think I just realized how cold I am; it's nothing to worry about. Besides, there are no ghosts. Patty, do me a favor; go back there and tell the girls the story you told me about the Greek shipping tycoon who wants to marry you. Make it light... it's like a tomb in here. I'm going out to check on things."

"Sure, Chesney; I'll embellish it a little to stretch out the time, so don't give me away, okay?"

"Just ask him if he has a brother the next time you see him. I'll be back in a minute."

Chesney dodged two fistfights, a band of seven-year-olds bent on tearing the airport to pieces, and six elderly ladies

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saying words that made her blush. Above the babble and anger she could hear the sound of Christmas music. She felt faint as she stepped over two sleeping boys with ski equipment piled next to them. Up above was the airport departure monitor. Flight 214 was still scheduled for a five o'clock departure. It was three o'clock now, and it was Christmas Eve.

Chesney dodged her way through a gaggle of silly girls to lean up against the wall. She needed a breather, a few minutes to get her thoughts in order. Instead of trying to make sense out of the chaos in her mind, she thought about her father. Where was he? Was he preparing for Christmas in Hawaii with his wife, or was he with his wife's family? She could be there, wherever they were—if she hadn't been so stubborn, so . . . hurt. They were probably having a big family Christmas with a huge tree and piles of gifts. There would be wonderful food, laughter and carols, and a church service. She'd tossed all that aside because she was afraid of getting hurt—again. Here she was in Heathrow Airport on Christmas Eve, scared out of her wits, with thousands of angry people who weren't going to get home for Christmas. All she could hope for now was that Flight 214 would be canceled. If it wasn't, she could wish for a safe flight—and survival. She tried once more to focus on the future. She saw only blankness. She was going to die; she could sense it. Her premonition was stronger than ever.