CHAPTER SEVEN
WHOEVER SAID THAT your life flashes before your eyes right before you die must not have gone down in a plane crash. Because all Mia Frasier could think about was the life she hadn’t yet lived. She glanced out the window at the brilliant blue sky and the sparkle of the sun reflecting off the Pacific Ocean below. It seemed wrong somehow to die when it was so gorgeous outside. The plane argued with a wild dip. She gritted her teeth as her stomach mimicked the action.
At this point she supposed some people might close their eyes and sit back, count their blessings, resign themselves to the inevitable, pray, make their peace, or whatever you call it when you give up and accept the inevitable end. Not Mia.
She had plans, things to accomplish before her time was up. Not huge news-making achievements; she didn’t need the Nobel Peace Prize or anything. But she did want to make a difference in this world before she left it. She wanted to save some cats. Lucky Cats, her stray and feral cat reduction program, hadn’t even gotten off the ground yet. And kids. She really wanted a family. A husband was right up there on the list, too. And a home. Not just a house either, but a home like she’d never had. One filled with that husband and kids, a couple dogs, and a bunch of rescued cats... Was this all too much to ask for? She didn’t think so, because as it was she’d barely had a chance to enjoy her life, the life she was finally building in Pacific Cove.
It had only been a few months since Dr. Anthony made her a partner in his already-established veterinary practice. Not only was the position the opportunity of a lifetime and a dream come true, Dr. Anthony needed her. His wife, Sara, and precious daughter, McKenzie, needed her. She couldn’t let him down by dying now. Not to mention all the animals who needed her help. Which reminded her of George. Her rescued bloodhound-mastiff mix could make the promo reel for the prevention of animal abuse. Sure, he was a bit of a handful. His massive size combined with his penchant for eating inedible non-food items made him more like two hands full. She’d only recently convinced him the furniture legs were off-limits. Who would take care of George with both her and her mom gone?
Mom. She loved her mom, Nora, so much. And finally, her mom was living the life she deserved, too. Doing all the things she hadn’t been able to do when Mia’s dad was alive. She glanced over at the seat next to her where her mom was gazing tranquilly out the side window as if they were on a sightseeing jaunt and not plummeting to their deaths. Even when Captain Shear had told them to make sure their seat belts were fastened good and tight, her mom had remained calm. Typical Nora Frasier: cheerful in the face of any adversity. Not even death scared her. Mia was pretty sure there wasn’t anything the woman was afraid of.
Her mom must have sensed her fear, though, because she turned her head at that moment. Reaching for Mia’s hand, she said, “I love you, honey.” She couldn’t really hear the words over the rumble and desperate sputtering of the plane’s engine, but as she’d heard them from her mother nearly every day of her life, she knew the words when she saw them crossing her lips. They were finally together and living in the same town with no plans to ever move again. She’d thought that would mean years and years of being happy and settled. Mia felt a fresh wave of panic; they needed more time.
“I love you, too, Mom,” she called out, managing a shaky smile as she proceeded to watch the final seconds of her paltry existence on this planet pass by the tiny airplane window.
She braced herself as the plane hit the surface of the ocean with a thunderous crash. Her body lurched forward, then back and sideways, her head smacking against the side window with a loud crack. Cool air rushed in around her. Not at all like the smooth-as-glass lakes she’d landed on in her previous floatplane experiences.
Of course, this wasn’t a floatplane or a lake. A fact she was immediately reminded of as the ocean proceeded to assault the little plane. Wave after wave rolled into them, some battering the cabin and leaving the windows covered with drips of seawater and bits of foam. The fuselage groaned in response. Water was seeping in through the cracked window beside her. Droplets ran down her forehead, which struck her as odd because there didn’t seem to be that much water getting inside. She reached up and swiped it away. Blood. A quick probing told her the wound was barely more than a scratch. No other injuries that she could feel or see.
And she was alive. Alive! As in not dead. Hope roared to life inside her.
“Mom!” she cried. “We’re alive.” She turned to find her mom slumped over in her seat. “Oh, please no...”
She shouted this time, “Mom?” No response. Terror flamed inside her again as she unbuckled her seat belt with shaking hands. Crouching between the seats, she felt her mom’s wrist for a pulse—weak, but there. She couldn’t see any visible signs of trauma, but as a doctor herself, she knew that often the worst injuries were the ones you couldn’t immediately recognize.
She realized then that she’d been expecting the pilot to turn and say something, give them some kind of instructions, until she realized there was no movement from the cockpit, either. Did you call it a cockpit in a plane this small? As the plane pitched and rolled violently in the waves,
