bulldozed to make way for one of those superstores, but Mr. Samuels, the grounds-keeper, still raked the arena dirt every afternoon the way he’d been doing for the past twenty years.
The folks in her hometown would never see her as anything other than the tomboy she’d always been.
She ignored the pang of regret in the pit of her stomach and checked her watch. Even though they were already five minutes past takeoff, she should still arrive on the island in plenty of time to make the camp’s afternoon check-in.
Most of the passengers had already boarded and so the flight attendant started down the center aisle, checking the overhead compartments and closing the bins.
Deanie had just stuffed the brochure back into her purse and settled into her seat when she heard the soft, sugary voice.
“Coming through, hon.”
A heartbeat later, a tall woman folded herself into the seat next to Deanie’s.
“Thank God for flight delays,” the twentysome-thing woman exclaimed. She had long blond curls brushed out just enough to make them full and wild. Streaks of platinum added to the overall effect.
She wore a stretchy blue top, the neck outlined with sequins and matching beads. A short blue skirt clung to her hips and rode high on her thighs as she adjusted herself on the seat. Her legs were long and tanned and bare. Her feet disappeared into a pair of three-inch blue sandals even higher than the shoes Deanie wore. A matching clutch purse sat in her lap. French-manicured fingertips reached for the edges of the seat belt.
“Now,” she declared as the buckle clicked into place. “I can actually breathe. For a few minutes there, I didn’t think I was going to make it.” Her hot pink lips parted in a smile as she turned blue eyes the same color as her outfit on Deanie. “I couldn’t get Roger off the cell phone. I swear, he’s this close to being a Fatal Attraction, you know what I mean?”
“Boy, do I ever.” The comment came from the seat in front of Deanie. A heartbeat later, a large, red beehive hairdo pushed into view, followed by the thin, narrow face of a fiftyish woman. She wore flaming orange lipstick and a pair of gold-framed glasses that looked two sizes too big for her thin face. Her cheeks were pinked with too much rouge and bright blue eye shadow clung to her lids. She smelled of hair spray, old perfume and mothballs.
“You try to let them off easy,” the woman continued, “but they just can’t take no for an answer. They keep calling and showing up and sending flowers and buying jewelry. I can’t be bought, I’ve said more times than I can count.” She made a face that deepened the wrinkles around her eyes. “But that still didn’t stop Walter from sending over that Rolls Royce last month.”
“A man bought you a Rolls Royce?” the twenty-something asked, a look of disbelief on her face.
“He tried, but I’m still partial to the Porsche that James gave me for my birthday last year. James…” She sighed. “Now there was a man who had good taste. Unfortunately, he had a bad colon. Keeled over during dinner a few months later and that was that. It’s always the good ones that go young. Remember that, child,” she told Deanie. “If you find a grade A, quality man, you latch on to him fast and don’t waste a moment, especially if there’s a nasty colon involved.”
“Words to live by,” the blonde murmured.
“And how, otherwise I would be home watching my soap operas right now instead of popping Dramamine.” At Deanie’s questioning expression, she added, “Men usually fly to me, mind you, not the other way around. Then again, Mitchell isn’t your typical man. Why, he actually wrote me a love poem, of all things. I couldn’t very well let him abandon a million-dollar deal just to fly to Texas to see me for Valentine’s Day after that. Not that he needs the money. He’s got the stuff coming out his ears.”
“You’ve got a millionaire writing you love poems?” The blonde sounded as skeptical as she looked.
The redheaded woman didn’t seem the least put out. “Actually, he’s a billionaire. And he’s handsome. And a good dancer. And a great bingo player. Not that any of that means anything. Why, I’ve known handsome, bingo-playing, tangoing billionaires before, but none of them knew how to appreciate the real me. The personality beneath the decorative package.” She patted her hairdo with a bony hand. “Mavoreen Rosenbaum does have a brain, too. Unfortunately, men are simple creatures much too caught up in their hormones to understand that.”
At that moment, a man bolted through the doorway and started down the aisle. He wore a three-piece suit and a haggard expression. He rushed past Deanie’s aisle, only to stop and retrace his steps until he stood next to Mavoreen Rosenbaum. He pointed his briefcase at the empty seat beside her. “I’m sitting there.”
“Of course you are,” she told him. “What can I say?” Mavoreen shook her head. “I guess we all have our crosses to bear.” She turned to let the man scoot past her. “I’ll expect you to keep your hands to yourself,” she told him as he settled in. “And your legs. And all other body parts. And don’t even think about staring at me, sonny, because I’ve got a stun gun in my purse and I know how to use it…”
“If she’s got a decorative package, I’m Shrek,” the blonde murmured.
As far out as the notion seemed, Deanie couldn’t help but admire the older woman. “At least she’s confident.”
“She’s delusional. There is no billionaire. It’s just a story she makes up so she doesn’t have to look like a lonely desperate woman, which is what she is.” The blonde smiled. “But enough with the small stuff. I’m Savannah Sierra Ellington.”
“Nadine. Nadine Codge. But you can call me Deanie.”
The woman’s smile widened and she winked. “Thank the good Lord for flight delays and nicknames.”
Before they could exchange any more pleasantries, the flight attendant’s voice carried over the loud speaker.
Deanie shifted her attention to the woman wearing the white blouse trimmed in turquoise piping and khaki slacks, and did her best not to grimace.
A reaction that had nothing to do with the fact that she was on an airplane for the first time in her life. Or that it just so happened to be Friday the thirteenth. No it was the cupid cutouts and heart streamers that decorated the front of the plane in honor of tomorrow.
V-Day.
The worst day of any single girl’s life.
The flight attendant wore a flashing neon heart pin. A red scarf dotted with red lips circled her neck. To top off her tribute to the big L, she sported a headband with a pair of red glitter hearts attached via long, tentacle-looking wires. The hearts bobbed with her every movement.
“…a little delay, but while we’re waiting for the tower to give the go-ahead for takeoff, we’ll start our in-flight service by taking drink orders.” She started down the aisle, pen and paper in hand. In her wake, another flight attendant carried a large red bag filled with packages of pretzels. She passed out the goodies and carefully eyeballed everyone’s seat belt.
“Welcome to Island Airways where love is always in the air,” the flight attendant with the pretzels told them after her partner had taken their drink orders.
“This
