a meeting with his key people at which he mostly agreed with their suggestions and approved decisions and expenditures, he asked Leslie Adamson, the manager he’d put in charge of the Polar Air acquisition, how it was going. Leslie pulled out the relevant file. “It’s going all right. It’s a pretty small deal by our standards. Shouldn’t be any problem buying for the right price and then putting in some good people to turn it around.” She flipped back a few pages in the file. “Polar Air used to be a successful regional airline. Started in the ’50s with a couple of bush pilots, husband and wife. Lynette and Carl Lundstrom.
“They flew supplies to hunting and fishing lodges, carried mail, flew equipment to logging and mining operations. Got bigger, and more successful. They flew hikers, hunters, geologists, kayakers all over Alaska. Then in the last five years things have gone south. The recession had an impact, but they are way behind on payments to suppliers and they aren’t keeping up with the times. We think there’s plenty of business that they aren’t going after. The fleet’s in good shape, there’s a small but loyal customer base. Could be a turnaround candidate to flip or we could keep it, maybe look at further acquisitions, expand as a regional airline.”
He knew all about the financials of Polar Air. Max never bought a business he didn’t understand and believe in. The small airline had some troubles, but the equipment was good, the pilots well trained. “You’re right. The airline should be more successful.”
Leslie nodded. “I don’t like not knowing what the problems really are. What we need is somebody on the ground.”
“Or in the air,” he said.
Leslie agreed. “They’ve got an opening for a pilot. Somebody with a commercial pilot’s license and some smarts could find out what’s going on from inside the operation.”
Some of his boredom began to lift. “You think we could get somebody in there?”
“My contact would definitely put in a good word with the management of Polar Air if we had a pilot. Sure.”
“Then do it. I know just the person.”
Max had learned to fly in high school, working construction in the summers so he could afford lessons. He’d trained for his commercial pilot’s license a decade later. Even though his life had taken a different turn, he kept his license current. He owned a Cessna and an Otter and flew at every opportunity. He didn’t have a ton of hours logged in Alaska but he had plenty logged in Washington and Oregon and he figured that had to count.
He was sure that Leslie would make it happen. She was that good.
She didn’t even question his suitability for the bush-pilot job because she knew that he was also that good.
Max was about to do the thing he loved best. He was going to fly.
* * *
CLAIRE LUNDSTROM FLEW the Beaver floatplane over Spruce Bay, cruising along with the air currents. Her passengers, a father and son from Tennessee, were headed for Takwalnot, a wilderness fishing lodge, for a week. The dad, Don Carpenter, sat in the back, eyes glued to the rattling window. His son, Kyle, sat beside her in the front seat. He was eighteen and trying to be cool, but she could tell it was a thrill for him to be flying beside the pilot, enjoying an aerial view of some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. All three of them were linked by headsets.
“You picked a great day to fly,” she said, enjoying the sunshine as much, or more, than her passengers. “That’s Mount McKinley in the distance,” she said. It was magnificent, snow-capped and majestic. She glanced down. Smiled. “Look to your left,” she said. “See the whales?”
She dropped the plane lower, took a pass over a pod of grays breaching and playing in the water. Sun sparkled off a dorsal fin and one of the whales surfaced, blowing a plume of mist into the air. “Look,” cried Kyle. “You can see the whole body under the water.” Cameras came out and father and son had a moment of bonding. She imagined that was the point of the trip.
She never got tired of this. Of sharing the place she loved with those who came to visit. She turned and took another pass so her clients could enjoy watching the whales at play, banked the plane so Don could get a clearer photo. Then she turned and headed for the lodge.
“You’re a fine pilot, ma’am, thank you,” Don Carpenter said as she unloaded their fishing gear onto the dock.
“You’re welcome.”
“You seem too young to be flying planes.”
She laughed. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard such a comment. “My grandparents started Polar Air. I’ve been flying since I was sixteen years old.” She didn’t bother telling the Carpenters the sad part of her history. That her parents had been killed in a car crash coming home from a dinner party one night. Nobody’s fault. The car had gone into a turn and skidded off a cliff thanks to a deadly combination of ice, poor visibility and old snow tires. Fifteen and grieving, she’d been sent to live with her grandparents. She’d planned on hating Spruce Bay and running away. But a lot of love, good food and time had helped ease her hurt. And when she was sixteen her grandfather put her in the copilot’s seat and gave her the controls for a few amazing minutes.
From that moment she’d known what she wanted to do with her life.
She wasn’t sixteen anymore. She was nearly thirty. And she still loved flying more than anything else she could think of.
Once she’d finished unloading the Carpenters and their baggage, three businessmen from Albuquerque were waiting for their return trip. She loaded them onto the plane, then assessed the trio. Some sunburns and a general air of satisfaction told her their week had gone well. “How was your trip?” she asked.
“Fantastic. We caught some of the nicest sockeye I’ve ever tasted.”
For the price she knew they were paying for their week, she was glad they’d caught some salmon. Meant they’d tell their friends, maybe come back. “You’ll never get better fishing than up here,” she said into her headset.
Even the whales cooperated with her tour guide routine, hanging around in the same area where she’d last seen them. Once more she dipped down low, giving the men an up-close view of whales at play.
When she landed at the dock of Polar Air, she powered down and took a moment to enjoy the silence, before hopping down from the plane and tying up to the dock.
She had a couple of hours before her next flight, so she headed up the dock and turned, not to the office, but in the direction of her grandmother’s house.
Lynette Lundstrom was nearing seventy-three and Claire’s favorite person in the world. She usually found time to visit her grandmother every day, either for coffee or a sandwich. They ate dinner together at least twice a week.
She banged open the front door and headed for the kitchen, cheerfully calling out, “Coffee on?” She didn’t immediately get a response.
She quickened her step and found her grandmother sitting at the big oak kitchen table with a scatter of papers fanned in front of her.
She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her grandmother, concern building when she saw the expression on Lynette’s face. “What’s up?”
Lynette looked up at her, looking like an old woman for the first time
