Eight
Debbie Macomber
For Jenny and Kevin
Jill Morrison caught her breath as she stared excitedly out the airplane window. Seattle and everything familiar was quickly shrinking from view. She settled back and sighed with pure satisfaction.
This first-class seat was an unexpected gift from the airline. The booking agent had made a mistake and Jill turned out to be the beneficiary. Not a bad way to start a long-awaited vacation.
She glanced, not for the first time, at the man sitting beside her. He looked like the stereotypical businessman, typing industriously on a laptop, his brow furrowed with concentration. She couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing, but noticed several columns of figures. He paused, and something must have troubled him, because he reached for a calculator in his briefcase and punched out a series of numbers. When he’d finished, he returned to his computer. He seemed impatient and restless, as though he begrudged the travel time. Not a good sign, in Jill’s opinion, since the flight to Honolulu was scheduled to take five hours.
He wasn’t the talkative sort, either. In her enthusiasm before takeoff, Jill had made a couple of attempts at light conversation, but both tries had met with minimal responses, followed by cool silence.
Great. She was stuck sitting next to this grouch for the beginning of a vacation she’d been planning for nearly two years. A vacation that Jill and her best friend, Shelly Hansen, had once dreamed of taking together. Only Shelly wasn’t Shelly Hansen anymore. Her former college roommate was married now. For an entire month Shelly Hansen had been Shelly Brady.
Even after all this time, Jill had problems taking it in. For as long as Jill had known Shelly, her friend had been adamant about making her career as a producer of DVDs her highest priority. She’d vowed that men and relationships would always remain a distant second in her busy life. For years Jill had watched Shelly discourage attention from the opposite sex. From college onward, Shelly had carefully avoided any hint of commitment.
Then it had happened. Shelly met Mark Brady and the unexpected became a reality. To Shelly’s way of thinking, her mother’s great-aunt Millicent—known to everyone in the family as Aunt Milly—was directly responsible for her present happiness. She’d met her tax-accountant husband immediately after the elderly woman had mailed Shelly a “magic” wedding dress. The same dress Milly had worn herself more than sixty years earlier.
Both Shelly and Jill had insisted there was no such thing as magic, especially associated with a wedding dress. Magic belonged to wands or fairy godmothers, not wedding dresses. To fairy tales, not real life. They’d scoffed at the ridiculous story that went along with the gown. Both refused to believe what Aunt Milly had written in her letter; no one in her right mind, they told each other, could possibly take the sweet old woman seriously. Marry the next man you meet? Preposterous.
Personally, Jill had found the whole story amusing. Shelly hadn’t been laughing though. Shelly, being Shelly, had overreacted, fretting and worrying, wondering if there wasn’t some small chance that Milly could be right. Shelly hadn’t wanted her to be right, but there it was—the dress arrived one day, and the next she’d fallen into Mark Brady’s arms.
Literally.
The rest, as they say, is history and Jill wasn’t laughing anymore. Shelly and Mark had been married in June and to all appearances were blissfully happy.
Four weeks after the wedding, Jill was flying off to Hawaii. Not the best month to visit the tropics, perhaps, but that couldn’t be helped. Her budget was limited and July offered the most value for her money.
Her seatmate leaned back and sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Whatever problem he’d encountered earlier had persisted, Jill guessed. She must have been correct, because no more than ten seconds later, he reached for his calculator again. Jill had the impression this man never stopped working; even during their meal he continued his calculations. Not a moment of their flight time was wasted. If he wasn’t studying papers from his briefcase, he was typing more columns of figures into his computer.
An hour passed. A couple of times, almost against her will, she found herself watching him. Although she assumed he was somewhere in his mid-thirties, he seemed older. No, she decided, not older, but … experienced. His face managed to be pleasing to the eye despite his rugged, uneven features. She wondered fleetingly how he’d assess her appearance. Except he hadn’t looked at her once. He seemed totally unaware that there was anyone in the seat next to him. His eyes were gray, she’d noted earlier, the color of polished steel. There was nothing soft about him.
This was obviously a man who had it all—hand-tailored suits, Italian leather shoes, gold pen and watch. She’d bet even his plastic was gold! No doubt he lived the way he flew—first class. He was the type who had all the answers, too. The type of man who didn’t question his own attitudes and beliefs….
He reminded Jill of her father, long dead, long grieved. He, too, had been an influential businessman who’d held success in the palm of his hand. Adam Morrison had fought off middle age on a gym floor. Energy was his trademark and death was an eternity away. Only it was just around the corner, and he hadn’t known it.
Ironic that she should be sitting next to him thirteen years after his death. Not her father, but someone so much like him it was all Jill could do not to ask when he’d last seen his family.
He must have felt her scrutiny, because he suddenly turned and stared at her. Jill blushed guiltily, bowing her head over her book, reading it with exaggerated fervor.
“Did you like what you saw?” he asked her boldly.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a small voice, moving the paperback close to her face.
For the first time since he’d taken the seat next to her, the stranger grinned. It was an odd smile, off center and unpracticed, as if he didn’t often find anything to smile about.
The
