On a rain-swept night the weekend before Thanksgiving, holiday travelers thronged San Francisco International Airport.
In the passenger lounge of Westair’s northbound Flight 84 Mark Emery glanced over the top of his Newsweek as a slender brunette came through the security check enclosure. She wore a belted raincoat and high-heeled boots. Her dark, shoulder-length hair glistened with raindrops. She stood for a minute looking around for an empty seat.
Mark watched as she made her way across the crowded waiting room. She had a confident, graceful walk. Stepping over assorted baggage cluttering the aisles, she took a seat opposite his. There was something familiar about her but he couldn’t place her. Could he have seen her at some local function he’d covered for the Daily Sentinel? He’d been to dozens of them. Community and political affairs were newsworthy events in the small northern California town of Rockport. Still, he couldn’t recall where or when they might have met. He returned to the article on the Middle East.
Coryn Dodge stared blankly through the plateglass window out to the landing field. Planes taxied into position, lights glowing on the rain-slick tarmac. Carts piled with luggage swerved and snaked toward yawning cargo bins. Planes took off. Planes going different places carrying people to happy homecomings.
Coryn knew she should feel happy, too, and be looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with her parents. She felt guilty that she didn’t.
If her father hadn’t phoned, she might have waited to see if Jason called from Detroit. But there had been something in her father’s voice, an uncharacteristic tension in his tone. When he reminded her she had not been home since last spring, a sliver of guilt had pricked Coryn, and she’d quickly agreed to come for Thanksgiving.
She’d been lucky to get a reservation at this time of year. There was only one available seat on the flight to San Francisco. In order to make the connecting flight to Rockport she’d had to leave L.A. right away. Before she left for the airport she’d called Jason but only got his message machine. She hated leaving with so many unresolved questions about their relationship. But what relationship? Jason had never made any commitment. They’d never discussed a future together. The enduring love Coryn had always secretly hoped to find was probably a dream. Not a nineties kind of thing.
Impatient with herself, Coryn dug into her tote bag and pulled out the magazine she’d bought at the airport newsstand. She slipped on her glasses and started flipping through the pages, hoping to find an article to distract her.
Mark Emery stirred restlessly in the vinyl chair and glanced at his watch. The flight to Rockport took an hour and forty-five minutes. He’d get home around ten. Home. Alone.
Mark felt the old bitterness twist within, as it always did when he thought about it. It wasn’t fair. But whoever said life was fair?
He looked around the waiting room at the various groups of happy people bound for family gatherings. Even crowded airports were strangely lonely places. It didn’t really matter where he was. He could spend Thanksgiving in the airport for all he cared.
At that moment the young woman seated across from him lifted her head from the magazine she was reading. Their gazes met. Even with her glasses on she was amazingly attractive. The lenses magnified the size and color of her intensely blue eyes.
Their look held for a minute. Coryn wondered where she had seen the man across the aisle before. He was good-looking in a tweedy sort of way. His thick brown hair was salted with some gray at the temples. His features were good, his eyes thoughtful, his expression held both intelligence and humor. His destination must be Rockport. She searched her memory. Could she possibly have met him somewhere when she was home last spring?
Just then the PA system crackled to life: “Attention, all passengers ticketed for Westair Airlines Flight 84 to Rockport. We are overbooked for this flight. If two passengers will volunteer to give up their seats they will be placed on the next available flight and receive a voucher for a free trip anywhere on our route.”
An uncomfortable silence spread throughout the waiting room. People stirred in their seats. The low murmur of voices followed. Still, no one got up and moved to the ticket counter. Most of the assembled passengers were on their way home from college or business trips, eagerly awaiting the flight home to be with family and friends. Nobody wanted to give up their seat.
Coryn was aware of the uneasy pall that fell on the holiday mood in the room after the announcement. A few hours’ difference in her arrival time would not matter that much, she reflected. Her parents had a social engagement anyway and would be gone all evening. Why not give up her seat on this flight and take the next one?
Mark folded his Newsweek, stuffed it into the pocket of his duffel bag, got up and ambled over to the ticket counter. He was certainly in no hurry to get home. Without Ginny the weekend loomed dismal. He’d given Mrs. Aguilar, the housekeeper, the holiday weekend off. Why not give up his seat?
At the ticket counter, Mark was rewarded with a big smile of relief from the harried-looking agent behind the desk. He waited while his ticket was rewritten and his travel voucher made out. Mark became aware of movement beside him. He turned. The young woman who’d been sitting near him now stood beside him.
“I guess we’re the altruistic ones in the bunch. Or maybe just the only ones with no holiday plans.” Immediately he realized the remark he had meant jokingly did not amuse her.
She inclined her head slightly, forced a smile. He was grateful for the ticket agent’s interruption, “Here you are, Mr. Emery, and many thanks.”
Mark pocketed his ticket and voucher. As he walked back to his seat, he heard the agent say, “Good evening, Miss Dodge.”
Dodge? That was the name of the Rockport man rumored to be challenging the incumbent for an assembly seat in the next election. Neil Dodge, a successful contractor and civic leader. Was that his wife? No, too young. Besides, the agent had called her Miss Dodge. Maybe she wasn’t related to Neil Dodge at all. Still, he may have seen her before at some fund-raising event or other.
He felt a little sheepish for the remark he had made to her. He was not good at small talk or socializing. Out of practice. Even among his colleagues at the newspaper he had a reputation for being a loner. A curmudgeon? Shari had been the one who was outgoing, friendly, vivacious. Everyone loved Shari. She made friends easily. Since she was gone, everything had changed.
Flight 84 was called and passengers gathered up packages, bundles, belongings and trooped Out through the gate to board the plane. Mark watched them go, grimly wishing he hadn’t been so impulsive. The next flight north wasn’t due for at least two hours. He looked around uneasily. Suddenly, the waiting room, filled with people and voices a few minutes before, was quiet and empty. Except for two. Himself and Miss Dodge. He glanced over at her, seated on the opposite side of the room, apparently preoccupied with her own thoughts.
Mark stood up. He’d read his magazine cover to cover. He thought he’d better get something else to read until the next flight north arrived. He strolled out to the corridor, passed people worriedly studying posted arrival and departure bulletins. Weather seemed to be affecting all eastbound flights originating in San Francisco, as well as those due. A long list of “delayed” or “canceled” notices followed destination names and numbered flights. It might be a long night.
Mark checked out the newsstand but nothing appealed to him so he strolled the labyrinthine halls of the airport, leisurely browsing the gift-shop windows. Something for Ginny for Christmas? No. Too early. Anyway, he wasn’t sure what she’d like this year.
At the entrance of one of the airport restaurants, Mark stopped to examine the menu on the door. Knowing the best he could expect on the flight was a soft drink and small bag of peanuts, he decided he might as well eat. There was a line, made up, he guessed, of stranded passengers. He took a place at the end of it. Overheard snatches of conversations relayed the usual horror stories of delayed plans and canceled flights. He listened with sympathetic amusement. A few minutes later someone stepped in behind him. When he turned his head, he saw it was her, his fellow passenger from Flight 84.
Remembering her lack of response to his first attempt at conversation, he hesitated. Yet, he couldn’t ignore her. He nodded and said, “Hi.”
This time she smiled-an astonishingly lovely smile. “When in doubt, eat, right?”
He grinned. “Well, I’ve taken the flight to Rockport before and I can guarantee you that we won’t get fed on the plane. And who knows how long we’ll be delayed here. Might as well take advantage of being in San Francisco.”
“At least they’ll probably have sourdough French bread.”
The line moved slowly ahead of them. A hostess escorted people to the few vacated tables. Obviously other passengers were using their waiting time by lingering over dinner and coffee.
“I’m Mark Emery. I’m a reporter on the Rockport Times.”
“I’m Coryn Dodge. I’ve seen your byline. My mother sends me the hometown paper.”
“You live in San Francisco?”
“In L.A. At least, I work in L.A.”
“Are you on your way home?”
“Yes, I’m spending Thanksgiving with my parents.”
They were now at the head of the line. The hostess threaded her way through the tables, approaching them. “Table for two?” she asked, and not waiting to be corrected, “This way, please.”
Mark glanced at Coryn and back at the hostess. “Well, we’re not—together.”
The hostess’s arched eyebrows lifted, her forehead puckered. Pursing her lips, she looked around the restaurant with an annoyed expression. “Well…it might be a long wait…” Turning back to them, she asked, “Would you mind sharing a table?”
Mark looked at Coryn, “Would you?”
With only the slightest hesitation, she answered, “No, not at all.”
Her problem solved, the hostess smiled. “Good. Please come this way.” She moved swiftly over to a corner table a busboy had just cleared.
They sat down and a waiter handed them menus and went away. For a few minutes they studied the selections.
“See anything you like?” Mark asked.
“I’m not really all that hungry. I just thought it would take up some time…Oh, a Cobb salad, I guess.”
“I think I’ll try the scallops.” Mark said. The waiter came back and Mark ordered for them both. “Coffee first?” he asked Coryn. When she nodded, the waiter poured them each a cup then left again.
As she sipped her coffee, Coryn took a good look at the man across the table. He had an intelligent, pleasant expression and might have been downright handsome had it not been that his nose was the slightest bit crooked. However, instead of detracting from his looks, Coryn thought the slight flaw lent a certain ruggedness to his features that she found quite attractive. Suddenly she realized that he was also regarding her thoughtfully. All at once, she felt a little self-conscious. Here they were, two complete strangers, now what?
Mark did not want to force conversation. Yet it seemed worse not to say anything. Besides, he felt obligated. He had been the one to suggest they share a table. He could always employ his reportorial skills. His comfort zone. He cleared his throat.
“Do you like L.A.?”
“Like it?” Her eyes widened as if she was caught off guard by the question. “Actually, I hadn’t intended to stay there. The summer after I graduated I went to visit a girlfriend, someone I knew from college. It just sort of happened…I got a job and…”
What had really happened was she had met Jason Kramer. They had met at a party, a housewarming for one of Sheila’s friends who had just moved into a new condo in Santa Monica. Someone introduced them. One thing had led to another. It was as simple as that. And as complicated.
“What do you do in L.A.?” Mark continued, feeling he was on safe ground. He was curious. She had a certain style, a class-act look.
“I work for a public relations firm.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“Interesting?” She paused as if not quite knowing how to answer him. “That’s what I thought, at first. At least my job isn’t. We’re assigned to certain accounts. What it actually amounts to is a clipping ser vice.”
“I gather you’re not planning to make a career of it?”
“What would you rather be doing?”
She looked at him steadily for a full minute as if she didn’t quite understand the question.
“I meant,” he explained, “if you aren’t that sold on your job, there must be some other interest you’d like to pursue. Unless something else is keeping you in L.A.?”
To her relief the waiter reappeared with their order. She had no intention of telling him what kept her in L.A. Or that she might be on the brink of making a change. In her job and her life-style. But you don’t pour out your heart to a perfect stranger. At least, she’d never been the type to do so. Besides, she wasn’t sure just what she was going to do about anything.
After the waiter left, she asked Mark, “What about you? Were you always interested in newspaper work?”
“Yes. I worked on the school paper in high school, worked as a stringer and in the summer at a local paper. In college, I took a double major in journalism and economics. When I graduated, I got the first job I interviewed for, and that was that. For a year.” He smiled. “Ironically, one of the good or bad aspects of being a newspaperman is the urge to move on to another town, a bigger paper.”
“How did you happen to come to Rockport?” Coryn found herself curious to know. There was a certain sophistication about Mark that hardly seemed small-town. “The Times isn’t exactly a metropolitan newspaper.”
“Rockport seemed a good place to bring up children.”
“You have children?” Coryn felt surprised. It had not occurred to her that Mark Emery was married or a father.
“A little girl. Ginny. Six.”
“Does your wife like Rockport?”
His expression changed. He took a sip of coffee. “My wife’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I-”
“Don’t apologize. You couldn’t have known. It was three years ago. A skiing accident.” He paused. “Being a single parent, you have to weigh everything. The job itself isn’t the priority. Where it’s located is sometimes more important. Now I consider things I might not otherwise, take fewer risks.”
Coryn could think of nothing to say to that. Marriage, children, death, all things she had not experienced. She picked up her fork and began to eat.
In a few minutes, Mark commented thoughtfully, “Strange, isn’t it? You moved from the north coast to L.A. and I moved from southern California to Rockport.”
“The heart has its reasons, as someone said.”
Her remark begged exploring. His reporter’s instinct prompted, but this time Mark decided against acting upon it. There was a remoteness about her that discouraged intimacy. He studied the young woman sitting opposite him. She had slipped the raincoat off her shoulders and underneath she wore a royal blue cowl-necked sweater that deepened the color of her eyes. Her dark hair waved softly back from ears where small gold hoops swung.
The waiter appeared, refilled their coffee cups. When he left, Mark brought the conversation back to himself.
“Well, my reason to move to an area like Rockport was practical. Ginny started first grade this year. I wanted her to grow up in a small community, go to school with the same kids through her school life, kids whose parents I’d know. I wanted to know her teachers, have neighbors who cared about her…In the city, I didn’t even know my neighbors’ names.”
“There’s some value in anonymity. In a town like Rockport, there are no secrets. In L.A., nobody knows what you do or cares.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And you like that?”
“We’re coming from opposite perspectives, as you pointed out. I grew up in Rockport.”
“And don’t you think small towns have advantages?”
“Sure. But they also have their downside. A town like Rockport doesn’t prepare you for another kind of life. It’s a real reality shift to move to a big city.” Coryn thought of her own naiveté when she’d arrived in L.A. Her expectations had ended in disillusionment. But that wasn’t something she wanted to talk about, either. Mark was looking at her intently as if waiting for her to go on.
Suddenly Coryn thought, I’m talking too much. That was the danger with as good a listener as Mark Emery. Talking to a stranger was easier than to a friend. Safer. Chances were they’d never see each other again after tonight.
The waiter returned to see if they wanted dessert. They refused, but asked for coffee refills. Coryn had indicated separate checks when their order was taken, so when they finished their coffee and got up to leave, there was no discussion about who paid what. They both used credit cards and made their way out of the restaurant.
Coryn told Mark she wanted to make a phone call and added that she’d see him back in the waiting room.
“See you later,” he replied “And thanks for the company at dinner,” he added.
Coryn smiled as they parted. He was merely being polite, she told herself. But it was nice of him to say, nonetheless.
In the phone booth, she dialed her L.A. number. She wanted to see if Jason had left any message on her answering machine since her last check. There was none.
Coryn sat there for a full minute, got her phone card out of her wallet and dialed Jason’s number. It rang and rang, then his taped message came on. “Jason Kramer. Leave a message. If it seems important, I’ll get back to you. Cheers.”
As she listened for the message to finish, a mixture of emotions swept over Coryn. Recorded, Jason’s self-confident manner came off as arrogant. Hadn’t her roommate, Sheila, often complained that Jason’s tendency for put-downs was offensive? She had defended him, saying, “Oh, he’s only kidding.” But maybe Sheila was right. She didn’t leave a message. She knew he wasn’t home, but he sometimes left a personal message for her on his greeting. Coryn replaced the receiver and sat there for another moment. Well, he hadn’t left a message for her. It had happened before. Later, he’d offhandedly apologize. But that was Jason. Take it or leave it. Coryn opened the folding doors of the phone booth to take a deep breath just in time to hear the PA announce her flight.
She hurried toward the waiting room. Mark was standing at the entrance. He motioned her forward. He held open the door to the field for her and together they went down the steps out to where the plane was loading.
The wind was fierce as they walked across the wet tarmac to board. Coryn hurried up the small metal steps and into the plane. She immediately noticed that the plane was nearly full with passengers who had boarded in Sacramento. At the door, the flight attendant, taking them for a couple, said, “Sorry, there are no two seats together, just singles.”
Coryn moved down the aisle to an empty seat. She stowed her luggage in the overhead compartment then got settled, safety belt fastened, as the plane taxied down the runway for takeoff. Finally, they were airborne. Without wanting to, her thoughts returned to Jason. For months he’d occupied so much of her life. She was beginning to realize their whole relationship might have been a waste of time. It would be a relief to be away from L.A. for a while.
Mark pushed the lever at the side of his seat to move it into a reclining position. At last he was on his way home. Home? Without Ginny.
He’d left Ginny in San Rafael to spend the holidays with Shari’s parents. They’d always spent Thanksgiving with the Bartons. This year he’d used work as his excuse not to stay over. They accepted that. He wasn’t sure they believed it, but he knew they understood. In three years he’d made a lot of progress, but there were still too many memories of other Thanksgivings spent there when Shari was alive.
She’d been their pride and joy, the light of their lives. All those clichés people use to describe the feelings of doting parents of an only daughter fit the Bartons. Since her death, their house had become a kind of shrine to her memory with photos of her everywhere. Shari in her cheerleader outfit, as homecoming queen in high school, at her senior prom and as a bride. Shari had done it all. The only thing she hadn’t been able to do was have a baby.
They had adopted Ginny. Then their happiness was complete. For a while at least. He felt a deep, familiar sadness well up in him. It was so unfair. But it had been three years ago. He should be getting over it, shouldn’t he?
At Rockport Airport the terminal clock read 2:20 a.m. Too late certainly to call home. Coryn walked outside into the foggy night in hopes of finding a cab or maybe one of the hotel-shuttle vans. Neither was in sight. She’d have to go back inside, phone for a cab. Just then, Mark Emery emerged through the glass doors, carrying his overnight bag and briefcase.
“No one to meet you?”
“I didn’t really expect anyone this late.”
“I left my car parked here Friday. I’d be glad to drive you home.”
Coryn hesitated. “You’re sure? It might be out of your way. My parents live in Chestnut Hills, that’s quite a way on the other side of town.”
“No problem. We live in Kensington Park.” He looked at her carry-on and overarm leather tote. “Is that all you have?”
“Yes, I’m only staying through Thanksgiving,” she explained as they started walking toward the parking lot.
The night air was damp and smelled of fog. He unlocked his car, a station wagon, and held the door open for her to get into the passenger seat. He went around, got in the other side, turned on the ignition. They pulled out into the curved road leading from the airport.
Fog drifted in eerie yellow swirls in the headlights as they merged onto the freeway. “Looks as though it just opened up enough so we could land, now it’s closed down again,” Mark said.
“Typical north-coast November,” Coryn replied.
“I’m getting used to it. In fact, I like it. The rain, the fog. There’s a kind of feeling of being sheltered, protected from the outside world.”
“Some call it the Redwood curtain.” Coryn glanced at him. “You don’t feel confined? I mean, after working in the city I would think you might find living up here too insulated.”
“No, not at all. It’s better for Ginny. And it’s what Shari wanted…what we planned to do if she had lived.”
Coryn murmured something she hoped sounded sympathetic.
“It’s working out just fine. Great, in fact,” he said firmly. He sounded as if he was convincing himself.
They drove the rest of the way mostly in silence, each locked into private thoughts. Mark took the turnoff to Chestnut Hills, one of Rockport’s prestigious residential areas. They wound up the twisting tree-lined road.
“Next right, number 183.” Coryn directed and Mark swerved into a gravel driveway and pulled to a stop in front of a rambling stucco and timbered house. An old-fashioned lamppost lit the way to an arched stone entrance.
Coryn slung the strap of her tote over her shoulder and opened the car door. “Don’t bother to get out. I can manage. Thanks for the ride.”
“My pleasure,” Mark said. “Good night and have a nice visit with your folks.” He watched her until she had opened the door, turned back and waved and gone inside.
The minute Mark turned the key in the lock of his front door he was hit by the emptiness. He quickly switched on the light in the hall, set his suitcase down and stood there for a minute. It still happened, that wave of depression crashing down on him, knowing there was no one to welcome him.
He looked through the mail Mrs. Aguilar had left neatly stacked on the hall table. Nothing important. Mark felt tired but not sleepy.
He went into the kitchen, turned on the light, went to the refrigerator. Ginny’s last drawing brought home from school adorned the front of it. A smiling Pilgrim family, complete with a huge orange cat. A Thanksgiving art project, or was this her way of persisting in her plea for a pet? “Just a little kitten, Daddy, please. I’ll take care of it, I promise!” Mark smiled. Even at six Ginny knew how to get to him.
Shari would have let her have a kitten. That’s for sure. The sharp sensation of loneliness came again. The realization of not having things like this to share with someone. Sometimes the pain was sharp and sudden. Other times just a dull ache.
Somehow, he and Ginny had managed to survive. They had a housekeeper, the efficient Mrs. Aguilar, who adored Ginny, cooked good meals and kept the house, saw that their clothes were washed and ironed. The first year had been the hardest. Now going on three since Shari’s accident, they’d managed. Just.
Maybe it was wandering around the San Francisco airport waiting for the next flight north that had put him in this strange mood. The unexpected meeting with Neil Dodge’s daughter. He had seen the quick brightening of her eyes in sympathy when he’d told her about Shari. It was as if she’d wanted to say something comforting but was too shy. Sensing that in her had sharpened his own need to share his heart with someone again. Someone who would understand. It might be crazy. He might be way off base, but he had sensed a vulnerability in Coryn Dodge under her poised surface.
He’d like a chance to get to know her better…but that took time and effort. He’d tried going out after the first year. Friends had fixed him up with someone they “knew” he’d like. But nothing had ever worked out. He knew there was a void in his life, but relationships took time and effort.
Coryn Dodge might be someone he could be interested in. She had been easy to talk to, had listened with warm empathy…as if she understood.
Mark opened the refrigerator, got out a quart of milk, poured himself a glass. Coryn Dodge. There had been something- about her, something elusive that lingered in his mind. Like the scent of her perfume had lingered in the heated car after she got out.
He drained the glass, rinsed it and left it on the drainboard. That kind of thinking was going nowhere. Theirs had been one of those chance meetings. After Thanksgiving she’d be back in L.A. His life here would go on. He had a long weekend to get through somehow, alone.
Coryn let herself in the house. The lamp on the hall table shed a rosy glow, touching the gold frame of the mirror on the wall above and gilding the bronze chrysanthemums in the vase beside it. A note was propped against the base of the lamp:
Welcome home, darling! We called the airport and were told your connecting flight had been delayed in Sacramento. Hope it wasn’t too awful. There’s an apple pie on the kitchen counter. We’ll see you in the morning.
Love,
Mother and Dad
Coryn removed her coat, flung it on one of the Queen Anne chairs that flanked the table. She dropped her bag and set down her carry-on, took off her boots and walked stocking-footed down the hall to the kitchen. She heard a low whimpering and the sound of scratching from behind the closed utilityroom door. Smiling, she opened it. Ranger, their fourteen-year-old black Lab, came out sniffing and whining deep in his throat.
“Hello, old fella. How are you?” she whispered, bending over to rub his head, scratch his ears. His thick tail swung like a heavy whip as he circled her. He moved stiffly. Coryn realized Ranger was getting older. His arthritis was worse, there was gray around his muzzle. “Good boy.” She nestled his head against her shoulder and hugged him. “I know, it’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you, too.”
Her throat constricted suddenly. She hadn’t realized. Away from home, in her mind, everything remained the same. The picture held constant, secure, reassuring. But Ranger was visibly changed. What other changes would she find here?