Heather slid her Mercedes SUV into a parking spot at Conroe-North Houston Regional Airport and turned to Steve. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say you looked funny."
Steve didn't respond, which was worse than if he'd chewed her out.
"It's not a big deal," she said. "You can change into a white shirt on the plane."
He snapped back, "I can't believe you let me walk out wearing a pink shirt and olive pants."
She rubbed eyes that felt as if someone had spooned sand into them. "I didn't go to sleep until three-thirty. It was still dark when Max woke me demanding breakfast."
"By the time you got up, I'd fed him," countered Steve. "He wasn't asking for his breakfast; Max thought you were missing your Thursday morning workout." He let out a huff and lowered his voice. "Heather, you're working yourself to death. You can't keep up this pace."
She closed her eyes. Steve was right. She'd heard the same words a hundred times from Jack. Well, not a hundred, but enough to where the repetition had worn thin. Life hadn't always been so hectic. When did she climb on the treadmill of mergers and acquisitions? And more important, how could she get off?
A knock on the window startled her back to reality. A man dressed in black slacks, a white shirt and black tie smiled at her. She opened the door and addressed the co-pilot of her plane. "Good morning, Tim. Are we ready?"
He cut a handsome, albeit young, figure with gelled black hair and aviator sunglasses. "Yes, Ms. McBlythe. Johnathan's doing his walk-around. Pop open the back and I'll get your luggage."
Steve's door opened as she stepped to the rear of the vehicle. "I'll need everything. Sorry there’s so much."
Steve expressed his displeasure about her bringing so much work by first issuing a loud moan. He followed it with, "I thought you were going to delegate to the other attorneys.”
“I did delegate. There are just some things I have to do myself.”
“Try not to get a hernia, Tim. I'm surprised she didn't bring her desk and chair."
Heather pointed to a box. "Put this one in the cabin with us and I'll take my briefcase."
"Hand me my garment bag," said Steve. "She didn't realize pink and olive don’t blend until she stopped for a double espresso."
"Pink shirts are in these days, Mr. Smiley," said Tim.
"They might be for you, but for an old codger, people will think I'm chasing the glory days of youth. Once you hit fifty, your fashion tastes simplify. It also saves money if I don't have so many choices."
Steve dragged his hand down the front of his shirt. "Could I interest you in a gently worn, pink, button-down Oxford?"
Tim's smile collided with Heather's scowl. He lowered his head, grabbed bags and said, "This will take several trips. The plane's ready to board whenever you are."
Heather's phone chirped with an incoming call. She retrieved it and listened to the concerned voice of an attorney from her office regarding a merger Heather had been working on for several months. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve shake his head and speak to Tim. The attorney chattered on about being unable to get a current spreadsheet on the company McBlythe Enterprises was considering acquiring. Meanwhile, Tim picked up a box and placed Steve's hand on his shoulder and walked him to the plane.
It took Tim three more trips to ferry the luggage and boxes of files to the twin–engine Cessna Citation M2, a Christmas present from her father. With the phone pressed to her ear, Heather looped the straps of her briefcase and purse over her shoulder, grabbed her extra-large coffee and locked the car. She acknowledged Johnathan, the pilot, with a nod as she boarded.
Configured to seat five passengers in beige leather chairs, the corporate jet made Heather feel like she’d made it to the big leagues. One seat, facing the cabin door, was seldom used, but Steve sat there, a sign he was still stewing over his mismatched clothes. Or was it that she'd been working sixteen-hour days? Either way, Steve's display of passive-aggressive behavior didn't escape her. That left Heather to distribute her bags, purse and a box of files in the remaining three seats, with one for her to occupy. She dug through a box, produced the missing spreadsheet and continued her phone conversation while buckling her seat belt.
Steve, seated nearest the cockpit, instructed the pilot to take off. The high-pitched cry of jet engines coming to life preceded a catapult-like ride down the runway and sucked Heather back in her seat. If it had been any other day, she would have loved the exhilaration of thrust, a steep ascent, and a hard bank to the right. Not today; she had problems to solve.
Once airborne, she pulled a fold-down table top from the wall and settled in to make changes to a contract and field two more calls. Her gaze shifted in time to see Steve insert ear buds and relax with feet outstretched and eyes closed. Not until the sound of the landing gear being deployed did she glance out the window. A shimmering body of water snaked its way through hills covered with stunted trees. By the time she returned the papers to their proper boxes, the wheels kissed the runway. She looked at her watch. Fifty-five minutes had elapsed since the engines came to life.
Tim unlatched the door and unfolded steps. He made sure Steve negotiated his way to the tarmac. Heather followed once she grabbed her purse and briefcase containing the papers that needed her immediate attention. Her breath caught as she stood in the cabin's door. They'd landed on a plateau overlooking a body of water and what appeared to be a miniature city, something like an elaborate model train set. She'd been around the world and seen awe-inspiring sights. This panoramic view had a quality all its own. Perhaps it was the contrast between the harshness of the terrain and the shimmering water of the lake that caused her mouth to hinge open.
The pilot spoke from behind her and broke the spell. "Welcome to Horseshoe Bay Resort. This is their private jet airport. Quite a view, isn't it?"
"I had no idea this existed in Texas. It's gorgeous. What lake is it?"
"It used to be called Granite Shoals Lake, but they renamed it after President Johnson. Everyone calls it Lake LBJ."
Further historical facts had to wait as a young woman wearing a uniform of sorts exited a black limousine and approached Steve. Heather joined them as the pilot and co-pilot retrieved luggage and Heather's boxes.
Heather eased beside Steve and placed his hand on her shoulder. "I can't believe this place."
He gave his head a single nod. "Wait till you see the resort and the golf courses."
"You've been here before?"
Steve swallowed hard. "I surprised Maggie with a weekend here to celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary."
Heather reached and squeezed his hand. His only response was to say, "Let's get to our rooms. I didn't sleep well last night."
She wanted to say something more, but Steve didn’t give her a chance. "I scheduled the reading for five o’clock this afternoon. You brought the will, didn't you?"
A moan answered the question. She stopped and circled back to the captain as he exited the plane carrying her boxes. "I left an important document back at my office. I need you to return to Conroe ASAP and fly back with it. Someone from my office will meet you at the airport."
"No problem. Do you want us to stay here after we return? Just in case you need us again."
"That won't be necessary, but keep your phone on. I’ve got a lot going on right now."
Heather looked at Steve standing on the tarmac. What memories of his deceased wife must haunt him? She searched for something pithy to say, but only managed to scrape up a lame apology. "Steve, I'm so sorry I forgot the—"
He yelled, "Tim. Look in my garment bag and see if there's a white shirt. I need to change."
Heather slapped her forehead. Words of apology weren't welcome, so she walked around the limo and opened her door while Steve changed shirts.
A Ford Explorer with an emblem on the side came toward them.
"Did you expect the sheriff to meet us?" asked Heather.
Steve raised his chin as he buttoned his shirt and stuffed the tail in his pants. The thrusting out of his chin gave him the appearance of a hunting dog trying to catch a scent. "No, but it doesn’t surprise me."