Fly Me to the Moon (19 page)

Flying to Paris without Clay wasn’t nearly as much fun. The eight-person crew was unfriendly and cliquish, having instinctively divided themselves into three sharply defined groups well before we’d even finished briefing. And even though I’d been in similar situations before, I’d always been lucky enough to have at least one fellow outsider to hang with. But this time I was on my own, with everyone unanimously agreeing that I would be the odd girl out. And as we headed for the gate with them all happily paired off, and me lagging behind, I knew I was in for a long flight.

First there were the Atlas Pioneers, comprised of those who began their careers back in the days when flight attendants were stewardesses and Atlas was just a small-time regional airline. They’re convinced that their place in the Atlas family is an exalted one, and that behaving like good, obedient children can only result in management responding like a fair and trusted parent. Yet this seemingly loyal, unquestioning commitment to their kin also fuels a deep, dark animosity toward any new recruits, especially the Foster Children, whom they’ve resented since their arrival.

The Foster Children are a group of multinational, multilingual, multisexual flight attendants adopted by Atlas when their original airline went bust several years ago. But even though they’ve been successfully placed in a new, more conventional and stable home doesn’t mean they’ve assimilated. Because having spent their formative years with a more worldly, glamorous, globe-trotting airline, they are way more sophisticated, far more jaded, much more urbane, and deeply disdainful of their provincial Pioneer siblings. And like tourists on a cruise ship, they tend to stick together.

Then there were the French Speakers, consisting of two recent Berlitz school graduates who with only three and a half years of flying between them are allowed to skip the usual seniority trip-bidding rules and fly to all the foreign destinations falling within their corresponding language skills. This alone makes them the object of resentment by the Pioneers, the Foster Children, and oddly enough, each other.

And then there was me. With no clique identity, and a seniority number ranking well below the others (except perhaps the French Speakers), I was promptly relegated to all of the duties no one else wanted to perform. And a few more that were invented purely for my benefit.

You’re going to Paris, where you’ll have dinner with Max, and hopefully get to kiss him again
became my mantra as I picked up trash in the aisles to avoid the backs tabbing in the galleys.

And just as I was shoving my third overstuffed trash bag into the already full garbage cart I heard someone say, “Who wants to feed the pilots?” And desperate to get away for a while, I was the first (and only) to volunteer.

“Mind if I hang out?” I asked as I handed Bill and Ted their meals.

“Must be pretty bad out there, if you’re seeking refuge in here.” Ted laughed.

I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. I wasn’t about to elaborate.

“Got any layover plans?” Bill asked, sipping Diet Coke From a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid, a sort of Atlas-mandated sippy cup for pilots, so as not to spill on the instrument panel.

“I have a date.” I smiled. I’d known Bill for years, as he was a good friend of Michael’s; but he was also a really great guy, so I didn’t hold that against him.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked, cutting into his steak and looking up at me.

“Maxwell Dunne. I met him on a flight a while hack,” I said, gazing out the window as we flew high above the clouds.

“Is he French?” Ted asked, cutting into his chicken.

I shook my head. “Nope, but he sure knows his way around the city.”
And a girl’s neck,
I thought, feeling myseli blush at the memory.

“Sure we can’t talk you into joining us for dinner?” Ted asked. “I was thinking of taking everyone to this little place over on the Left Bank.”

“I should warn you, it’s like a civil war out there,” I told him. “But if you’re up for knocking down borders and building bridges, then more power to you.” I smiled.

“That bad?” he asked.

“Worse.” I nodded.

“Well still, it may be one of the last times I treat, especially if management gets that fifty-five percent pay cut they’re after.” He shook his head.

“Jeez, we really are going to hell, aren’t we?” I said, watching as he buttered his dinner roll.

“No doubt.” Ted nodded.

Bill looked up then and, wiping his mouth with his linen napkin, said, “You sure you’re okay, Hailey? I mean, without Michael and all? It’s a hell of a time to be out there on your own. Especially in New York City.”

But I just shrugged. While it was nice of him to be concerned,
I didn’t take the city comment seriously. I knew very few pilots who had a good word to say about Manhattan.

“Ever think about moving back home and commuting? Could be the best thing for you.” He looked at me, nodding his head while chewing his food.

Going back home? To live with my mom? Was he kidding? He was looking at me, waiting for a response. And even though I knew he meant well, I still couldn’t resist saying, “Well, right now I’m living in a Fifth Avenue penthouse and looking forward to nothing more than my date in Paris, who happens to be completely amazing.” I shrugged. “But other than that, I’m just taking it one day at a time, Bill, just one day at a time.”

Then I grabbed their empty trays and headed back into the cabin, wondering how much of that would get back to Michael.

Before I’d headed out to JFK, I’d tried calling Max at the Ritz. But when he didn’t answer, I left a brief message on the machine informing him of my arrival and accepting his dinner invitation. So by the time I made it to the front desk at the Grand Hotel, I was hoping for a note of confirmation, if not another bouquet of flowers.

“Is this it?” I asked, staring at the lone key card. “Because I’m expecting a message.”

“Non,
no message,” the clerk said, already moving on to the next in line.

Clutching my key, I headed for my room, scolding myself for feeling disappointed.
Get a grip. You’re in Paris,
I thought, unlocking the door.
It’s one of your favorite cities
and
you’re being paid to be here! And if Max blows you off, so what? You know your way around! You don’t need him. You can buy your own dinner!

I dropped my bags on the floor and peeled off my uniform, anxious to grab a short nap before heading out to explore the city.
Forget Max. Don’t even think about him. Just sleep.

Rolling over to set my alarm, I noticed the red telephone message light was flashing. And trying not to feel overly hopeful, I held my breath and lifted the receiver.

“Hailey, the front desk said you just checked in, so you’re probably on your way up. Anyway, I’m glad you made it, and if it’s okay with you I’ll pick you up at. seven. It that doesn’t work, leave a message at the Ritz. Otherwise, I’ll assume we’re on. À
bientôt!”

I listened to the message again, and then reset my alarm to go off much, much later. I was going to dinner with Max! And I was hoping for another late night.

When I got to the lobby I found Max thumbing through a magazine, waiting for me. “Am I late?” I asked, taking in his antiqued jeans, untucked striped shirt, and tan suede loafers, feeling relieved that he really was as cute as I remembered.

“I’m early.” He smiled, leaning in for a brief kiss on the cheek, and leaving me to enjoy the lingering scent of minty fresh breath, recently washed hair, and his own natural, sexy muskiness. And as he led me outside to his car and driver, I slid onto the leather seats and thought how easy it would be to get used to this.

“Have you been to the Latin Quarter?” he asked as the Mercedes merged into traffic.

“Many times.” I nodded. “It’s my favorite part of the city.”

“Well, there’s this little restaurant I saw last time. It’s fairly new, and I haven’t eaten there yet, so I don’t know if it’s any good. In fact, I’m not even sure I can find it again. But I thought I’d have Jean Claude drop us off and then we could go exploring on our own. How does that sound?”

“Great,” I said, gazing into his gorgeous brown eyes and feeling my stomach go all weird when he smiled at me.

Jean Claude left us on the boulevard Saint-Germain, and Max grabbed my hand as we headed into the maze of narrow, lively streets. “If I’m not mistaken it should be right up here on the left,” he said.

“Well, if it’s not, then there’s always those sidewalk crepe vendors.” I smiled, thinking how I’d enjoyed a Nutella-filled crepe for dinner on more than one occasion.

“Sorry, no crepes tonight. It’s right over there.”

We walked into a small, dim, noisy space that was filled to capacity. And as we sat in a booth along the wall, I thought how very Parisian it was, with the cloth-covered tables, red leather seats, and chalkboard wine list. Not to mention the adorable white terrier at the next table, waiting patiently while his owner enjoyed a leisurely meal.

“It’s perfect,” I said, lifting my menu and feeling dismayed when I realized I couldn’t understand a word of it. “But I may need a little help with the ordering part. My high school French doesn’t stretch as far as you’d think.”

“No problem,” Max said, quickly scanning the entrees. “Do you like traditional bistro food?”

“If you mean steak frites and French onion soup, then the answer is
oui.”
I smiled.

When the waiter arrived, Max spent a good deal of time conversing in rapid-fire French that I didn’t even try to follow. And when he left, Max leaned in and smiled. “I hope you’re feeling adventurous.”

“Escargot? Yes. Monkey brains? Not so much.”

“Oh well, more for me then.” He shrugged, leaning back in his seat and winking.

But as our table began to fill with carafes of wine, bowls of mussels, plates of pate frisee salads, and terrines of foie gras, I was relieved to see there were no monkeys, no simians, and no primates anywhere in the vicinity—just an amazing display of food that I couldn’t wait to taste.

“True bistro cooking is about taking the simplest ingredients and elevating them to excellence through preparation and technique,” he said, spooning some marinated olives onto my plate.

“You really know your stuff,” I said, taking a bite of caviar on toasted brioche with creme frafche. “Do you cook like this at home?”

But Max just shook his head sadly. “I can’t even boil water without setting off the smoke alarm,” he said. “I’m strictly a restaurant guy.”

By the time we finished our dessert of little individual lemon tarts, we were feeling so full we decided to take a leisurely walk through the pedestrian-filled streets. And turning onto the boulevard Saint-Michel, we made our way toward the Seine.

“I love this city,” I said, gazing at the beautiful old buildings, and the lively corner cafes. “You’re so lucky to spend so much time here.”

“I am,” he agreed, sliding his arm around my waist and guiding me across the street and over to the Pont Neuf, which despite its name translating to “New Bridge” was actually the oldest in Paris. We walked about halfway, then stopped and leaned against the concrete rail, gazing down at the dark, moody river, the gargoyles of Notre Dame, and the flickering city lights beyond. And just as I leaned into him thinking,
Kiss me,
he pulled me even closer and pressed his lips against mine.

Like the last time we’d had dinner together, I’d drunk a fair amount of wine. But the feelings I had when I was wrapped in his arms had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with good old-fashioned lust. The kind I hadn’t experienced for a very long time, and certainly not for the bulk of my relationship with Michael.

I ran my hands over Max’s body, feeling the taut muscles of his
shoulders, arms, and chest through the soft cotton of his shirt. And then, gripping me even tighter, he pressed his body hard against mine while his lips drifted down to my neck.

“Come back to the Ritz with me,” he whispered.

And I opened my eyes and looked deep into his. “I can’t.”

“Why?” he asked, nipping at my neck again, which almost succeeded in changing my mind.

But then, thinking of all the logistics, like us getting to the Ritz, me getting back to the Grand Hotel in time for pickup the next morning, and then having to work the flight home with the nasty crew and little to no sleep, I shook my head and said, “Really, I can’t. I have to fly back in the morning.”

“But when can I see you again?” he asked, gazing into my eyes.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, thinking how his real home in Boston was actually just a short plane ride away.

“Come back to Paris. Tomorrow.”

“What?” I squinted at him. I mean, was he serious?

“You land at JFK before the evening flight to Paris takes off, right?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, with more than a little hesitation.

“And you fly for free?”

I nodded slowly.

“So, you go through customs, turn around, and come right back. You told me over dinner you have the whole week off, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”