Oceans Apart (28 page)

In a heartbeat, a trash can blew into the road and an oncoming car swerved into her lane to miss it. Almost as quickly the other driver yanked his car back onto the right side of the road. Kiahna straightened out the car, breathless from the near disaster.

“Nice work.” Connor’s voice shook, the adrenaline rush as swift for him as it must have been for her.

“I thought we were dead.” Kiahna drew a slow breath and pulled back onto the road. “Let’s see if we can do this.” When they arrived at her apartment, they hurried inside as soon as Kiahna had the door unlocked. “Whew!” She fell back into an oversized chair and used her fingers to brush her hair from her face.

“The wind hasn’t been like this since I was a little girl.” 215

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He stood, awkward, beside his suitcase and gave her an uncertain smile. “Where’s your roommate?”

“I don’t know.” Kiahna glanced at the kitchen and toward the hallway. “Lara?” Her voice hung in the air, but no one responded.

Kiahna took a few steps into the apartment. “Lara, I’m home.”

“Maybe she’s sleeping.” Connor hoped so. He couldn’t ask Kiahna to go back out in this weather. But he’d call a cab before he’d stay the night with just the two of them.

“She should’ve been home hours ago.” Kiahna went to a narrow table that lined the hallway a few steps away. Her answering machine was blinking, and she pushed a button. A voice came through the speaker.

“Hey, this is Lara, I’m stuck at work.” Fear colored the caller’s voice. “The road’s blocked by trees. It could be a few days before they clear it away, so a bunch of us are staying at the house of one of the clerks here.”

Kiahna clicked a button and turned off the machine. Then she lifted her shoulders twice and looked at him. “Now what?” Connor fell against the door. “Look, Kiahna, if she’s gone for the night I should call a cab.”

She dropped in the nearest chair and frowned. “Sorry about this.

I had no idea . . .”

“I know.” Connor opened a phone book beside the phone and flipped to the taxi section. “I’ll have them take me back to the airport. The floor of the pilots’ lounge will work.” He lifted the receiver and hit the on button. But instead of a dial tone, it was dead. “Hmmm.” He tapped on the button four times and tried again. Still dead. “Are the phones out?”

“They were out near the coast.” She stood, made her way toward him, and held the receiver to her ear. She repeated the same moves Connor had made, tapping the button several times. But 216

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each time she held the receiver up she only shook her head. “Not a spark of life.”

Connor took a step backwards and considered his options. He was stuck there, like it or not, about to spend the night alone with a flight attendant he’d only just met. Suddenly he couldn’t draw another breath without telling her the truth. “Listen, Kiahna, I tried to tell you before. I’m married.” There. He’d said it.

Her smile was quick and uncomplicated. “That’s fine. You’re safe; I told you that. Besides, I figured you must be married; most pilots are.” She gave him a curious look. “I could go stay with my neighbor if it’d make you more comfortable.” Suddenly he felt foolish for worrying. “No, that’s okay.” Neither of them had ulterior motives. She was still grieving the loss of her mother, alone in the worst storm to hit the islands in decades. Of course he could stay. He’d take the couch and make sure she was safe for the night. Then in the morning the phones would be back up, and he’d call for a cab.

The ominous clouds outside brought an early nightfall, and Kiahna put together a chicken salad and warm bread for dinner.

They talked about their faith and the dreams they’d had as kids.

Halfway through the meal, she narrowed her eyes and said something that made his heart skip a beat.

“How long have you and your wife lived in LA?”

“Actually . . .” He let his eyes fall to his plate. “She lives in Orlando. It works out better that way. At least for now.”

“Oh . . .” Her expression changed, but not enough for Connor to comment on it. Again her mannerisms, the shine in her eyes reminded him of Michele. But the realization only made him miss his wife, the way she’d been before her depression. Either way, he felt nothing but kindness for the stranger across from him. And the 217

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certainty of that convinced him that Michele would understand his predicament. What else could he do?

They finished dinner and moved into her tiny living room for a movie. Connor took the seat farthest from her and outside the storm intensified. Halfway through the show, the electricity went out.

“Okay.” Kiahna didn’t sound frightened. “Now if I can remember where I put the flashlight.”

“We should have thought of that earlier.” He wondered if she could hear his pounding heart from across the room. “Want help?”

“No, stay there. I think it’s in the cupboard by the refrigerator.” He heard her grope her way from the living room into the kitchen, and after a few seconds of shuffling sounds, there was a click, and light sprayed from the place where she was. “Found it.” He gripped the arms of his chair. “What time is it?” She appeared in the doorway and returned to the spot where she’d been sitting. As she did, she shone the light at her wrist.

“Nine-fifteen.”

“No wonder I’m not tired.” His words felt awkward on his tongue. Why not turn in early? Send Kiahna off to her room and crash on the couch? Before he had time to process that, she interrupted his thoughts.

“I know.” She shone the light toward a cabinet at the other end of the room. “Want to play poker?”

“Poker?” He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “What would your God-fearing parents say about that?”

“Dad loved a good game of poker.” She headed toward a small lamp stand with a set of drawers at the base. “He used to say cards were good for the mind. But no gambling, never that.” She cast him a shadowy smile over her shoulder. “He taught me to play when I was six.”

“All right, then.” Connor chuckled again. “Where should we play?”

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She grabbed a deck of cards and a box of poker chips from the cabinet, and tossed them on the small coffee table in front of her sofa. “This works for me.” She dropped to the floor cross-legged.

“You can have the sofa.”

After a while, she owned all the chips, and he tossed his cards on the table. “Okay, you got me. Your daddy taught you good.” He grinned at her, struck by the picture she made sitting across from him, her hair still windblown, innocence shining in her eyes.

What he wouldn’t give to have Michele there, looking at him like that right now.

Her smile faded. “Yes. He was a good teacher and . . . and a good friend.” She met his eyes and the sadness in her face lifted. “Tired yet?”

“Not really.”

She bit her lip and looked around the room. A gust of wind howled outside and they heard a crash of something blowing across the road. “Wicked storm.”

“I know.” Connor stared at the window. Mature trees lined the apartment perimeter; he hoped the winds didn’t get strong enough to topple them.

“Hey. Wanna see my scrapbook? I put it together after my parents died . . . sort of a walk through my childhood.”

“Think that’ll put me to sleep, huh?” It was fun to tease her.

“Well”—she grinned at him—“if it does, then I guess that’s a good thing. Should I get it?”

Don’t do it, Evans . . . tell her good night. Flee . . . flee as fast as you can.

Connor immediately recognized the voice echoing on the inside of his heart.
I hear you, God . . . I’ve got it under control. Besides, I’m
not interested in her.

She was waiting for an answer. “Sure. I’d love to see it.” They sat side by side looking at the book. Toward the end, she turned to him and tapped the open page. “That’s it.” 219

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He glanced down and saw that a few pages remained. “What’s on those last ones?”

She hesitated, and for the first time since he’d run into her at the restaurant, a vulnerable look flashed in her eyes. “A few poems I wrote.”

He held her eyes and felt something begin to stir in his gut.

“Show me.”

Her eyes fell to the book, and after a few seconds she looked at him again. “Okay.” She slid the book from her lap to his, and her hand grazed his leg with the slightest sensation. “No one else has ever seen them.”

The poems were beautiful, deep and heartfelt, and Connor felt privileged that she was trusting him with a glimpse of her soul. As he read them, he ached for how much she still missed these two people who had been her parents. When he finished, he looked up and saw tears in her eyes.

Slowly, he shut the book and placed it on the coffee table.

“Kiahna, you’re a gifted writer. Those poems . . . they’re beautiful.” He yawned then. “Well, I think we both need some sleep.”

“You’re right.”

They said good night, and she left for her bedroom. He was almost asleep on the couch a half hour later when he heard her scream. Even in the darkness, he was at her side in an instant. Glass glinted in the moonlight, covering the floor on the window side of the bed. He walked around it, grabbed the flashlight from her nightstand, and clicked it on.

“Something hit me.” Kiahna was huddled on her bed in a night-shirt, her hand pressed to her head.

“Let me see.” Connor held the light near her forehead and caught his breath. A gash ran from the end of her eyebrow toward her temple. Already a knot was swelling near the wound. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”

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“Yes.” She made a soft moaning sound. “I feel sick, Connor.” He shone the flashlight on the floor and saw what had happened.

A tree branch had crashed through the window near her bed and hit her head. If she was nauseous she might have a concussion, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Let’s get out of here.” She struggled to her feet, and he helped her into the living room and onto the couch. Once she was seated, he put a pillow beside her and covered her bare legs with a blanket. “Don’t lie down yet.

Where’s the kit?”

“In the bathroom.” Her words were slow and deliberate. “Under the sink.”

Once more he aimed the light at her head. Blood was running down the side of her face. “Keep your hand against your head until I come back.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She swayed some.

“Let’s see if the phones are back up.” He grabbed a phone from a nearby nightstand and checked for a dial tone. None. He whisked his cell phone from his pocket, but the message in the window still read
No service.

A sense of urgency filled him. He had to work fast. If she was in trouble, he’d take her in the Honda and they’d drive until he found help. He found his way to the bathroom, grabbed the kit, and soaked a washcloth. “Don’t fall asleep, Kiahna,” he called to her as he headed back to her side.

“Mmmm.”

He cleaned the blood, dried the area around the gash, and used seven small bandages to pull the edges together. One larger bandage went over the smaller ones, and in fifteen minutes the bleed-ing had stopped.

“How’re you feeling?” He stepped back and used the flashlight to study her look. Her face was pale, even in the dark of the room.

“Still sick to your stomach?”

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“A little.”

“You didn’t black out, did you?”

Kiahna leaned her head back against the sofa. “I don’t think so.

I’m not as dizzy as before.”

Connor recalled a few things about first aid from his time at West Point. A blow to the temple was the worst kind, and even if she hadn’t lost consciousness, she should be watched, woken every hour at least. He aimed the flashlight at her eyes, and both pupils responded to the light. He lowered it a few inches below her chin and tried to study her expression in the glow. “You feel well enough to stay here? I can take you for help if you need it.”

“No . . .” She shook her head. “I can stay here. Really. I’m too tired to go anywhere.”

“You can sleep here on the couch. I’ll stay beside you on the floor and wake you every hour just in case.”

“All right.” She fell sideways and stretched out, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

As a pilot, Connor had pulled all-nighters before. He was trained to stay awake in difficult situations. But after waking Kiahna twice over the next two hours, he was overcome with exhaustion. The floor was hard, the wood damp against his pants.

He clicked on the flashlight and sized up the sofa situation. It was wider than most, easily wide enough for both of them. He shone the light on his watch and set it to wake him up in an hour.

Then he stretched out alongside her and turned his back to her.

He rested his head on the armrest and closed his eyes. Just an hour.

He’d sleep some, and when the alarm sounded he’d wake her again and make sure she was okay.

But within minutes he was sound asleep.

To this day he could remember the dream he’d had that night.

It had been of Michele and him, back when they first fell in love.

Back when Michele believed in Connor the way Kiahna had said 222

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she believed in him. That he was a doer, a man of competence and confidence.

When the alarm went off, Connor heard it, but only at some deep, half-asleep place in his brain. He groped around the floor beside the sofa and pushed the button to stop the beeping. Then he turned and felt a body beside him.

Michele. He smiled and put his arm around her, pulling her to him, running his fingers along the side of her body.

She stirred, and before he knew what was happening, before he remembered that he wasn’t home, and that the woman beside him wasn’t Michele, but a flight attendant he’d met only that afternoon, his lips found hers. The kiss was slow and easy, but with an aching need that doubled with each second.

A minute passed before they pulled back, and in a moment he would remember forever, their eyes met. Only then did Connor realize where he was and what he was doing. That the woman in his arms was Kiahna, not Michele.