Phoenix Heart (9 page)

“Oh. Well, that sounds just fine.” He smiled, and his finger
stroked my shoulder lightly, and I knew I hadn’t fooled him with my pompous act.

The limo crawled past a sign: Los Angeles International
Airport, Next Exit. Thank god! I was so out of my depth I couldn’t see
sunlight.

“I don’t know much about art, I’m ashamed to say,” he said, “but
I am hooked on the De Young Museum. There is something magical about that
place. My dad was always on me about being culturally deprived having gone
through school with a concentration in the sciences. So, when I came up here
for grad school, nothing would satisfy him except my promising to go at least
once to the De Young. I figured, get there, run through a couple of rooms,
memorize a few paintings, and get out. So, one Saturday morning, it’s pouring
rain, I’m already pissed that I was going, pissed that I was wet, pissed that I
was going to miss the first hour of a football and beer marathon at one of my
friend’s. You know, just pretty much...”

“Pissed?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah.” He laughed. “I guess you could say that. Anyway,
I get there right when the doors open and start my run. European masters. Check.
Early American. Check. Greek something-gold. Okay. But then, I started to slow,
just for a second because one of the Greek things was really pretty
interesting. Beaten gold, intricate filigree design, a mask with eyes of some
sort of stone, dark and sort of mysterious. But, hey! Beer and football were
waiting.”

“So, I headed for the last lap: Ancient Egypt. When I walked
in, there was no one else there. It was eerily quiet. There I was, wet, in a
hurry, and completely surrounded by statues, plates, tablets, paintings,
tombs--all of these things that had survived thousands of years, that had
traveled thousands of miles, and all of us had ended up in this room together
at the same point in time. All that was left of the lives of dozens of
artisans, and me.”

He paused for a moment, thinking back. I could see him
standing in that room, the glow of the exhibit lights; the only sound that of
his breathing.

“Each of those objects was a tie to that past life, a line
reaching back through centuries. And just for a second, just for the briefest
moment, I felt the connection, like all the lines were running through time to
me.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I swear he blushed.
He laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go all metaphysical on you.”

“It’s all right,” I said and smiled. “You make me want to go
see it.”

“You know,” he said, “I spent the rest of that day there,
but I could stand to see it again. Won’t you reconsider? Instead of dinner, maybe
we could go to lunch, and go see the De Young first.”

“Well, I...”

He smiled. “Don’t worry; I’d step out so you could have the
Egyptian room to yourself. But then it’s my turn.”

Holy
merde
.
I
had to get off this ride. I had ducked past the sign saying Children Under
Twelve Not Allowed. “I don’t know when I’ll be going. The tour company has
everything planned, and I’m not sure of the itinerary.” That was b.s. I had the
itinerary in my purse. I’d been studying it for two weeks.

He cocked his head at me and I had my first out-of-body
experience. Andrew Richards was urging me to go out with him and I was
refusing? So what if it was politeness prompting the date?

So
what if he’s a mad bomber?

It would be the best date I’d ever had. And, it would give
me something to tell Cheryl when I got back. A perfect man showed interest in
me and I didn’t run, didn’t try to find something wrong with him. So, I ignored
the whispering voices telling me to beware and cleared my throat. “I can
probably change some things around. Yes, a lunch and the De Young would be very
nice.”

“Wonderful!” he said and flashed another smile. This one
warmed my toes. At least I’d be evenly cooked by the time this ride was over. “What
luck that someone I know is going! It’s always better traveling with someone. Hey,
maybe… which flight are you taking?” he asked.

I pulled the ticket packet out of my purse. “Flight 402, at 4:10.”

“Oh,” he said. “This really is a coincidence. That’s my
flight, too. Good. Company.” He smiled his dazzling smile. “I just hope we get
to the airport in time for me to get my ticket,” he said.

I smiled, too, not only in response to his smile, but
because I’d been right. Right about the trip and everything else. I’d been
right to wait for something to happen, for magic, for the prince, and I
couldn’t wait to say I told you so to Cheryl.

“Oh, we will,” I said. “We left early. I’ve got to go to the
counter, too, and turn in the other ticket voucher.”

“Other voucher?”

The tone in his voice. His eyes. The sweat standing out on
his temples. My smile stayed on my face, but inside
a
ll the pieces
fell into place and the happiness snuffed out.

“You still have it?” he asked. That strand of hair had
fallen down over his forehead.

“Yes,” I said. I had no urge to push that hair back.

“Well, that could save some time. If we could just switch it
to my name...” He smiled his dazzling smile again.

“Sure,” I said.

“As I said, I forgot my wallet. I was going to… wait until
someone… a friend… my Dad, actually, came out to the airport to bring my
wallet… credit cards. But if we could just switch it, that would be great. ”

I just watched him.

“I don’t suppose... I know it would be asking a lot, but do
you think you could let me have the ticket and I’d pay you when I see you at
lunch?”

“No problem,” I said.

His smile broadened. “Really?”

“Certainly.” I flipped through the papers, snagged the blank
voucher and handed it to him. “You really didn’t need to go to all the trouble to
try to romance it out of me, Dr. Richards.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Oh yes you were. You could have just asked. I would have
given it to you.”

The smile faded. “Look, I didn’t mean…”

“It doesn’t matter. Truly. As a matter of fact, you can have
it. You don’t have to pay me. I got it for free. Here. Take it. As you said, this
will save me some time.”

After a few seconds he took the voucher from my hand. “I’m
sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No, if I wasn’t…”

I turned to him and he stopped mid-sentence. I stared at
that perfect face above that perfect body and I felt nothing. “I said forget
it, please. That’s the only condition. Just forget the whole thing. This all
never happened.”

I dropped my purse back down on the floor and turned back to
the window, chin up, back straight, face expressionless. We took the exit to
the airport, glided up to the terminal building, and I stepped out without
waiting for the driver to come around and open the door.

I heard Dr. Richards’ door open on the other side, but
ignored the sound. The driver lifted my bags from the trunk and turned them over
to a skycap, and I thanked him for the ride. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
Dr. Richards come around the front of the limo and step up on the curb. I
followed the skycap into the terminal. As the automatic doors swept open for
the luggage cart, I thought I heard a faint, “I really am sorry,” from behind
me, but it might have just been the voice of someone in the crowd of travelers
moving out past me as I went in.

Somehow--and I don’t think it was
just my mood--somehow first class just wasn’t what I had expected. Oh, the
seats were wider; there were only two on each side of the aisle instead of
three. There was a little more leg room, but, well, somehow I’d always thought
everything would be softer, the light brighter, the atmosphere more rarified,
the sound of violins in the background accompanying the gentle murmur of
conversation between senators and movie stars and presidents of corporations.

All that was really different was that the drinks were free,
and I got to wear a snobby-nonchalant expression on my face as I sipped my
champagne and watched the peasants troop by on their way to whatever that was
(second class? coach? steerage?) behind the curtain. It might not be all that
much better in first class, but I wasn’t going to let them know that.

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t in a very good mood.

Actually, maybe the two men in the impeccably tailored suits
across the aisle were presidents of corporations, who, at that very moment,
were discussing whether to get out of sow bellies and jump into sugar beets. The
woman sitting just in front of them, in the spectacularly understated creamy
wool dress, was the senior senator from Arkansas, on her way to San Francisco
to meet with a secret consortium of top Japanese businessmen, intent on buying the
Ozarks to put up a retirement home for a retired Japanese movie mogul.

I giggled and took another sip of champagne. You see, after
the eighth Godzilla vs. Mothra movie, he’d snapped and wanted to make a ninth,
this time Godzilla was going to eat a mountain, and the guy was determined to
go for realism, and the Japanese officials had to let him because he held
controlling interest in nearly twenty percent of all industry in Japan and if
it got out he was crazy, the market would crash.

I giggled again. I think I was having a little bit of
reaction after the morning in the horror of that lab, and the ride in the limo.
Between that, and the champagne, the giggles kept bubbling up.

But, damn it, I was determined that I was going to have a
good time. Men are gravy-sucking pigs, anyway. Who needs them?

I heard the swish of material and turned to see a
black-haired flight attendant pull the curtain between the first class section
and coach. She began moving up the aisle, making the last minute check of
seatbelts and luggage.

“I’ll come back by for your glass,” she murmured.

I nodded and smiled. A steward at the front began to swing
the massive front door shut. I rested my glass on the arm of the seat, leaned
back and closed my eyes.

I will have a good time. This is
going to be the best week of my life.

I heard the steward at the front of the cabin say something,
then I heard sounds of movement coming up the aisle. The sounds stopped near
the empty seat next to me.

“Look, I’m sorry. I tried to get another seat.” Andrew Richards
dropped into the seat next to me. He’d changed into an ugly I Love LA t-shirt
and wore a silver and black baseball cap pulled down over the top of his
sunglasses. He carried a bulky brown paper bag in his hand.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” I hissed. “When I gave you that voucher,
I thought you’d at least have the decency to trade it in for another flight.”

His face was carefully neutral. “I couldn’t. And this flight
is full. There were no other seats. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

The steward was just latching the door. Dr. Richards must
have stopped that first door-closing, and ducked into the plane at the last
possible moment. There was no way he could get off now, as he’d obviously
planned all along.

I sat in furious silence, staring at the back of the seat in
front of me, listening to the sound of the engines revving. Damn him, damn him!
I looked down at my hand clenching the stem of the champagne glass.

She stands in the aisle,
quivering with righteous indignation, watching the stain grow on his white
shirt (the champagne is now red wine), watching grimly as he tries to wipe away
the drink she has dashed in his face. You cad. You bounder. You user of women. She
turns away, one hand at her throat as a gentle tear slides down one cheek. The
woman in the creamy wool dress puts her arm across her shoulders to comfort
her. The two men in the tailored suits step between her and Richards and glare
at him. The other first glass passengers come up around her and throw looks of
disgust at Richards. Finally, he can’t take it anymore and slinks into coach. She
hears a general booing from behind the curtain.

The plane started with a lurch and the champagne slopped out
of my glass all over my hand and the sleeve of my sweater. Not one drop
splashed onto Dr. Richards’ jeans.

“Damn,” I whispered.

A handkerchief appeared in front of me. Linen, of course. “Take
it.”

“No, thank you.” I reached down, fumbled in my purse and
found a tattered Kleenex down near the bottom and blotted at the sticky liquid.

“Look, I really didn’t have a choice,” he said.

“Fine.” I wouldn’t look at him.

“Are you going to let me explain?”

“There is no explanation necessary.”

“Please.”

“No.”

He reached over and took hold of my wrist. “Listen,” he
said.

The champagne goblet tipped over and the last few drops
dribbled on the carpet. “Remove your hand from my wrist,” I said, “or lose it at
the elbow.”

He released it and I snatched it out of his reach.

“Look, I told you,” he whispered, “I didn’t have a choice. Now
will you let me explain?”

“I don’t care to hear it.”

The plane lurched again and began to move away from the jet-way
toward the runway.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

“What?” I looked at him, then down at my wrist. I was
rubbing it with my other hand.

“Your arm. I’m sorry if I hurt your arm.”

I quickly released it. “You didn’t.”

“Good.”

Silence again as the plane reached the end of the runway,
turned, paused, and then started accelerating down the runway. I felt myself
pressed back into the seat and took tight hold of the armrest under the window
next to me. This was the one part of flying that bothered me. There is a small
part of me that is always certain that a contraption as heavy as a jet airplane
couldn’t possibly lift off the ground. And soar through the air? Ridiculous. I
held my breath, willing the plane upward, and only when the wheels actually
lifted from the concrete did I breathe again.