Air Time Read online

  “Yup, I’m here,” I answer the staticky voice now crackling in my ear. The block-lettered signs for Terminal C are pointing me to the left. Following the arrows, I trot through the crowded corridor, listening to Roger tell me the latest. I stop, suddenly, realizing what he’s saying. A Disney-clad family divides in half to get by, throwing annoyed looks as they swarm back together in front of me. I barely notice.

  “So, you’re telling me there’s nothing?” I reply. “You’re telling me—no big collision? No casualties? No fire?”

  “Yep. Nope,” Roger says. “Apparently one wing tip of a regional jet just touched a 737. On the ground. No passengers in the smaller plane. But the pilot panicked, Maydayed the tower, they sent the alarm, fire crews powered in. Every pilot on the tarmac picked up the radio traffic—guess that’s how your flight attendant got wind of it. And the Associated Press, of course. It was a close call. But no biggie.”

  “So…” My adrenaline is fading as I face reality. I plop into a leatherette seat along the wall, stare at my toes, and try to make journalism lemonade. “So, listen. Should we do a story about the close call? Should we do an investigation about crowded runways? Is there a pattern of collisions at the Baltimore airport?”

  “Charlie, that’s why we love you,” Roger says with a chuckle. “Always looking for a good story. Does your brain ever turn off? Come home, kiddo. Thanks for being a team player.”

  It’s the best possible outcome, of course, I tell myself as I slowly click my phone closed and tuck it back into my bag. And it’s certainly proof of how a reporter’s perspective gets warped by the quest for airtime. How can anyone be sorry there’s not a plane crash? I smile, acknowledging journalism’s ugliest secret. A huge fire? A string of victims? A multimillion dollar scam? Bad news is big news. Only a reporter can feel disappointed when the news is good.

  But actually, there is good news that I’m happy about. Now I can go home. To Josh. My energy revs as I race to the nearest flight information screen and devour the numbers displayed on the televisions flickering above me. Arrivals. Departures. If I’m lucky, my plane is still hooked to that jetway, doors open. I can get back on board, into 18A, and get home for a late and luscious dinner with Josh. I imagine his welcoming arms swooping me off the floor in a swirling hug. Our “don’t stay-away-this-long-ever-again” kisses. I imagine skipping dinner.

  I find what I’m looking for. Boston, Flight 632. I find what I’m not looking for. Status: Departed.

  I drop my tote bag to the tiled floor. Then pick it up again so the airport police don’t whisk it away as an unattended bag. There are no more flights to Boston tonight. I’m trapped in Baltimore.

  Wandering back down the corridor and into the ladies’ room, I’m trying to plan. I twist my hair up with a scrunchie. Take out my contacts. Put on my glasses. No one knows me here. Might as well be comfortable.

  I have no story. I also have no clothes, I realize, as I stroll by the bustling baggage claim area. No toothbrush. No contact-lens solution to put my lenses back in tomorrow. No…

  “Dammit!” A twentysomething girl, teetering on strappy, outrageously high platform sandals, is struggling to wrestle the world’s largest suitcase from the moving conveyor belt. I watch as she tugs at the handle with one French-manicured hand, trotting alongside the moving conveyor. Her tawny hair swinging across her shoulders, she yanks on the bag’s chocolate-brown leather strap again. And again. But the baggage doesn’t budge, continuing its travel away from her. And almost out of reach. She stamps an impatient foot, then looks around, defeated and annoyed, her hair whirling like one of those girls in a shampoo ad. I look, too, but there are no skycaps in sight.

  “Need some help?” I offer. The laws of physics will never allow her the leverage to yank that obviously pricey closet on wheels away from the flapping plastic baffles that cover the entrance to wherever unclaimed baggage goes. Fashion-victim shoes aside, this girl probably lives on diet soda and breath strips.

  I put down my tote bag, grab her suitcase handle, and wrench her tan-and-brown monolith from the belt. It lands with a thud on one wheel. We both move to steady it before it topples to the floor.

  “Oh, wow. Thank you,” she says. Her voice has the trace of an accent, exotic, but I can’t place it. “I practically live in airports, but usually there is someone to help.”

  “Yeah, well, that was clearly going to be a problem,” I say, gesturing to her actually very elegant and certainly expensive designer suitcase. Unless—hmm. I wish the Prada P.I. was here now to tell me if it’s authentic. “I guess that’s why they call it luggage.”

  She stares at me, uncomprehending.

  “Lug?” I say. “Luggage?” I try to cover my failed attempt at humor by offering a compliment. “That’s quite the gorgeous bag. Where did you—”

  The girl compares her claim check with the one on the bag. It’s tagged ATL, from Atlanta. Although there’s hardly going to be a mistake about who it belongs to. This isn’t one of the black wheelie clones circling the baggage claim.

  “Ah, yes, it’s from…” She pauses, putting one slim hand on one impossibly slim blue-jeaned hip, and looks me up and down. Assessing, somehow. “You’ve been so nice to me. Let me ask you. Do you like it?” She points to her suitcase.

  She’s not from Atlanta. Canadian? French, maybe? As if she needed to be even more attractive. And she’s asking if I like her suitcase? Maybe it’s a cultural thing. I shrug. “Well, sure.”

  The girl holds out a hand. “I’m Regine,” she says. Ray-zheen.

  “I’m…” I begin to introduce myself, shaking her hand. But she’s still talking.

  “If you are interested in designer bags? Like this one?” She waits for my answer, head tilted, one eyebrow lifted.

  “Well, of course, I…”

  “Then here,” she interrupts again. She digs into her recognizably logo-covered pouch of a purse, pulls out a cream-colored business card, and presents it to me with what looks like a conspiratorial smile.

  I glance at it, then back at her. Her eyes are twinkling, as if she has a secret. And I guess she does. “Designer Doubles?” I read from the card. I look back at her suitcase. This day is getting a whole lot more interesting. And potentially a whole lot more valuable. Talk about the right place at the right time. Thank you, news gods.

  “Designer Doubles? You mean, your suitcase is not really…?” I pretend to be baffled.

  “Not a bit,” she replies. She pats her purse. “And neither is this one. But they are perfect, are they not? The Web site on that card will tell you where you can find a purse party. And there, you can buy one for yourself.”

  “Well, my goodness,” I say, allowing my eyes to go wide. As if I’m considering some fabulously tempting offer. “I think I’ve heard about this in magazines.”

  “Exactly.” Regine nods, as if the lust for luxury somehow bonds us. She twirls her bag on one wheel, ready to join the swirl of departing passengers heading for the exit. “My pleasure.”

  And she’s gone.

  Buy one for myself, she’d suggested. What a very lovely idea.

  Tucking the card safely into a zippered pocket of my tote bag, I’m already reworking our story. Talk about the right place at the right time. If this all goes as I hope, I am indeed going to buy one for myself. Perhaps several. But what Regine doesn’t know is I’ll be doing it in disguise. Undercover. And carrying a hidden camera. This glossy, expensive little business card could be my ticket to journalism glory.

  If I don’t get caught.

  Chapter Two

  W

  hite wine from the minibar. And peanuts. Very glam. It’s just past 11:30 p.m., according to the glowing green numbers of the hotel room clock. I bite a snip into the plastic peanut package and flap open the leatherette Guest Services loose-leaf binder on the dresser, considering whether it’s worth it to expense dinner in the “world-class” Atrium Lounge. Taking a sip of wine, I survey my home for the night. The Baltimore Airport Lodg
e. Could be anywhere, with its mass-produced faux masterpieces on the walls, fake leather ice bucket with a plastic liner. Heavily scented little soaps wrapped to look expensive. Everything pretending to be something it’s not.

  Folding suitcase rack, empty. At least I won’t have to worry about packing in the morning.

  Room service it is. Avoiding my lipstick, I carefully peel off my white T-shirt, knowing it’s all I have for tomorrow, then hang it and my wilted black pants in the otherwise empty closet. I’d be so bummed if it weren’t for the purse-pushing Regine. I need to tell Franklin about that.

  And that reminds me I have to call him. Chat with him about tomorrow’s encounter with the Prada P.I. It kills me that designers hire private investigators to scout for knockoffs of their trademarked products. Working online and in stores, they’re more like industrial spies, searching for the secret signs manufacturers use to mark an authentic item. Not a bad gig. Next life, I’m going to be a shopper.

  I throw on the fluffy white bathrobe the hotel, thankfully, provided on the bathroom door hook and plop cross-legged on the bed. Alone.

  Josh. I survey the empty king-size expanse surrounding me with emptiness, missing him. If anyplace is meant for two, this is it. Pillows. Chocolates. And if Josh were here, I wouldn’t mind the no-clothes situation. I smile and hug my knees, remembering the last time there was a no-clothes situation. His daughter, Penny, was with her mother, so there was no threat of invasion by a nine-year-old. Just Josh and me on the couch, Fred and Ginger on a DVD, port wine and apples. I have no idea how the movie ended.

  We’ve only known each for—I think back, mentally counting on my fingers. And then my heart gives a tiny flutter. Almost exactly a year. Does it seem like longer than that? I know every inch of his body. And I bet he’s just as familiar with mine.

  I pull a downy white pillow from under the bedspread and hug it to my chest. I wonder what will happen with Josh. Whether this relationship will go the way of the others—interesting and exciting for a while, then slowly changing. Someone pulling away. Someone too demanding. Someone too dismissive. Someone too impatient. Someone too complacent. Someone’s work too important.

  Mine, usually.

  Suddenly I feel—sad? Out of balance. I help people. I track down criminals and confront corrupt politicians. Make the world a better place. I’ve devoted the last twenty-some years to being a good guy.

  But tonight I’m alone in a cookie-cutter hotel room. Josh is cozy at home with his beloved daughter. Is that where I should be? What would I be giving up? What would I be getting? How do I know if it’s the real thing?

  Back to reality. And I’m still holding the pillow. I plop it back in its place, shake off the memories. And the phone rings.

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” All thoughts of Josh have vanished. Franklin, also at home, is spilling the latest from the newsroom. And the latest stinks. My voice rises to a squeak as I interrupt. “Susannah is changing our fake-purse story—to what?”

  “Like I said, Charlotte. It’s not about you. It’s not about journalism. You know it’s about the ratings. The all-important November sweeps. You’re familiar with that, of course.” Franklin is using his Charlotte-calm-down voice, even pulling out his Mississippi drawl, which he knows I think is irresistible. He only uses it when he’s stressed. Or when he’s trying to charm his partner, the adorable Stephen. Or when he’s trying to get me to relax. It sometimes works on Stephen. It hardly ever works on me.

  “Listen, Franko, Susannah’s a glitz-addled, glam-loving, ratings-addicted Chanel-worshipping…um, um, um…consultant.” I finally spit out the word. “Are we not reporters? Did we not go to journalism school in order to enrich, enlighten and inform? Would Edward R. Murrow do a story about how to tell if the purse you’re buying is fake?”

  “Technically, I was the only one of us who went to journalism school.” Franklin’s voice has a smile in it now. “You majored in Shakespeare, if I remember correctly. And as I said, we offered to give them the inside scoop about where the fake bags come from. A big investigation. But they want—”

  “They want shopping!” I stand, phone in one hand, pacing back and forth on the fake oriental rug, pointing one finger accusingly at no one. “This summer we got an innocent woman out of prison. Last fall, we broke the story of a mammoth insider-trading conspiracy. And now they want us to follow those with a story on how to tell whether your Fendi is really a Fakey? It’s pitiful.”

  “It’s the demos,” Franklin replies. “Women aged eighteen to forty-nine want—”

  “I’m eighteen to forty-nine,” I retort. For three more years, at least. Two, actually. I keep forgetting my intentionally ignored August birthday. “And what I want is a real story. So here’s what we’re going to do.”

  By the time the room-service cart arrives with my grilled chicken salad with no onions or croutons and balsamic vinaigrette on the side, two Diet Cokes, a white wine and a pot of tea, Franklin and I have cooked up our scheme. We’re going to pretend to do the story about counterfeit designer bags Susannah Smith-Bagley and news director Kevin O’Bannon want for the November ratings sweeps. But we’re also going to work on a different story. The investigative story about phony bags we want to do. And then when our bigger and better story turns out to be an investigative blockbuster, they’ll forget about their wimpy little feature. It’s a gamble, we agree. And it could be somewhat professionally risky, we agree. But we both agree it must be done. And we have a month or so to pull it off.

  “And, Franko, let me tell you what’s going to make it all possible.” I fill him in on Regine and her Designer Doubles luggage.

  When I finish, he’s silent.

  “Franko?” I prod him. “Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that just a gift from the journalism gods? I mean, if I hadn’t gotten off the plane, I never would have met her. Never gotten the lead on the purse parties. And now all we have to do is check out the Web site on the Designer Doubles card, and then plan our next moves.”

  “Charlotte, one more thing,” Franklin says.

  I hear the drawl again, which makes me put down my Diet Coke. And frown. What does he have to calm me down about now? I wait.

  “Speaking of suitcases. I went to baggage claim to pick up yours, you know? When I went to pick up mine?”

  I knew it. “Yeah?”

  “Well, yours…didn’t arrive. It’s lost.”

  I knew it. “What are the odds,” I begin, clipping each word. Bitter. “What are the chances that Every. Single. Time. I take an airplane, my luggage gets lost?”

  “Well, according to the latest Department of Transportation statistics I checked,” Franklin replies, “on the airline we flew, an average of one out of every—”

  Of course Franklin knows the real answer. I don’t want the real answer. I want my suitcase. Which has my—I won’t even think about what’s in it. The airlines always lose my suitcases. But I always put my name inside and I always get them back. This time will be no different.

  “What did you bring me, Charlie Mac?” Penny’s scampering in front of me, then behind me, then trying to peer into my tote bag as we make our way up the walk to Josh’s front door. The last of the fiery dahlias lining the path are struggling to flower, the ancient sugar maples in his yard beginning to promise their fall intensity. Tradition has it they were planted by the blueblood Bexter family themselves when they founded their namesake academy just outside Boston more than a hundred years ago. Now faculty housing, which looks more like a cozy Cotswolds village, winds through the narrow streets. Josh, on the Bexter board and head of the English Department, lives at number 6. At Bexter, the lower the number, the higher the prestige.

  “And how are you, Pen?” I ask with a smile. “I missed you, too.”

  Penny ignores my mild attempt at sarcasm. Or maybe nine-year-olds are immune to comments or criticism from the girlfriend-of-their-divorced-father. Penny and I had a rocky start. I was invisible for a while. Next she
went through a phase of referring to me as “Um.” As in, “Um, Mom always lets me stay up till ten.” That was followed by a month or so of territory-marking, consisting of her jockeying for position next to Josh in restaurants and movies, as well as her insistence on wearing Josh’s T-shirts as “dresses” at every possible moment. Then one day this summer, out of nowhere, she called me “Charlie Mac.” And that’s who I’ve been since then.

  But although Penny now sees me, she doesn’t always hear me.

  “And Aunt Maysie says the baby’s coming in three months. Like a Christmas present.”

  Penny’s oversized Bexter sweatshirt, of course, belongs to Josh. The sleeves are rolled into doughnuts around her slender wrists. Her stick-straight brown hair is held back, unsuccessfully, with two pink butterfly barrettes. As always, she needs her bangs trimmed. She’s still in her beloved pink-flowered flip-flops, hanging on to summer.

  “And she says the baby can be like my sister, too. Like my pretend sister. So she’ll be Molly’s real sister, and my pretend sister. And she says you’re going to do her radio show when she has the baby. It’s so cool your best friend is on the radio. And on TV, too. Like you. Are you going to be on the radio? Can I be on the radio with you? Molly says…”

  “My flight was fine, thanks.” I continue my side of our separate conversations. “Crack of dawn. I came right here from the airport. Haven’t even had breakfast. I’ve got to get to the station soon and then back to the airport, but your Dad left me a phone message, saying to come right over.”

  Then, I give up.

  “And of course I brought you something,” I say. Defeated by a nine-year-old. As we reach the front door, I put down my bag, and give Penny a hug, feeling her little head burrow into my chest, smelling the shampoo in her tangle of nut-brown hair. I also pick up a faint scent of…chocolate? Could this be my new life? A daughter to greet me? A house in a neighborhood?