“I’m flying back that morning,” Blaise reminded her again. “I’m taking the early flight and with the time difference, I’ll be here by noon. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the recital. I can even help you dress.” They had picked out a long white silk dress that looked beautiful on Salima, and it had been hanging in her closet for the last month. And she and Lucianna had designed the program and what Salima would be singing. They had chosen all the pieces that best showed off her voice. And she had texted Simon that she wished he could be there too. They had graduation at Caldwell that weekend, and he had to attend. But he couldn’t have gone to the recital because of her mother anyway. After four months of silence between them, he felt awkward about seeing her. He thought about Blaise frequently, and when he asked about her, Salima said that her mother was okay, and he hoped that that was true.
Blaise called Salima from the South of France every day, and reported on the stars she’d seen and the events she’d been to, but by the end of her trip, Salima could only focus on her recital. By the time Blaise was ready to come home, Salima was in a panic over it.
“You have to calm down. It’s going to be fine,” her mother told her.
“No, it’s not, I’ll be awful. And you better not miss your plane. You won’t, Mom, right? They won’t make you stay longer, or send you somewhere else?” It had happened so often before that Salima was afraid she wouldn’t make it this time, and Blaise was terrified of that too. She was so nervous about it that she got up two hours earlier than she needed to, to get to the airport in time to make her plane. And she was leaving her crew at the Hermitage in Monte Carlo to fly home later that day. Blaise was going home early for Salima, and had warned the network that she would.
Blaise checked out of the hotel in plenty of time, and a limousine drove her to the Nice airport. She was catching a direct flight that only ran twice a day from Nice to New York on Air France. And she handed her ticket and passport to an Air France agent at the first-class counter when she arrived. She knew that everything was in order, and she was half an hour early, which was rare for her. Her plans had gone with the precision of a Swiss clock so far that day.
“I’m sorry,” the ticket agent looked at her with regret. “Your flight has been canceled. We had a mechanical problem, and the plane didn’t get here from New York.”
“No,” Blaise said, panicking. “That’s not possible. I have to get to New York.” This couldn’t be happening to her. She wouldn’t let it.
“I understand,” the agent said pleasantly. “We’ll have another plane here in three hours. Your flight to New York will leave at noon.” Blaise made a rapid calculation, and with the time difference, getting through customs and leaving the airport, she could be at the apartment by two o’clock, three at the latest. It was later than she’d promised Salima, but the recital wasn’t until seven o’clock, and Salima didn’t have to leave the house until six. Tully was driving them. And a hairdresser was coming to do Salima’s hair at three.
“All right, that’ll work,” Blaise said, determined not to get excited about it. Even with the delay, she would be there for Salima. Charlie had been very nice about her not being there for the last day of the race. Her crew was covering it for her. Blaise had been at everything else all week, and she had told Charlie she had enough film to give them more than they needed. She went to the first-class lounge then to wait for the flight that was leaving at noon.
She went to the desk in the lounge at eleven, to make sure that everything was on schedule. The woman looked at her computer, and then back at Blaise with a reassuring smile.
“You’re fine.”
“What time will we be boarding?” All Blaise wanted to do was get on the plane. She hadn’t texted Salima about the delay. She didn’t want to worry her, and she would still be home with plenty of time, or just enough to help Salima get ready and dress her.
“Eleven-fifty,” the Air France agent said, still smiling. But the dazzling airline smiles were beginning to look fake.
“Then the flight must be late. It’s supposed to leave at noon. If you board three hundred passengers starting at eleven-fifty, we’re going to leave an hour late.”
“We always make it up in the air,” the woman said. They were the kind of answers that were supposed to lull na?ve passengers into believing they were on time when they weren’t. Blaise knew better. She traveled too much not to know the pat phrases they used when they were lying to their passengers. Blaise did not want to be lied to this time.
“Is the plane here?” Blaise asked, sounding curt, and the woman in the Air France uniform got instantly defensive. Passengers like Blaise who demanded real information were their least favorite to deal with.
“Of course,” she said with a haughty look. But at twelve-fifteen they hadn’t boarded yet, and Blaise was beginning to seriously panic.
“Look, I have to get to New York as soon as possible. I have the feeling you don’t have the plane here yet. I can’t play around here. If I fly back to Paris, what can I get on, to get me to New York?” It would slow her down, she knew, but maybe less than a flight from Nice that might not leave for several hours, and she no longer believed a word the woman said. History had proven her right too many times before, and this time it really mattered to her. She would rather have kept the president of the United States waiting than be late for Salima’s recital or, worse, miss it entirely. She shuddered at the thought.