The international terminal at LAX was a madhouse as usual. It never seemed to matter what time you arrived or departed, day or night, the place was packed. I’d arrived hours early for my flight, surprisingly nervous. My anxiety had nothing to do with the portfolio of Panthéon Sketches in my carry-on. I was nervous to be on my own, solo, leaving the country without a significant other waiting at home. Well, my mother had essentially moved back into the Pasadena house, so she was there, but it wasn’t the same as having a husband in the wings.
I was scheduled on a midmorning flight to Paris on Air France. I had a coach ticket for the flight over and a business class ticket for the flight home. Ideally, I’d be keeping a low profile en route to Paris, traveling like the thrifty tourist I was meant to look like. I was dressed in black: jeans, boots, and leather jacket, with a black cashmere wrap for the plane. I hoped it was nondescript enough for the flight because I knew I’d blend into the crowd as soon as I landed in Paris, the Capital of Black Clothing. I’d worked up my cover story: heartbroken working girl spending a weekend in Paris with an old high school friend, now a glamorous Parisian. Some parts of that were true, so I could stick to my story, even under duress, but I doubted there would be any. The thought made me laugh, a grilling from a French customs agent or a car hijacked by a crazed Joan of Arc devotee.
Polly was thrilled when I told her some business would be taking me to Paris. I hadn’t been specific about the nature of my business, of course, but she was my cover should I encounter a nosy grandma wedged in coach. I’m so excited to see my dear friend Polly in Paris, end of story.
Because the portfolio of drawings was on the small side, the shipping department decided it would be best if I carried it right on the plane, wrapped in protective covering, of course, and slipped into my wheelie bag. Hand-carrying is always the safest option if available. The fewer hands on the art, the less chance that it would go missing. It doesn’t happen often, but enough, so that theft is a concern. All it takes is one truck driver or customs agent or warehouse foreman to be on the take, and an entire shipment disappears en route.
I had the proper paperwork with me as well. All I had to do was get the sketches to Paris, go from the airport to the offices of Margot & Fils, and then arrange for a time to meet the prospective buyer. The agent in Paris was being a bit cagey, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes the agent’s “sure thing” was really more a “vaguely interested” collector, so there was some stalling on their end as they softened up the buyer. They did inform me that the buyer was “rather well-known” and “skittish about public contact.” Frankly, these details just made me feel even more like a CIA agent.
My nerves were starting to subside. I got this.
Until I didn’t. Standing in line at curbside check-in with a suitcase filled with my actual clothes, I locked eyes with Casey, my Casey, one entrance over. Casey and his whole damn family: Marissa, the twins, and a woman who was clearly a nanny. My eyes darted around the scene, taking in the reality of what I was seeing. Casey stood next to Marissa, who was dressed like she was headed somewhere tropical, in a printed maxi dress and a complicated head wrap. He was holding the tickets and the passports; she was typing into her phone and not paying any attention at all to the two boys, who were wearing pajamas, an odd choice for midmorning. The nanny was simultaneously encouraging the boys to settle down and shuffling the five bags along in the line, because clearly Casey and Marissa were too grand to manage their own bags and their own children.
That’s when it hit me: no camera gear. There were none of the telltale equipment cases that accompanied Casey on every work trip I’d ever taken with him, just five suitcases and a golf bag. A golf bag! My outrage was mounting. Marissa and the boys weren’t tagging along on a work trip; they were going on a family vacation. So much for Casey insisting they weren’t together.
And, if the airline was any clue, the Harper Delgado clan was headed to Belize. Freaking Belize, where Casey had refused to go with me a few years ago, calling it “a yuppie version of a Central American country, not a real Central American country like Nicaragua.” All because they spoke English and had luxury resorts with spas. And, really, “yuppie”? Who even said that word anymore? But there it was, right in front of me, Casey and the fam headed to Belize, complete with a nanny and golf clubs. Who’s the yuppie now?
I added up the plane fare alone in my head and realized that Casey must have been doing much better than I’d suspected, thanks to the decade I supported his career, charmed potential clients, and subsidized his housing and lifestyle. Other than when I tagged along on work gigs, he’d never taken me on a real trip out of the country, except a long weekend in Cabo years ago. I needed a second to process all of it: this is what it feels like to do the heavy lifting in a relationship for years and then see the girlfriend reap the spoils.
It was brutal.
I stared at the scene, catching a nasty exchange between the two world travelers, the sort of low-volume hissing that couples engage in when they don’t want to draw attention. Marissa was shaking her phone at him, like she was armed with a lightsaber. Casey looked tired, beaten down, and middle-aged, as if this insta-family had worn away his last shred of hipness and he’d headed down the path of Weary Dad. Marissa snapped at the nanny, instead of at the children, who were spinning like tops and annoying other travelers.
It had been eight weeks since that night in my office. Eight weeks! And I was out of his life completely. My eyes circled back to Casey. Now he was staring at me, his expression slightly ashamed, like a dog caught with a shredded shoe in his mouth. Marissa noticed his gaze and turned my way. She had no shame at all, pulling her spinning children toward her, creating the illusion of a protective wall around Casey. I nodded at the two of them and walked into the terminal.
“Miss Blakely, are you okay?”
I guess I wasn’t if the Air France gate agent thought to inquire. I couldn’t seem to control my shaking hands as I handed her my passport. Was I hyperventilating a touch, too? “I, I . . .”
“Nervous flier?”
“No, just, just . . .” Just what? Furious? Jealous? Humiliated? Yes to all three.
“Do you need me to call someone?” Now she had that “national security concern” look in her eye.
“No, I’ll be fine. I saw my ex-husband with his new family all together for the first time. He, he . . . had an affair and fathered these twins like five years ago but only told me two months ago. And there they all were with the nanny. They were going to Belize. Where he would never take me.” My voice cracked.
The gate agent nodded. Her perfectly tied red, white, and blue silk scarf looked like it was holding her head on. “I remember when I saw my ex with his new wife at Home Depot. They were ordering new kitchen cabinets. For my old house. For my crappy kitchen that I cooked in for years, but he was too cheap to renovate. I wanted to ram them with my new stepladder. Big splurge for me in my crappy condo.” Not exactly the professional behavior they expound in the Air France employee handbook, but I appreciated the sharing. “Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better.” The gate agent pounded away at her computer keys until the very thing came up: a business class upgrade.
“Thank you. That’s so nice of you . . .” I read her name tag. Lisa Wagner, not the slightest bit French. “Thank you, Ms. Wagner.”