Her smile is warm. “How was your flight from Boston?”
“Oh, it was fine.” Besides a bickering couple and a coffee-boob stain. “Somehow, I have a feeling it won’t compare to this one.” My eyes travel to the private jet, parked on the runway outside.
Samantha’s gaze follows mine. “Ever flown private before?”
“Actually, I’d never even been on an airplane until about seven hours ago.”
Her smile widens. “Well, you’re in for a treat, then. Flying private puts first class to shame.”
I think it’s best not to mention the fact that I spent my first leg of this voyage sandwiched in a middle seat in steerage.
“Any problems with your luggage?” she asks.
“They took it from me at the curb.” I pause. “Some rude guy did try to swipe it at baggage claim earlier, though.”
“Really?” Samantha’s eyebrows lift in two perfect blonde arcs. Her nose wrinkles, as though she can’t fathom a world in which one might handle their own luggage, let alone have it nearly snatched off the conveyer belt.
Okay, so technically I was the one doing the snatching.
Whatever.
“He was extremely rude.” I flush again at the memory of his intent green eyes. “I thought he was going to rip the bag right out of my hands.”
“Oh my,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Did you talk to airport security about him?”
“No, it wasn’t worth going to all that trouble. In the end, I got my bag. That’s really what counts.” I shrug. “And… he wasn’t violent, just—” An utter ass. “—a bit hotheaded. Thankfully, I’ll never see him again.”
“Still, I’m sorry to hear your trip started on such strange footing! I promise, it’ll all be downhill from here. You’re going to adore the South Pacific.”
“I really can’t wait.”
After another moment of pleasantries, Samantha excuses herself to go speak with her husband, who’s still fully entrenched in a business meeting with his co-workers from the Flint Group. My eyes move to Sophie. She’s sitting directly across from me, studying my every detail with narrowed, periwinkle blue eyes. Her cute-as-a-button face cants at an angle as she considers me.
I hold her stare and await her judgment.
Aside from dogs and horses, I’ve always thought kids are the best judges of character on the planet. Tiny bullshit detectors — they can see through you in an instant. Generally speaking, if you don’t like kids… it’s probably because kids don’t like you.
“What’s in your backpack?” she asks, breaking her silence as curiosity finally gets the best of her. I hide a grin as I pull the bag up onto the coffee table.
“Want to see?”
She nods.
I slide over on the cushion until I’m right beside her. Yanking open the drawstring of my backpack, I pull out a coloring book and a massive pack of crayons. “Do you want to color with me?”
Sophie’s eyes light up. She doesn’t respond audibly, except for an excited intake of air which I take as a resounding yes. After much deliberation, she settles on a garden scene in the middle of the book. I work on the flowers at the edge while she meticulously applies various shades of brown to the squirrel centerfold.
Watching her color from the corner of my eye, I find myself somewhat taken aback. I’ve never seen such concentration in a five-year-old. She’s so very serious. Almost… somber. It’s an eerie trait, in a child. She’s more self-contained than most adults I know.
I study her perfectly groomed pigtails, not a hair out of place. Her pale pink dress looks freshly ironed. There are no runs in her tights, no smudges on her shoes. Not a single stain or trace of wear anywhere, so far as I can tell. Her white sweater has pearl buttons, for god’s sake. I don’t doubt for a minute that they’re real. She looks more like a china doll than a little girl.
I can’t help but wonder about her life.
Do they ever let her play? Run through the dirt? Splash in a puddle? Roll in the grass? Skin her knees? Jump in a pile of fresh-raked leaves?
I can’t see Mrs. Flint, with her perfectly manicured fingers and high-fashion ensembles, condoning such behavior.
When Samantha walks back over a few moments later, we’ve nearly finished our picture.
“Look, Mama,” Sophie says, holding up the book for her to see. “Isn’t it pretty?”
“Mmm.” Samantha’s eyes are trained on her cellphone. They dart up for a nanosecond, scan the work of art, and drop back to the screen. “Lovely job, sweetie.”
I swallow down a scoff of disbelief as Sophie slowly lowers the picture book. Our eyes meet across the coffee table. I smile at her as I pass her a purple crayon.
“Hey, Soph, can you show me how you made your flowers so pretty? Mine don’t look half as good.”
She blinks gravely. “That’s because you’re not using two colors.”
“Two colors? Pink and purple?” I gasp. “I didn’t think of that!”
She sighs deeply, as if I’m a total idiot. “Okay, I’ll show you. Pay attention.”
I salute her and am rewarded as she cracks her first smile.
Maybe there’s a little girl beneath all those manners, after all.
We color for a few more moments in silence, until Samantha’s sound of displeasure makes me look up.
“What could be taking so long…” she murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes lock on mine. “We’re supposed to take off in a few moments and we haven’t even boarded.”
“Are we still waiting on someone else?”
She nods. “The photographer Seth hired. He takes brilliant shots, but you know these artistic types — they’re always a loose end in need of tying.”
I nod, as if I know anything about artistic types or their habits. The only real photographer I’ve ever met was the man who took my senior portrait for the yearbook last summer, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t his day job since a few weeks after our photoshoot I saw him working as a barista at the one fancy coffee shop within a twenty-mile radius of my hometown.
“More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me,” Samantha mutters. “I don’t know why we couldn’t just take our own photographs. You know, I’ve built quite a strong social media following with just my iPhone. No need for a telephoto lens and some overrated National Geographic shutterbug who charges an astronomical fee just to take some snapshots. So, he won a Pulitzer or two. I don’t see what the big deal—”
Her stream of words is cut off by the pointed sound of a throat clearing. Before we can even turn our heads to the door, a wry male voice fills the air.
“Three, actually.”
I go totally still at the sound of that sarcastic tone.
No. No. No.
It can’t be…
A low chuckle reverberates from his throat. “Three Pulitzers, that is. But, by all means, if you think your iPhone can outperform my Nikon, I’ll save myself eleven hours on a plane with you.”