And it made Griff queasy to think of Laura Speakman being subjected to Rodarte’s violence as Marcia had been. Given half a chance, Rodarte would hurt her and not think twice about it. He’d already noticed her, spoken of her in terms that enraged Griff.
Noticing Ellie’s look of concern, Griff relaxed his stance and smiled. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just needed a sounding board, and you’ve always been a good one.”
She got up and took his hand again. “More than anything, I want you to be happy, Griff.”
“Happy?” He repeated the word as though it was of another language. Happy seemed an unattainable goal.
“Have you got a job yet?”
“I’m looking into some things. One will open up soon.”
“In the meantime, what are you doing for money?”
“My lawyer sold all my stuff. There was a little left after he paid the fines and such. What wasn’t sold he put in a warehouse. I cleared it out a few weeks ago. Sold a few things on eBay. I’m doing okay.”
She pulled her handbag off the peg near the back door and took a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet. “Here.”
He staved her off. “Ellie, I can’t take that.”
“Yes you can. I insist. It’s part of my Hawaii money.”
“Hawaii money?”
“After years of my pestering him about it, Joe’s finally consented to take me to Hawaii later this summer. I’ve saved some spending money. If you don’t take this, I’ll buy fifty dollars’ worth of tacky souvenirs I don’t need and will never want to look at again. Take it.”
He took it. Not because he wanted to or needed it but because she wanted to give it to him, and she needed him to accept it. “I’ll pay you back.”
They heard the car at the same time. She looked up at him, gave him a very weak smile of reassurance, and turned to face the back door as Coach came in. “Whose car—”
That was as far as he got. Seeing Griff in his kitchen stopped him in his tracks. His sparse hair had gone grayer. He’d put on maybe ten pounds, but he was still as solid as a brick wall, not fat. There were more squint lines extending from the corners of his eyes, showing up white against his perpetually sunburned face. Otherwise he looked much the same as he had the day he’d brought Griff to this house almost twenty years ago.
Griff registered all this within the span of a second, which was only as long as Coach stood still before continuing on his lumbering way through the kitchen, past the living room, and down the hall. The slamming bedroom door echoed loudly through the house.
It was a while before Ellie spoke. “I’m sorry, Griff.”
“I didn’t expect him to be glad to see me.”
“He is. He just can’t show it.”
Griff didn’t have the heart to disabuse her. “I’ve gotta go.”
She didn’t argue. At the door, she looked at him with concern. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I never got an opportunity to tell you this, but when all that happened five years ago, I hurt for you. What you did was wrong, Griff. Very wrong, and you have no excuse for doing it. But I couldn’t have hurt more for you if you’d been my own flesh and blood.”
“I know that.” His voice was dangerously rough.
“Don’t get discouraged.” She patted the back of his hand. “The best for you is yet to be. I’m certain of it.”
He didn’t disabuse her of that, either.
“Need help with that, ma’am?”
Laura turned, ready to accept the kind offer of assistance. But when she saw Griff Burkett, her smile froze in place as her eyes filled with alarm. “What are you doing here?”
He lifted the large box she was carrying out of her arms, which seemed to have gone boneless at the sight of him. “Where were you taking this?”
She continued to gape at him.
“You keep looking at me like that, you’re going to attract attention,” he said. “Where were you taking the box?”
“To my car.” She nodded in the direction of the reserved spaces in the executive parking lot, not too far from the employee entrance from which she had emerged. She glanced around nervously. Rows of cars baked beneath the blazing sun, but there was no one else around, which was why she’d been carrying the box in the first place.
The building that housed the corporate offices of SunSouth Airlines was one of Dallas’s famed contemporary structures, built basically of glass held together by a framework of steel. So anyone looking out from this side of the building had an unrestricted view of the parking lot and could see her with him, possibly even recognize him.
However, if he hadn’t been this close, she probably couldn’t have identified him herself. He’d altered his appearance with a baseball cap and sunglasses. He had on a faded T-shirt that was nearly thread-bare, knee-length shorts with a ragged hem, and sneakers instead of cowboy boots. But his height and the width of his shoulders were impossible to disguise, although he attempted to by walking in a slouch.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated.
“I know it’s against the rules.”
“Foster would—”
“Go apeshit, I know. But it was important that I see you.”
“You could have called.”
“Would you have taken the call?”
Probably not,
she thought. “Okay, you’re here. What’s so urgent? Are you backing out?”
He stopped, turned to her. “Do you want me to?”
“You left saying you didn’t need this shit, remember?”
“And you reminded me how much I do.”
They looked at each other for several seconds, then simultaneously remembered how vulnerable they were to being seen together and resumed walking in the direction of the reserved spaces.
“Which one’s yours?”
“The black BMW.”
“Hit the trunk button.”
She juggled her keys, depressed the button, and the lid of her trunk automatically opened. He lowered the cumbersome box and placed it inside. “What’s in here? For being so bulky, it’s light.”
“An airplane model. I’m taking it home.”
“To Speakman? I notice he didn’t come to work today.”
He was still bent at the waist, fiddling with the box. To a casual observer it would have looked as though he was situating it in the trunk to prevent damage during transport.
“How do you know that?”
“Because that first parking slot has his name stenciled on it, and it’s empty. I know he wasn’t here earlier because I’ve been staked out across the street—”
“Staked out?”
“At that pizza place. For hours. Watching this door, waiting for an opportunity to talk to you.”
“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until the next time we meet?”
“Will there be a next time?” He straightened up and turned to face her.
She gave a small bob of her head.
“You, uh—”
“Yes. Day before yesterday.”
“Oh.”
He just stood there.
She examined her keys.
Forever.
Then he said, “You must’ve been disappointed.”
“Of course I was.
We
were. Foster and I.” Drawing a quick breath, she said, “So, you and I must meet again.” Having avoided looking at him except peripherally, she tilted her head back and looked directly into the opaque lenses of his sunglasses. “Unless you resign.”
“We’ve been over that.”
“Then what’s so important that you came here?”
“I came to warn you.”
She had expected a demand for more advance money. Maybe even an apology for what he’d said to her before he left last time. But a warning? “Warn me about what?”
“A couple weeks ago. When we were together. You saw the bruises on my face?”
“And your hip.”
He tilted his head, and she knew that if she could see into his eyes they would be looking at her curiously. There was only one way she would have known about the bruises on his butt, and she’d given herself away. But to try to maneuver herself out of the blunder would only make it more awkward.
“What about the bruises?” she asked impatiently.
“I wish I could say the other guys looked worse.”
“Guys? More than one?”
“Two. I was jumped in a restaurant parking lot and beaten up. A few weeks before that, a friend of mine got it even worse.” His lips formed a hard, thin line. “Much worse. And hasn’t recovered yet.”
Laura couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What are you into?”
“Nothing!”
“You and your friend got beaten up over
nothing
?”
“Listen to me,” he said, bending nearer, talking quickly and softly. “It goes back to five years ago, but it has nothing to do with me now. Except that there’s this asshole who’s made it his life’s mission to ruin my life. His name is Stanley Rodarte. He drives an ugly, olive green car. If you see him, stay out of his way. Under no circumstances let him get near you while you’re alone. Are you hearing me?”
“I’m rarely alone.”
“You were just now. Look how easy it was for me to get close to you.” As though to emphasize that, he looked down at the space between them, which was less than a foot.
“I appreciate the warning,” Laura said, distancing herself, and more than just physically. “But your extracurricular activities have nothing to do with Foster and me. This Stanley whatever poses no threat to us.”
“Rodarte, and the hell he doesn’t,” he said, pushing the words out. “Listen to me. He’s dangerous. Given a chance, he would hurt you, in ways you probably can’t even imagine. This is no bullshit. He—”
“Laura?”
They jumped guiltily at the sound of another voice. She turned and spotted Joe McDonald approaching them from the next row over. “Hi, Joe,” she called, trying to sound normal and glad to see him.
“Remember what I told you,” Griff said in an undertone, then he walked quickly away.
Forcing herself to move, Laura headed off the marketing head, who was looking curiously after Griff’s tall figure as he wove between the rows of cars. “Who was that?”
“Someone cutting across our parking lot. Lucky for me. He saw me lugging the box with the Select model in it and offered to carry it for me.”
“Where was the guard at the door?”
“He wasn’t there when I came through, and I didn’t want to wait.” Without it being obvious, she steered Joe toward the entrance. “I’m eager to get the model home and show Foster.”
“So tonight’s the big night?”
“It is. Wish me luck.”
As they approached the entrance, she glanced casually over her shoulder. Griff Burkett had disappeared.
L
AURA DIDN’T TELL FOSTER ABOUT GRIFF BURKETT’S UNEXPECTED
appearance.
Ordinarily she didn’t keep anything from her husband. But she was reluctant to share Burkett’s warning about a man in a green car because even a hint of her being in danger would send Foster into a tailspin. He would respond in typical Foster fashion; she would have armed guards within an hour.
Furthermore, she wanted nothing else competing for Foster’s attention tonight.
She changed clothes before coming down to dinner, putting on a simple black dress that was one of his favorites. She took extra time with her hair and makeup. She applied fragrance.
Descending the staircase, she realized she had butterflies, and that nervousness surprised her. But then, she reminded herself, she’d been preparing for this night for months. A little stage fright was understandable.
She barely touched her meal, but Foster didn’t notice because he was enthusiastically telling her about a new exercise Manuelo had incorporated into his physical therapy sessions.
“It’s helping to strengthen my back and arms. I’ve noticed a big improvement already.”
“Did he learn the technique at that seminar you enrolled him in last month?”
“Yes. Obviously he’s a quick study.”
“He would be even quicker if he knew English.”
“He’s a very proud man.”
“How would learning English damage his pride?”
“He would regard it as a betrayal of his heritage.”
Before she could comment further, he asked about her day at the office. “I’m glad you mentioned it,” she said, giving him a mischievous smile. “I have a surprise for you after dinner.”
When they were done with the meal, she asked him to follow her from the dining room. He rolled the wheels of his chair forward and backward three times before moving ahead. He’d adopted that habit a few weeks ago.
Also, plastic containers of hand sanitizer had begun showing up everywhere. Initially he’d used them when he thought she wasn’t looking. Now dozens of them were scattered throughout the house so that one was always within Foster’s reach. Cleanliness and germ killing had always been obsessions, but these recent signs of his OCD disturbed her. She would insist he speak with his psychiatrist about these manifestations.
But tonight they would not address his disorder or anything else negative. Besides, once Foster was focused on the project she was about to introduce, his symptoms would probably recede again.
She’d set up everything in the den beforehand. Leading him to the closed door, she pushed it open and dramatically intoned, “Introducing SunSouth Select.” She stepped aside so he could see the prominently displayed artist’s rendering, the banner she’d had made bearing the new logo, the graphs and charts standing on easels for quick reference, and the model.
Looking a bit overwhelmed by the visuals, Foster did the three-times back-and-forth routine, then slowly rolled his chair into the room. “What’s all this?”
“An innovation in airline service, conceived with frequent fliers and business travelers in mind,” she said, as though addressing a room full of people from a podium. “Allow me?”
“By all means.”
She stood before him as though assuming center stage. “SunSouth Select will offer red-carpet treatment on a limited number of flights from Dallas to high-density destinations. Houston, Atlanta, Denver, Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., New York. One early morning flight. One late evening.
“Select will be for members only. Fliers will be prescreened and registered. They will have passes enabling them to avoid the normal airport security checks. Select will provide white-glove baggage handling. Car service to and from the airport would be optional but recommended to guarantee even better service and fewer of the hassles normally associated with business travel.
“Airplanes designed for one hundred thirty passengers would be reconfigured to accommodate fifty. Even the overseas carriers who cater to their first-class passengers would pale in comparison to the pampering given the subscribers to SunSouth Select.
“Expensive? Definitely. But less expensive than owning even a fractional share of a private jet, and much more leg- and headroom,” she added with a smile. “For what a business executive would spend chartering a private jet to these destinations, he could fly in much more comfort with specially trained flight attendants waiting on him. Or her.”
So far Foster had said nothing, but he was listening.
She continued. “Because it would operate under the auspices of SunSouth Airlines, the traveler would be assured of Select’s dependability, stringent safety standards, and incomparable efficiency.
“That efficiency is SunSouth’s trademark, but it hasn’t come without a price. The one criticism often heard, especially from the frequent business passenger, is that SunSouth is equivalent to traveling in a Greyhound bus. Ten months ago, the airline began offering a reserved seat as opposed to first-come-first-served. That’s proven to be a hugely successful option.
“Eighteen point three percent of our passengers are willing to pay the additional twenty dollars per ticket to guarantee a reserved seat and have the convenience of boarding first. Extrapolating, if even one half of one percent of those eighteen point three percent buy a membership in SunSouth Select, the airplanes will fly full.
“In recent years, private jet ownership has become extremely competitive, but this mode of transportation is still affordable to only a minuscule percentage of travelers. On the one hand, you have no-frills airlines, like SunSouth and Southwest. On the other, private jets.
“SunSouth Select would fill the gap in between. That gap is projected to widen as carriers decrease first-class service in favor of economy travel. Granted, it’s a narrow margin of the marketplace, but a vital one because it caters to those who
must
and
do
fly tens of thousands of miles each year. Fortunately, those fliers are also the ones who have the funds to spend on air travel. If SunSouth doesn’t claim that niche in the marketplace, a competing airline will. Select will ensure that SunSouth maintains its position as a leader in the airline industry.”
It was the planned wrap-up to her pitch. When Foster was certain she had concluded, he rolled his chair forward and back three times, then moved to the table where she had placed the model. One side of the fuselage had been made of clear plastic so that the interior, which far surpassed even the most luxurious and roomy first-class cabins, was visible. He studied it for what to Laura seemed an interminably long time.
Finally he spoke. “It’s been tried before. Rolls-Royce service for Rolls-Royce prices. Those airlines didn’t last long.”
She had an answer for that argument. “They didn’t sell memberships. They relied on single bookings, so they ran into cash-flow problems. We would sell memberships, renewable annually. Before the first plane ever took off, we’d have operating capital to sustain the service for at least a year. And earning interest at the same time.”
“The membership would entitle the passenger to fly a given number of segments?”
“Miles, actually, since some of the segments are longer than others. We’re thinking in the neighborhood of seventy-five thousand miles. If the member doesn’t fly them all, he forfeits them. If he flies above that number, for each additional flight, he pays a fee equivalent to the price of a first-class ticket on another airline.”
“And those numbers work?”
“It’s in the syllabus.” She passed him a three-ring binder with the SunSouth Select logo embossed on the leather cover. He studied the logo but returned the binder to the table unopened.
“How much would we have to charge for the memberships?”
“As I said, the syllabus contains several financial projections. If we charge this much, our margin of profit would be larger than if we charged that much.”
“I know what a financial projection is, Laura.”
Taken aback by his tone, she murmured, “Of course you do. I just wanted you to understand that this is all preliminary.”
“Really? It seems so well thought out.”
“I’ve worked on it long and hard, Foster. I’ve tried to think through every aspect and contingency.”
“Who else has been in on it?”
She laughed. “That makes it sound like a conspiracy.”
“It sort of looks like a conspiracy. A few weeks ago when I asked you if the mice were playing while the cat was away, I meant it as a joke.”
“Are you angry?”
Forward, back, forward, back, forward, back, then over to the bar, where he poured himself a shot of scotch. He didn’t offer to pour her one. “What does the TSA say about these special passes issued to members?”
“It isn’t a new idea. Passes for frequent fliers is a topic already on the table. Some are already in use at selected airports.”
“Where would the planes come from?”
“With so many airlines reducing flights for economic reasons, we could buy the grounded planes for pennies on the dollar.”
“It would still cost millions. Millions more to convert them to that,” he said, gesturing toward the model.
“SunSouth has an extensive line of credit. We borrow the money—”
“And if this concept fails, we’re stuck with a huge debt and no way to pay it back.”
“We would incorporate those newly purchased planes into our normal operation. Our planes always fly full, usually they’re oversold, and we were planning to expand the fleet next year anyway.”
He finished his scotch in one swallow, then went back to the bar, took a cocktail napkin, and wiped the rim of his empty glass, circling it three times, before placing it in the rack beneath the sink. He replaced the stopper in the crystal decanter and put it back exactly where it had been. He used one of the bottles of hand sanitizer.
Finally he said, “It’s all very speculative, Laura.”
“And preliminary. I said as much. It needs a lot of fine tuning. I’m relying on you for that.”
He didn’t address that. “The likelihood of it succeeding is slim.”
“So was the likelihood of SunSouth’s making it when you took over. Everyone told you there wasn’t room for another commercial airline based in Dallas. Economists said you were crazy. Business analysts laughed in your face. You didn’t listen. You steamrolled over the skeptics. You didn’t let anything keep you from realizing your dream.”
“I wasn’t a cripple then.”
If he’d slapped her, she couldn’t have been more shocked. Indeed, he had struck her where he knew it would hurt the most. She stared at him, then, recovering from her initial astonishment, turned and headed for the door.
“Laura. Laura, wait! I’m sorry.” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. He came up behind her and reached for her hand. “God, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
He pulled her down onto his lap, took her head between his hands, forcing it around so she would have to look at him. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her cheek, then her lips. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
Hearing genuine regret in his voice, she relaxed her posture. “Why would you say something like that, Foster?”
“It was uncalled for. Completely.”
She looked over his shoulder at the display, which represented so many hours of labor for her and many others. “I thought this would excite and invigorate you.”
He stroked her hair. “I ruined your surprise with my negativity. I apologize for that. Especially since you’ve already had one letdown this week.”
He was talking about her period. True, that was a letdown, but she wouldn’t be distracted from this subject by talking about that. “Do you hate the idea of SunSouth Select?”
“It’s a lot to absorb in fifteen minutes.” His gentle smile was an attempt to soften the blow, as were his carefully chosen words. “You’ve had months to fuel your enthusiasm. I was blindsided. Give me some time to mull it over.”
“But your initial reaction is thumbs down.”
“Not at all. It’s cautiously favorable to an idea that needs further study.”
Which translated to thumbs down.
He guided her head to his shoulder. “In the meantime, congratulations on a job well done. It’s one of the best presentations I’ve ever heard.”
He was rejecting the idea but giving her an A for effort. She hated being patronized but was too downcast to take issue with it tonight. She’d poured all her energy into the presentation. Now that it was over, and hadn’t yielded the result she’d wished for, she felt hollow and depleted.
“Now,” he said, as though a minor matter had been dealt with and dismissed, “tell me what else happened today.”