Authors: Gayle Roper
She stood at the side of the bed and smiled. Trev had asked her out. On a real date. How long had she dreamed he’d do so? Feeling somewhat giddy she lifted her big suitcase onto the bed. It didn’t matter to her what she wore or where they ate. Anywhere with him would do.
She threw open the lid of her larger suitcase and stared in disbelief.
“Trev!” she shouted. “I’ve got the wrong suitcase!”
J
OANNE PULLED THE BLACK SUITCASE
behind her as she went through the automatic doors back into the Philadelphia airport. She shuddered. Even being close to the huge planes filled her with dread.
As if Vinnie’s attitude wasn’t enough to fry her circuits. She could practically see the anger rising off him in waves, like heat from the sand in high summer. He had never been so abusive before. Even thinking of the names he’d called her and the way he’d wrenched her arm made tears come to her eyes. Sure, he got angry sometimes, but never like today. Not like when he realized the paintings weren’t there because she had taken the wrong bag.
Well, the whole mess would be over soon. She’d get the right suitcase, and Vinnie would forgive her. Even more important, Mr. J would never know.
Oh, please, God, please, God, please, God, let it be so
.
The only trouble with her prayer was that she wasn’t certain God listened to people like her. Didn’t you have to go to church and stuff to be on His good side? Still, He was her best bet, and sad to say, her only bet.
It was all the fault of that lady.
“This is my bag,” she’d said and pulled it right out of Joanne’s hands. Talk about rude!
Joanne stopped inside the airport doors and looked around, not certain what to do. Since Vinnie’s car heater wasn’t working well, she could barely feel her feet in their stiletto-heeled boots. As she wiggled her toes, trying to get some sensation back, she hoped she looked cool and smart. She was afraid she just looked lost and dumb.
For want of a better plan, she went back to where she’d gotten the suitcase. The room with the three baggage carousels was empty except for a man working in a glass booth on the street side of the big room. Several suitcases stood beside his little office, and three stood inside it. She squinted and tried to see if any of them had a red tie on the handle. It didn’t look like it. But maybe the tie had come off and the suitcase was here, just waiting for her. She brightened for a moment.
But if the tie had come off, how would she be able to tell it was hers? The little black cloud that had begun raining on her the moment she got the wrong case dropped another bucketful of water.
“How do you know that’s yours?” the man in the booth would ask her. “There’s no name and no red tie.”
“It’s got stolen paintings in it.”
Right.
She hesitantly went into the office. “Hello.”
The harried-looking man glanced up from his work. “Yes?”
“I got the wrong suitcase.”
The man didn’t move. He just let his eyes slide shut. Joanne could just imagine what he was thinking: another dumb blonde.
“Bad day?” she asked, hoping to make him not be angry at her.
He opened his eyes and gave her a slight smile. “You wouldn’t believe.”
Joanne thought that she would because she knew all about bad days. Lots of her days were bad days. And just look at what today had been like. The baddest of the bad. “I took the wrong suitcase,” she told him again.
“Name?”
“Joanne Pilotti.”
The man consulted some papers, then shook his head. “No
one by that name has called about a missing suitcase.”
“Oh, no.” Joanne leaned on his high counter. “I’m Joanne Pilotti.”
“Ah.” He went back to his papers. “No suitcase belonging to a Joanne Pilotti has been turned in. Where did you come from?”
Joanne blinked. “Seaside.” Why did that matter?
The man looked at her without saying anything for a minute. “No, I mean where did you fly in from.”
“Oh.” Joanne felt herself turn scarlet. Definitely a dumb blonde. “Chicago.”
The man consulted his magic list once more. Then he pointed. “I have two unclaimed suitcases from O’Hare.”
Joanne felt hope like when the sunshine slips out from behind a rain cloud.
The man pointed. “That olive green one and that fake leather one.”
Feeling her hope collapse as surely as big hair in the damp sea air, she shook her head. Vinnie was going to kill her.
“You got a name and an address on that case?” the man asked, indicating the one she pulled.
Joanne nodded. “Dori MacAllister. But she lives in San Diego.”
“Maybe if you call, someone at that address can tell you where she’s staying while she’s here. Maybe she can meet you, and you can trade.”
Joanne stared at the man. What a good idea! Why hadn’t she or Vinnie thought of that? “Thanks!” Rushing away to find Vinnie and tell him about this good idea, she ignored the man as he called, “Hey, give me your address and phone number in case that other woman calls.”
Pulling the wretched suitcase behind her, she hurried to the curb where Vinnie waited in the car. She opened the passenger door and sat, the suitcase still on the sidewalk.
“You make the exchange?” he asked. She could tell by his manner that he was still furious with a little bit of scared thrown in. It was the scared part that worried her. If he was scared—and he hadn’t even made the big mistake of losing the suitcase, though asking for her help might be seen as his big mistake—how should she be feeling?
“The other one’s not here.” She flinched, waiting for his reaction. She half expected him to hit her.
When nothing happened, she opened her eyes. He had both hands wrapped around the steering wheel, probably wishing it was her neck, and he was very, very pale.
She hurried to tell him about the great suggestion from the luggage man. “So we call this lady’s house,” she finished. “We get them to tell us where she’s staying, and we go there and make the exchange.”
Slowly Vinnie turned to look at her. “I don’t believe it. You actually have a good idea here.”
Joanne preened under his praise, her cheeks flushing. “Thanks.”
They drove away from the airport, following the signs for 1-95. Just before the ramp to 1-95 north, Vinnie pulled over on the shoulder of the road. He pulled out his cell phone and punched up information. “I need the phone number of Dori MacAllister,” and he read her address off the suitcase label.
Joanne pulled out a pen and a receipt from her last trip to Wal-Mart. “Repeat it and I’ll write it down.”
“858-555-2394,” he said and punched out. Immediately he punched in the new number. Joanne watched him, thinking how handsome he was with the three studs in his one ear and the snake tattoo that wound around his wrist, across the back of his hand and up his middle finger.
“858-555-5627,” he said, pointing at her. “You got that?”
She wrote furiously. She was pretty sure she had it right. If she had known he was going to throw another number at her like that, she wouldn’t have been daydreaming. “What’s this number?”
“Something called Small Treasures. If you don’t get an answer at the first number, you’re supposed to call Small Treasures.”
“Are they the guys who sent the picture for Mr. J?” Joanne asked.
“You and the picture came from Chicago.” He gave her that you-are-so-stupid look.
“Yeah, but this Dori person was on my plane, and she came from California. Maybe the picture did too.”
Vinnie looked at her with something very like surprise mixed
with admiration, “Maybe you’re right.” He hit his hand against the side of his head. “Twice in less than ten minutes. I can’t stand it.” And he grinned at her for the first time since she’d opened the suitcase.
She sighed. Things were going to work out. She just knew it. And she had another idea. “And the pictures are like small treasures, aren’t they?” she asked again. “Maybe they came from the Small Treasures place.”
Vinnie lifted his hand, and Joanne willed herself not to flinch. She’d thought she had such a good idea. Instead of the slap she expected, Vinnie patted her gently on the shoulder. “Not bad, Joanne. Not bad at all.”
She glowed.
T
REV COULD HEAR
Dori yelling, but he couldn’t make out her words. He took the steps two at a time, Jack thundering beside him. “Dori! What’s wrong?”
He stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom. She stood at the bedside, hands on hips, staring at the open suitcase in front of her. Jack stopped beside her, sniffing the contents of the case, curious about what had upset her so.
“What in the—?” Trev walked over to the bed and stared.
The contents of the case looked like a collection of very worn clothes just dropped off at Goodwill without the prerequisite washing. Shabby T-shirts, torn pajamas, kids’ jeans with holes in the knees. All were neatly folded and carefully packed.
“I took the wrong bag.” Dori said unnecessarily. Her voice was laced with frustration and thick with unshed tears. It was obvious to him that the last two days had brought her close to the breaking point.
He slid an arm around her shoulders to offer comfort just as he had countless other times as they grew up. Interesting how he still saw himself as her protector, her guardian and defender. This time, however, she didn’t lean into him and accept his support.
Sighing inwardly, he let his arm drop. Marriage had
a way of interfering with friendship; at least their marriage did.
“So whose is it?” he asked.
“Oh.” She slammed the lid shut and began searching for a name tag. “There’s no name.” She threw her hands up in aggravation.
He leaned quickly to the side, just missing an inadvertent swat in the head. “Well, let’s call the airport and see if your suitcase is there. If it is, we’ll go get it.”
She sank down on the bed. “I don’t have any clothes.” Jack laid his head on her knee, his dark eyes watching her in commiseration.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get your stuff back.”
“I don’t have any shoes. Just these.” She held out a sneaker-shod foot.
She looked so forlorn that his heart turned over. Poor Dori. “I’m going to go call. You just sit tight.”
She nodded and immediately got up and followed him downstairs. Jack, who seemed as much under her spell as Trev himself, sat at her side when she collapsed into a kitchen chair. She fondled his ears and rested her cheek on his silky head.
Trev called information, then the airport. He punched his way through several prerecorded options until he finally had someone on the line. He dropped into a chair across from Dori and rested his elbow on the table.
“That’s right. A black bag with the name Dori MacAllister on it. It has a piece of red yarn tied to the handle. Yes, from O’Hare.” He repeated the flight number. As he talked, he stared at the container of ivy growing lush and green on the table. He blinked. Ivy? He reached out and touched one of the leaves. It was real, all right. Where had it come from?
“Nothing? You’re sure?” He paused and listened. “Seaside? You’re sure? Yeah, thanks.”
He hung up. “Someone named Joanne Pilotti from Seaside came in looking for this suitcase. She has yours.”
“And she’s from Seaside?” Dori rose. “Phone book?”
“Top drawer beside the dishwasher.”
She opened to the p’s in a flash. “Do you think it’s Pilate like the exercise program or Pilotti like Italian?”
“Look up both and see what’s there.”
There was neither a Pilate nor a Pilotti.
“I bet she only has a cell phone,” Dori said. “So I still don’t have any clothes.” She straightened. “And my books! She’s got my books.”
Trev eyed her cautiously. “What books?”
“My books to read. You know I never go anywhere without something to read.”
He hadn’t known that though now that he thought about it, she frequently had her nose in a book growing up.
“I finished the one I had in my carry-on last night when I couldn’t sleep and you were snoring happily away. How will I ever get to sleep tonight without a book to shut off my mind?”
“By closing your eyes?”
“Funny. But closing your eyes doesn’t turn off your thinking. Reading does that.”
“Oh.” Trev didn’t want to disagree, but closing his eyes had done it for him for years and years. “You know, Ryan and I both have books. You can borrow one of ours.”
“Bioethics and the evangelical community? Though I guess that would put me to sleep, wouldn’t it?”
He watched her smile and purposed to do everything he could to help her smile a lot. Absently he fiddled with the ivy leaves.
“You like it?” Dori asked.
“What? Sleeping? Yeah, I like it a lot. Or reading? I like it too.”
“No, you idiot.” The light tone took away any sting. “The ivy.”
He stilled his hand and studied the plant. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
“Okay? That’s the best you can do?”
She sounded mildly offended, but then he suspected it wouldn’t take much for her to be offended, given her circumstances. Years ago she would have been goading him for the fun of it. Now he wasn’t sure. He looked at her carefully, not certain what she wanted from him. After all, he’d lived in this house for two years without ivy. In fact, he hadn’t even realized he was missing ivy. And it was only ivy, not the cure for cancer. “It’s fine.”
She glared at him, and he knew he’d failed again. Suddenly this marriage thing seemed harder than he’d realized. Then in the
far reaches of his mind, he had a flash of Pop and Honey looking at a flower of some kind that Honey had put on the living room coffee table.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Honey’d said.
“Absolutely,” Pop had answered. “But not as lovely as you.”
And Honey had melted into his arms. When she left the room, Pop put the plant on the floor. “It blocks the TV when I lie down,” he’d said to Trev and Phil. “And it’s just going to die. I don’t get women and flowers.”
Well, a pot of ivy wasn’t lovely, but he could try. “It’s nice and green and bushy.” She still looked unhappy. “Thank you.”
Home run
. She smiled sweetly. “Can we still go out to eat even if I can’t put on clean clothes and real shoes?”