Flight 19, Part II, page 10
Joanne squeezed his hands much harder, and as her eyes flickered, she said, “I’m sorry for what I did to your companies. And I’ve asked Ben, Ethan, and Sarah to forgive you too.”
Darcy knew there was no time to explain anything. He also dispensed with looking surprised right now. His wife wouldn’t notice, nor would she care.
Darcy moved closer, and with one hand stroked the side of her face. It was stone cold.
He was closer to his wife now than he’d been in a long time.
Darcy could tell the life in her body was starting to slowly evaporate.
He tried for a grin and said, “Well, I guess that makes us even.”
Tears were in her eyes, and a second later Darcy held her in his arms.
He was just happy to be there at that very place, at that very moment.
As Joanne sat back against her pillow, she reached for both Darcy’s hands again. When he had them in hers, she said, “I’m sorry for what I did to the businesses you loved.”
Darcy went to shake his head, dismissing the need for a second apology, but she said, “So I instructed Andrew to change my will.”
Darcy looked at her perplexed.
“I’ve given Darcon back to you,” she said.
Darcon was Darcy’s baby, and by far his biggest company. None of the others ever really mattered to him. Darcon was the one. It had a yearly turnover of over a billion dollars.
Then she flicked her hand to ask for something he wished, at that moment, he’d done 500,000 times more in the last forty-plus years.
She wanted to kiss him. Darcy sat forward and met his wife’s lips. She held him there for a long time.
When he finally sat back, he could see she’d been crying.
And with one last breath, she broke his heart.
“Please. Forgive me.”
Ross felt a stab of excitement as the phone in his hotel room began to bellow out its rather dull and dated ring tone. His legs couldn’t get him from the bathroom to his bedside table quick enough.
“Ross speaking.” He wondered why he still continued the weird habit of always answering the phone this way rather than just with a plain “Hello?”
The pause on the line was as nerve-racking as it was exciting, until it was finally put to rest.
“Is that my favorite international pilot?” Melanie’s words—or more her velvet-ensconced tone, better suited to a radio commercial plugging something luxurious and expensive—were as good as her standing there with her arms around him.
“That it is.” Ross could feel the days of apprehension evaporate around him in an instant.
“How’s my man going, huh?” she said. Ross could hear she was relaxed and in good spirits. This only made him feel better.
“Much, much better now,” he said. She could almost feel his wide, beaming smile radiating over the thousands of miles of telephone lines.
“You and me both, my darling,” she said after the usual time delay.
Ross sat down and looked out his hotel-room window.
It was another beautiful day in his hometown, and the sun shone brightly across the blue sky. He loved the weather here. When it was good, it was great.
“How did everything go with…” Ross seemed to stumble as many in his shoes would. Verbalizing the name of his girlfriend’s ex—in his mind they were long split up—made him feel slightly awkward.
By the time his words reached Melanie in California, she was already answering him. “It went as well as expected. He’s no different than he ever was, or probably will be in the future.”
Ross took a long and welcome deep breath. So far so good. But he knew if there was any time the proverbial shit would hit the fan, it would be in Sydney.
“So he bought it?” he said.
Ten seconds later, Melanie laughed. “Well, he had to. The security guard at the hospital was like the Rock’s twin brother. Charles may have ended up in hospital in the next room if he really said what he wanted to.” She laughed some more. “My doctor, bless her—she was my savior.”
After what was close to thirty minutes of healthy conversation, there was only one more thing Ross dearly wanted to know.
“Tell me…” he said. He could feel nervousness pooling in his stomach, though he couldn’t understand why.
Before he could ask her the rest of the question, she finished it herself. She seemed to do that a lot lately, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“…will I be there?” Ross could almost see the grin on her face from the other side of the world.
“Well, the good news is, my dear,” Melanie said with excitement, “I’m on the first flight out of here tomorrow.”
Ross wanted to lie on his bed and relax; it was the only news he really wanted to hear. The sooner she got there, the sooner they could be on the fast train to a happy life together. Toot toot.
There’s only one thing, Roscoe.
There would be a boulder the size of the Sydney Opera House sitting right in the middle of the tracks, just a couple of miles up the road.
And the boulder had two names.
Charles.
Lewinson.
Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly. It would have been years ago, he thought, maybe even decades. He slept as close as he could to Sandra, who seemed to welcome his presence right next to her in bed.
When Tim woke to the sounds of the outside world, rousing him as dawn appeared on the horizon, for a split second he had to register the amazing revelation that Sandra was sleeping soundly right next to him, very much alive and well.
He wondered if, from this point on, he’d ever take that simple thing for granted ever again.
Breakfast tasted like he’d never eaten breakfast before. Sandra made pancakes, his favorite and she knew it. The coffee flowed as freely as the conversation, and Tim wondered for the hundredth time if he was in some sort of Lost-style television paradigm, not in his own version of heaven.
After they washed up and Tim was about to head to the shower, Sandra said, “So, what are you going to do now?” For the rest of the day, she meant.
Tim smiled at her for a moment as if he were thinking about it, but it was an act. He’d known precisely what he wanted to do long before she asked—go to his workshop and start working through the long list of things pinging around his head about artifacts and planes traveling five years into the future and then two and a half years back. About wives who one minute were being put into the ground, only to be found alive again elsewhere—or elsewhen. If he wanted a whiteboard to map it all out, hell, he’d need one the size of a IMAX movie screen.
“I’d love to just tinker around the workshop for a while.” He walked to her and gave her a hug. “If that’s alright with you, my love,” he said in her ear. Then he kissed her on the cheek.
“Of course you can, honey,” she said.
Half an hour later, shaved, showered, and feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the day, Tim opened the doors to his favorite place in his home.
Once the doors were open, he stole a glance down his long driveway. It would be a habit that never left him, just what he would now always do. Without anything or anyone in sight, he returned his attention to the inside of the workshop.
Like a time capsule, everything was in order, neat as a pin. His son had once said, “OCD” under his breath one day in the workshop, just loud enough for his old man to hear. And Tim had responded, “When you get to my age, you can be as OCD as you want, boy.”
So he liked things to be in order, Tim thought to himself, recalling the exchange many years ago. If that’s OCD, to hell with it—call me guilty as charged.
There was a fine layer of dust over everything. Tim ran his index finger across the workbench. He knew by morning tea, every surface would be so clean, you could eat a burrito straight off them, followed by a shot of tequila.
As Tim worked his way from one end of the workshop to the other, removing every speck of dust from every inch of the space, he came across Ben’s box, in which he’d discovered some unusual things six months or so ago.
Instinctively, and with curiosity the driving force, Tim pulled the box out and onto the floor.
He assumed that when he opened the lid, he’d see exactly what he saw six months ago.
And sure enough, the small box of coffee-machine pods was in the same place as last time.
The blank piece of dirty paper was sitting underneath, bound to the box with an elastic band. He pulled it out and took it over to his workbench.
“You and your unique inventions,” Tim said to himself, smiling as he lay the piece of paper out on the now-clean workbench.
He knew there was no point getting out the motor oil and wiping the paper with it. He already knew what it would say.
But then he had another thought, about what Sandra had said last night.
Hawaii.
Ben had made her stay.
His eyes found the shelf nearby.
The small bottle of motor oil sat there looking at him.
Tim could feel his heart beating a little faster.
He poured the motor oil out onto the paper, just as he had done six months earlier.
Then he carefully wiped it over the entire page, and let it seep in for a moment.
He took a deep breath and picked up the now-soaked piece of paper.
As he held it there, up in the air, the words started to appear.
Three seconds later, his heart froze solid in his chest.
He read the words again, and thought back to what the message had said six months ago.
The message was completely different.
“Meet me at Shirley. ASAP.”
Chapter Seventeen
Melanie’s flight was due to touch down in Sydney late the following evening, and Ross was counting down the hours to her arrival.
After a long shower and some breakfast, he decided one thing he could get out of the way while he was waiting was his desire to go to his mother’s dingy little flat for the final time. It would be his way of saying goodbye.
“Make sure I’m not buried in the ground,” she’d told him a few times over the years. She preferred to be cremated and have her ashes spread out at one of the coastal beaches Sydney was famous for. She didn’t care which one, she told Ross, just as long as her ashes were washed into the ocean. That was her wish. She told Ross she didn’t want him to ever have the obligation of visiting a tombstone—it wasn’t her cup of tea. All she asked for instead was that for the first five years after her passing, he light a candle on her birthday and sing aloud her favorite song of all time, “Mull of Kintyre,” by Paul McCartney and Wings. Ross loved it as much as his mother did, and would ensure he followed her wishes.
To avoid the crippling peak-hour traffic that choked Sydney most mornings, Ross decided to go to the hotel gym and work out until at least 10am.
By the time he stepped out of the hotel doors, it was closer to 10.30. He welcomed another sunny day in the harbor city.
The taxi ride to Crows Nest was okay. Ross hadn’t been over the Harbour Bridge for what felt like years, though in reality it was closer to seven months. Not that he could tell the cab driver; the guy’s English was as bad as his body odor.
As the cab drew closer to his mother’s flat, Ross could feel himself starting to get anxious.
He assumed he wouldn’t be able to go inside. Her flat would have been sold. And even if he could, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
When he stepped out of the cab, he welcomed the outside air, hoping the next one he took was driven by someone who’d showered recently.
Ross turned his gaze to the block of flats and nearly fell over.
Looking at his mother’s allocated car space—not that she had owned a car for many years—his heart skipped a beat. A moment later, the feeling went from shock to anger.
In the car spot sat a large Ford pickup: an F250. It was weather-beaten and seriously unroadworthy.
But it was the pickup’s number plates that had Ross balling his hands into fists without even knowing he was doing it.
The number plates were from Queensland.
Far.
North.
Queensland.
Todd didn’t move an inch.
He could feel the tension coursing through his body. His breaths were short and difficult, as though his throat were the width of a drinking straw.
There.
He’d said the words he’d been dying to fling in his father’s face ever since he walked through the DONR doors and Andrew had appeared out of thin air.
Andrew was a strong, fit man, and quite intimidating when he wanted to be. His police career was largely built on his physique, bravado, and testicles the size of well-grown avocados. He was known for his toughness and lack of fear at times when other “tough” guys would be running in the opposite direction.
Todd was ready to punch on with his father if required. The anger had pent up since finding the photo in his dead half-brother’s hand. After ending his life for killing his trophy father, it had ignited the pilot light under a fury Todd had never experienced in his life.
His gut burned with insane rage, all directed at the very guy standing directly in front of him.
Andrew stood looking at Todd, devoid of any expression.
The guy knew how to negotiate AK-47s out of trigger-happy, high-as-a-kite thugs. It was all about the expression, to start with.
But none of them had been his son—the guy who knew Andrew Roberts better than anyone else did.
Todd had seen this expression plenty of times before, so it went straight over his head.
Andrew turned back to his home. He did it slowly, deliberately, as if Todd had just cut him open and revealed the guy’s biggest secret to all four judges on America’s Got Talent.
He inched forward just a little, and in a sharp, cold tone said to Todd, finally, “Who?”
Todd didn’t flinch. He narrowed his eyes, and without any delay, said in a whisper, “Your illegitimate son, Dad.”
Andrew bit his lower lip hard, as if trying to hold back the monster within, before taking a long, deep breath.
“This conversation will continue later.” Andrew stole another surreptitious glance back to the house. He wanted to ensure Kylie hadn’t come out to ask what the two men were talking about.
He continued to stand there, giving his son the coldest look he’d ever given him.
Todd didn’t budge. He’d been through enough in the last week or so to not be perturbed.
As Andrew slowly headed back to the front door, Todd threw one last grenade at his long-revered old man.
“I’m going to find him, you know.”
If he’d heard what Andrew had said under his breath, with his back to Todd, he probably would have regretted his last comment.
“Not if I find him first.”
Ross had never before gone to the arrivals area of an airport to greet someone arriving. It felt a little strange to enter for this reason and in plain clothes, not in his crisp, dry-cleaned pilot’s uniform.
But he had dressed up just a little. Greeting the woman you were head over heels for in public, especially at the airport, called for a little bit of style.
His mustard-colored chinos complimented a crisp white shirt and navy-blue suit jacket, and he wore his Berluti shoes more as a joke than out of a desire to look like a male model at a Paris fashion show. It was the same pair he’d worn when he met Melanie for the first time at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and he remembered how much she seemed to love them.
He dawdled around the exit of the customs area after seeing Melanie’s plane had landed.
A few other drivers waiting looked at him twice before turning away and choosing not to look again. Ross knew the reason, and was more embarrassed than anything else. He hoped Melanie wouldn’t freak out when she walked through the doors. He wished he were the type to be able to put foundation on to hide the, err, blemish.
Ross knew that before too long, she’d be walking through the doors, and ideally she’d be able to run straight into his arms. But they had discussed all this, and knew it would be too risky under the circumstances.
Ross pulled out a piece of paper neatly folded in the side pocket of his jacket, and as he unfolded it, couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear.
The idea was as simple as it was cunning.
As the doors opened, he moved closer to the others standing there.
He adjusted his sunglasses on his head, seeing how the other guys wore theirs. He was getting in on the disguise of sorts, and wanted to look like the rest of the dozen or so drivers standing there waiting to pick up their paying passengers.
His piece of paper had the words “melanie lewinson” written neatly in block letters.
A large number of passengers started to filter out through the custom doors, most with trolleys full of suitcases, others with just the one on four wheels, keen to be on their way.
Then there were a small handful who only had carry-on luggage, small bags they carried with ease.
Melanie Lewinson was one of them.
When she saw Ross, her eyes lit up. He started to walk alongside her with the large barrier separating them.
A few meters later, the barrier ended. Ross held up his piece of paper and said loudly, but without shouting, “Melanie Lewinson?”
Melanie almost laughed hysterically, though she kept it all in check.
Then she came within a couple of feet of him, and saw something which made her laughter stop immediately.
She was horrified, though she knew she couldn’t look too surprised until they were in private.
“My God,” she whispered as they walked to Ross’s waiting car, “what happened to you?”
Ross continued to walk, but spoke without looking sideways at her. If he had, he would have seen the look of concern etched on her attractive face.
“It’s a long story.” He touched the side of his face, which still hurt considerably. “But I’ll give you the short version when we get outside.”
