Come Fly With Me (25 page)

“You can just get that smug expression off your face, Mick O’Shaughnessy.” Grier wagged a finger at him as she buckled herself in. “We’re an hour late because of your little wake-up call.”

“I didn’t see you protesting.”

She grinned broadly as she took a sip of coffee from an insulated mug. “Hell no. You’re looking at one deeply satisfied woman who has a hot memory to keep her warm as she enters the Arctic Circle.”

His preflight checks completed, Mick snapped his binder closed and leaned over to place a hard kiss on her coffee-flavored lips. “We could screw the Arctic Circle and I could give you more to remember.”

“But then what would be your reward for bringing me back home again?” She batted her eyelashes before offering up a disgusted sigh. “Why does the whole eye-batting thing look so cute in cartoons and so dumb in real life? I probably look like I’ve got an eye condition.”

Mick was still hung up on her use of the word “home,” and he mumbled a quick, “Beats me,” as he tapped his headphones. After giving his flight
authorization number, he got his clearance and began the short taxi to the runway.

The word still stuck in his gut ten minutes later as he watched Grier lean over in her seat, her head pressed to the glass. “That’s just incredible.”

“We’re going to follow the pipeline up to the North Slope, then head west to Barrow.”

She turned toward him. “You’re allowed to do that?”

“I already cleared the flight plan and other than staying out of the way of a few other maintenance flights, it’s a light morning.”

“I guess that would be all that’s out right now. I can’t see this being the first place people would think to go sightseeing in January.”

“Exactly. June and July, on the other hand. There’s a parade of planes in the sky.”

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, the heavy piping visible beneath them, then snaking through the snow as far as the eye could see north.

His thoughts continued to churn as they flew away from Fairbanks, the last few weeks playing on a loop in his mind. He thought about the strange push-pull of their relationship as they both tried to figure the other out, and the impending sense that they were on the verge of something…big. Important.

He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, in early November when she’d first arrived in Indigo. She had been walking out of Walker’s office as he had been walking in, and it had been all he could do to keep from following her right back out.

The long, artful waves of hair and the petite frame
had captivated him in an instant, but what had really done him in were her eyes. That subtle gray was so unusual and so incredibly enticing.

Her eyes held dark secrets and whispered promises. And with one look from her he’d been gone.

It hadn’t been one-sided, either. They shared an easy flirtation and quiet looks. The entire town hadn’t just decided on a whim that the two of them should be together. All of Indigo had seen what blazed to life every time they got within a hundred yards of each other.

Even if he could put all of that aside—and he wasn’t one to take good old-fashioned attraction lightly—he enjoyed her company more than that of anyone he’d ever been with. He was a man who counted himself lucky. He had family he loved and friends who were like family, and he valued each and every one of those relationships.

But with Grier, it was all that and more. Moments with her were easier than he could have imagined.

And in that easiness came something so special, he couldn’t imagine his life without it.

How could she think of walking away from that? And more to the point, how was he going to let her go when she did?

“To think people built this.” Her reverent voice broke the quiet. “The heartiness and sheer determination to come up here and conquer the winter like this. It’s fascinating.”

“It’s a pretty spectacular feat.”

“And my father was a part of it.”

Mick pointed out a pump station as they flew over
it, grateful for something to pull him from his thoughts. Focused on the ground below them, he described what he knew of the pipeline’s mechanics. As a kid, lessons on the pipeline had been all the rage and he’d spent many hours listening to stories from the men who’d worked the line.

He smiled as he remembered the story that had been his personal favorite and began to tell her.

Moments later her eyebrows shot up, her skepticism clear as he took her through his story. “They actually call it pigging?”

“Yes. They have these mechanical devices—called pigs—that are sent through the pipe to clean it out. Of course, I didn’t understand that as a kid.”

“You thought they were real pigs?”

“Absolutely. Cried my eyes out one night until my sister told me I was being a moron and there weren’t real pigs in the pipes.”

“She knew better?”

“Only because she’d made the same mistake herself until my father sat her down and explained it.”

“The poor, sweet O’Shaughnessy children.” Grier reached over and patted his arm. “Such sensitive souls.”

He couldn’t hold back a smile at the memory of what had come next. “As I recall, that night actually ended in a grounding since I punched her for the moron comment.”

“Hence your sage advice to Bryce last night in the restaurant.”

“Exactly. Don’t hit girls. It was as true then as it is now.”

“Where does your sister live?”

“She got married to a guy from the Lower Forty-eight she met in college. They lived up here for a while and then moved to Minneapolis about ten years ago.”

“You see her much?”

“Couple times a year. And we talk every week on webcam so I get the added benefit of seeing my nephews.”

“And your dad? Where’s he?”

The question had his mouth going dry, a stupid reminder that this was what casual family conversations usually involved. Actual conversation. And questions. “He travels a lot.”

“Oh? Does he still live in Alaska?”

“No, he’s been a wanderer since my mom passed.”

He heard the inevitable next question and went on preemptive strike. “What about your mother? You talk about her without saying all that much. What does she think about all this?”

The question had its desired effect—it was a curiosity he’d been meaning to ask about
and
it got her off the subject of his family.

“Oh, how does one begin to describe my mother?” She glanced up at the ceiling as if seeking guidance from the heavens. “Patrice Thompson is the most well-bred woman on the planet. Seriously, she makes Miss Manners and the Queen of England look like slackers.”

“I bet there’s a wild side underneath.”

“Presumably, since I was actually conceived. Add in it happened up here in what was apparently a wild fit of uncontrolled lust.”

“If I ever meet her, I’ll have to thank her for passing on that personality trait.”

“Yes, well, no offense to you and your fellow statesmen, but if given her druthers, I think she’d be happy if Alaska broke off and sank to the depths of the ocean.”

“Now that’s just mean.”

“That’s Patty-cakes. If it can be ignored, it’s not a problem.”

He shot Grier a sideways glance as he reached for his coffee. “Patty-cakes?”

“Her nickname. Used by those nearest and dearest.” At his raised eyebrows, Grier added, “It’s okay if you sort of throw up in your mouth when you hear it.”

“Good to know.”

“But,” Grier added on a soft sigh, “she’s my mother. And no matter how crazy she makes me or how much I want to shake her sometimes and tell her to throw off those manners and go get her freak on, I love her.”

Mick nearly choked on the mouthful of coffee he’d just taken. “Get her freak on?”

“Well, yeah. Sure. I mean, don’t you ever think about that?”

“Think about what?”

“Your parents having sex.”

“Not really.”

She sighed loudly and the sound echoed around his headset. “Sloan gets all freaked out when I bring this up, too. Maybe it’s the side product of growing up with only one parent, but I like the idea of thinking my parents were healthy, vibrant people who enjoyed each other’s company.”

“And got their freak on?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if they did, well—”

She broke off and he didn’t miss the fact there was something more there.

“If they did, what?”

“Never mind. It’s dumb.”

He turned toward her and waited until she met his gaze. “Try me anyway.”

“If they enjoyed it, it makes me feel like I wasn’t quite so big a mistake.”

Mary O’Shaughnessy cracked the third egg into the bowl and flipped on her fire engine red KitchenAid Artisan stand mixer. She watched her pound cake batter swirl under the large beater and thought again about what she planned to do.

She’d made it a policy not to interfere where she wasn’t wanted. After more than seven decades of sticking to that policy, she wasn’t all that keen on changing direction now. However, interfering and gently nudging things in the right direction were two completely different activities.

One suggested you believed your own ideas had more merit than the recipient of your meddling.

And the second said you were in possession of some information that—if another person knew you knew—might make that person act differently.

“Oh, spin it any way you want to, Mary O.,” she muttered to herself as she flipped off the mixer and used her spatula to scrape the edges of the bowl. “You’re thinking of interfering.”

The temptation to invite Julia and Sophie over to discuss it was strong, but she knew this was something she couldn’t share, not even with her two closest friends. Because if she did, that thin veneer of “not meddling” would be shot to hell in a handbasket.

They might be the sisters of her heart, but they had big mouths and a vested interest in aiding and abetting her crimes.

Which meant she didn’t fully trust either of them to play this close to the vest.

Satisfied the batter was well mixed, she disengaged the arm and lifted the bowl over her greased Bundt pan. As the pretty yellow batter filled the pan, she thought about the conversation she had had late one night with Jonas Winston in this very kitchen.

She’d seldom seen the man drink—not even beer with his poker—and she’d always had a liter of Coke ready for him when he came over to play cards with the guys. So she’d been more than a little surprised when her husband had come to bed one night and told her Jonas was sleeping a drunk off on their living room couch.

While she loved her Charlie to distraction, the man wasn’t known for thinking through a problem, so she’d gone downstairs to make sure Jonas had pillows, blankets and a cup of coffee if he wanted one.

And heard the light weeping as soon as she’d cleared the bottom step.

She had very nearly turned around right there, but something kept her moving forward. She’d never backed down from awkward situations and a friend in need was a friend in need.

Period.

“Jonas? Is everything all right?”

“Mary!” He’d turned from where he stood before a row of photos on their mantel and brushed quickly at his eyes. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“Nonsense. I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.” She held up the blanket and pillows in her arms. “And to see that you didn’t freeze down here.”

He slashed at his eyes once more before reaching out to take the pillows and she wondered how hard to push. And then she mentally said to hell with it and pointed to the couch. “I’m going to go make coffee. Sit there and wait for me.”

Jonas was still there ten minutes later when she walked back in with two steaming mugs. He’d stopped crying, but she didn’t miss the fact his eyes never met hers as he thanked her for the coffee.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want me to go back upstairs?”

“Not really.”

So she’d sat there with him awhile and wondered what could have possibly made such a kind, sweet man so incredibly upset.

“I have a daughter.”

She knew immediately he wasn’t talking about his little one, Kate, so she just nodded.

“She lives in New York. With her mother who doesn’t want me to have anything to do with her.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“I have to be.”

“Why?”

“She’s only ten. She doesn’t need a man with another life and another family, flitting in and out and telling her he’s her daddy.”

“Is that what you really think or is that her mother talking?”

“Hell, Mary, I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then tugged on the ends. “It’s this endless loop of questions. And because I didn’t go after Patrice when I should have, now I have a family, too. What’ll Laurie say?”

“This is your child, Jonas. I’d hope she’d support you.”

His lack of comment was all the answer she needed about just how supportive Laurie Winston would be.

He pulled a photo out of his wallet and passed it over. Mary didn’t miss the pride in his eyes. “She’s got my mother’s eyes. And the sweetest smile.”

“What’s her name?”

“Grier.”

The buzzer pulled her from her thoughts. Mary picked up the heavy Bundt pan and settled it in the oven. She set the timer for an hour and headed off to her office.

She’d filed Patrice’s name away years go in the event she’d ever need to use it and it looked like the time had come.

She had some inquiries to make in New York.

Grier looked out her window and found it hard to believe it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. The
sky had gotten progressively darker as they neared the Arctic Circle and now that they were inside it, the sky was a deep, indigo blue.

“Are you going to fly me over one of the White Alice sites?”

A wry smile ghosted his lips as he slowly turned the plane west. “How do you know about those?”

“I’ve done my research.”

“You’re not going to be able to see anything because it’s already dark.”

“Is it as creepy as they say?”

“Define creepy.”

“Are there bodies of virgins strewn about the base and a carpet of zombies who lie in wait for whoever comes next?”