Must Love Otters (8 page)

Ryan climbs in and slams his own door. It takes two good slams. This does not settle my nerves. He hands me a headset with a spongy microphone stretching across the front.

“So we can talk to each other,” the earphone says. Wow. This is like being on a spaceship. Or what I might assume is a spaceship, you know, with the headsets and the mics and the scratchy, radio voices. “You ready? I’d like to get going before the orca start hovering around our landing spot.”

“Wait—what does that mean?”

“Our local pod knows that we bring in fresh meat from the mainland in the form of tourists. If someone misbehaves or doesn’t appreciate our in-flight hospitality, we let the orcas have first pick.”

“That’s totally not funny.”

Ryan’s laughing. “Little bit funny.”

“Have you ever … landed on any sea life?”

“Nope. See, that’s one of the things about being a pilot. They make you practice a lot. The metal bits, they don’t taste very good. The sharks and orca, they’re not interested.”

“Sharks? There aren’t any sharks up here.”

“Sure there are. More than twenty species call the BC waters home. And sometimes we get makos, oceanic whitetips, even great whites.”

I twist the lid off the whisky and swallow it in one long pull.

“Like I said, there better be more where this came from.”

Between the seat sits an open duffel bag with an assortment of fun things: little white bags I’m guessing serve as barf receptacles, a tub of HandiWipes, and a bootlegger’s bounty of those little liquor bottles.

I’ll be fine. As long as I pace myself. I hope the mic doesn’t impede my drinking.

The engine sputters to life, the propeller soon a blur that looks like it’s only spinning around a few times. My eighth grade math teacher explained to us oh so many moons ago that spinning things look like they’re standing still because the human eye can’t capture each individual revolution. I soothe my spastic stomach by reminding myself that the propeller is going really fast. It just doesn’t look like it.

Concierge Ryan maneuvers us away from the docks, waving at a few of his pilot buddies, and we glide into an open space. I guess this is the runway. Made of water. Kinda bumpy. So far, it feels more like a boat than a plane. I can do this.

A little farther away from the docks, the harbor opens up and the engine whines louder. Ryan explains something about thrust. I don’t want to know. Just get me where we need to be without making me die.

I reach into the duffel between the seats. I don’t even look to see what bottle I pluck from the cornucopia. Twist the lid, swallow the contents. Shit, tequila. That burns.

Speaking of burns, my nipples are better. In case you were wondering. They’re not even peeling. Yet.

“Here we go,” Ryan crackles in my ear. That thrust thing he was talking about, it’s happening. I can feel the G forces against my chest as the plane picks up speed, skimming the surface of the not-placid water. Hey, Mother Nature, no wind right now, yeah? “Say goodbye to our fair capitol!”

The plane is no longer touching the surface of the water.

We’re up.

Holy shit, we’re flying.

And every bump and buffet of wind? Yeah. We’re feeling it. This is going to be a long hour. I might need another drink.

My hand in the booze bag, Concierge Ryan smiles. “What’s funny?” I ask.

“You might want to hold off. Just in case it gets bumpy. I have a strict no-barfing policy on board Miss Lily.”

“What are the little white bags for, then?”

“In case we crash and need to collect clams to feed ourselves until we’re rescued.”

I let go of the unnamed bottle. I think he’s kidding about the clams, but maybe he’s right about the liquor. We’re eight minutes into this journey. I’m already feeling the effects of those two other tiny shots. Such a lightweight. Or maybe it’s because alcohol from two nights ago is still likely an appreciable component of my blood chemistry.

“So, Hollie Porter, are things better than they were the other night?”

I try—and fail—to remember what I told him. “I think so. I’m hoping this little vacay will set some things straight for me.”

“I hear that. Sometimes getting away from the mad dash we call life is just what we need.” He fusses with a couple of dials. Makes minor adjustments to the lever thingies on the dash. Reports something into his radio in response to someone else talking to him. “You said on the phone that you like otters?”

“Yeah. I do. Did I really tell you that?”

“You told me all kinds of stuff.” He keeps eyes forward, but the grin on his face makes me realize my lips were loose. Ridley should’ve pried the phone from my cold, drunk hands. “I see you left the stethoscope-loving, knight in dented armor behind.”

“God, I did talk a lot.” I fiddle with my mic stretched in front of my face. “Um, yeah. We broke up. Two years together. It wasn’t working out. I think we both knew it. I was just the one to say something first.”

“I get that.”

I don’t know this man well enough to be having this conversation. “So, have you always been a concierge and a pilot? How does a person even get into this line of work?”

“Nah, this is my second career. But I’ve been flying planes for a long time. Sort of a love of mine. And once you see the resort, you’ll know why this is such a killer job.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup. Did you check out our website?”

“The pictures were great.”

“That’s nothing compared to real life. I think you’ll have a fantastic time. If a change of pace is what you need, you’ll find it.”

A strong gust bumps into us, like a plump cloud has thrown her hip into the side of the plane. I have nothing else to grab onto except Ryan’s denim-clad leg.

“You have to at least buy me dinner first,” he teases. I release. It was instinct. Like when you stop fast in your car and you throw your arm up in front of the passenger. Your arm will do shit to stop the other person’s forward momentum or save their brains from splattering against the inside of the windshield, but the arm throws itself up there in good faith.

“Sorry.”

“No worries. Told you we’d feel the wind a little more. I promise you’re safe. And with a sunset like that, how can you worry?”

He’s right. The sun is skinny-dipping into the ocean now. It’s so clear from this height. Like one of those mass-produced paintings all the kids do in first-year art college of the sun’s fading light dancing across a shimmering body of water. Totally right here. I’d take a picture but my shitty phone won’t do it justice. Plus I’m terrified to move.

“I hope we can find you some otters. If you’re lucky, we might even see some orca. They pass through once in a while. And no, they don’t really eat tourists.”

“If you could get one of them to give me a ride on his dorsal fin, I’d be totally impressed.”

“Sounds like you watch too many movies,” he laughs. “We have a couple of small islands around our main island, and then if you go up and across the inlet where it meets the mainland, we’ve got every kind of wildlife you can imagine.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Nah, not if you’re safe. We don’t advise people to go up there without bear spray or at least a set of bells to scare off the critters, but the bears and cougar have little interest in people. They’re still afraid of us, which is good. Not like in Vancouver where the bears try to share neighborhoods with people. That never ends well.”

“Are you from British Columbia?”

“Nope. Michigan.”

“You’re American?” I say, surprised.

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a rep to protect.”

“What, they don’t like Americans up here?”

“They like everyone who brings in tourist dollars.” Ryan mumbles something else into his headset. Makes more adjustments. We’re going a little higher. As the shine on the ocean fades, the thick blanket of nightfall drapes itself over the tree-dressed mountains. The deep green is fading into deeper shades of blue, hedging on blackness. I can’t imagine being lost out here in the dark. It would be hard to see a hand in front of my face, let alone a predator hungry for a free meal.

“I’ve been in Canada off and on for nine years, so I’m pretty Canadian,” he says.

“How long have you been at the resort?”

“Since it opened. Almost five years now.”

“Nice. I think it would be awesome to live someplace so beautiful. But don’t you get lonely being so far from civilization?”

“Only occasionally. I’m in Victoria often enough that I catch up with my buddies. Plus, with technology what it is, we’re never really that out of touch with anyone, are we?”

“You married?” He holds his left hand aloft to show an unadorned fourth finger.

“Guess that makes us like twins, eh, Hollie Porter?”

I blush again. “Man, I really did talk a lot the other night, didn’t I …”

“It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

His phone rings. When he answers, I want to tell him that he’s not supposed to drive and talk, but are the rules different in airplanes? As long as he keeps one hand on that funny steering wheel, I’ll be fine.

But it’s really,
really
dark out here now. It’s amazing how dark things are without the city lights to soak into the sky. Every few miles, a tiny spot of light will push its way through the void from a cabin or outpost along the shore. Compact wooden docks tether bobbing boats, their white sides just visible in the rising moon. Sometimes the little houses will have a floatplane out front, and as expected, no cars. I’m sure it smells fresh, fresher than anything I’ve ever experienced as a city slicker. Fresh like summer camp, with its trees and campfires and wet earthen walkways packed flat with dead pine needles … but better. Do I dare ease down the window next to me? Not on your life. It’s fine, sealed up tight the way it should be. I’ll wait to smell the goodness once we’re again on terra firma.

And that’s when it happens.

My fucking door opens up and slaps against the side of the plane. I scream. Loudly. Pretty sure Ryan’s eardrum is going to need a Band-Aid.

“Hollie! It’s okay! It’s okay. You’re belted in. Just sit back …” Ryan leans across me and tries to reach the handle for the bouncing door. He sits straight again. “Can you grab it? Just grab it and give it a solid tug.”

“What? No! Jesus Christ! I am not leaning outside the plane to shut the damn door!”

“Listen to me—you’re not going to fall out.” He rests a giant hand on mine where it digs into the side of the seat. “Just reach over … grab it … then I’ll give it the slam to shut it all the way.”

I stare at him, eyes wide, asking
are you fucking kidding me
, but he’s not. His return look is assured, confident. He’s telling me it will be okay.

I close my left eye, peeking only with the right as I angle toward the bouncing, flimsy door. The seatbelt restrains me, cinching when I move too far forward.
You’ll be okay, Brave Hollie. You can do this.

As soon as I have the door in the almost-closed position, Ryan leans hard over my lap and reefs on it.

God, he smells good.

Shut up. Keep it together.

The door clicks. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“See? Piece of cake. And you didn’t fall out.”

“If I’d known the supply flight was a stare-down with death, I might have taken the regular charter.”

“Nah, this is way more fun. And this time of year, we’re getting a lot of older folks coming up, so the charter ends up smelling like old-lady perfume. Plus, no drinkie-poos.” He reaches into the duffel and offers me a bottle. “You earned it.”

I don’t hesitate. My heart thuds hard enough against the inside of my chest from this latest near-death experience. I
do
deserve it.

But I was so brave, wasn’t I? Leaning out of an airplane to shut the door?

I feel strong again. Like I did when I told Keith and the Yorkies to pack it up.

I suppose I should be feeling some sort of sadness about my loss of that relationship. Do I?

I don’t think I do.

Except for the rapid inhale/exhale going on in my chest. The twinkly stars in my peripheral vision. Ryan hands me one of those paper bags. “Breathe in and out. No hyperventilating on Miss Lily.”

“You have … a lot … of stupid rules … on this plane.” I breathe into the bag, and while I know this is a myth—rebreathing your exhaled air does not remedy hyperventilation—I need to calm my shit down.

“Tell me about your otters.”

“Um, they’re cute.” Inhale. “And fluffy.” Exhale.

“And?”

“And they take care of their babies.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know … I saw one when I was at the beach when I was little, and I fell in love.”

“And?”

“And the older they get, the blonder the hair on their head is.”

“Now that’s interesting stuff.”

His strategy worked. I’m not hungry for air anymore. I can breathe again.

“I do hope we can find you some otters while you’re here. Things should be pretty quiet. A business conference this week wrapping up with a small golf tournament. Do you golf?”

“The planet has asked me not to. I do too much damage to the greens. And the trees. They weep for days after I’ve manhandled a nine-iron.”

“You can take a lesson. Or maybe a kayak class? You can kayak between our island and the next one over. Do you swim?”

“How cold is that water?”

“Like, from a glacier.”

“Then, no. I don’t swim.”

Ryan laughs at me again. “You don’t sound very outdoorsy for someone who likes otters.”

“I don’t like freezing my nips off, either.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. I’ve totally just opened up the can of worms for him to dig in and bait up.

“Speaking of … how are the girls?” He gestures to his chest. “All healed from the nachos?”

“Shit, I can’t believe I told you that.” My turn to laugh. “Yeah … they’re fine, Concierge Ryan. My nipples will live to see another day.”

“The single men of the world are grateful.”

I can’t even look at him but then I do and we start laughing and yes my nipples were singed but I survived and now a total stranger knows my weirdest secret and I really need to talk less openly with people I’ve never met in real life.