Oceans Apart (13 page)

“Name your reason, Four Zero Three.”

“Congestion coming in on the assigned runway, over.” The pause that followed was Connor’s first sign that something was wrong. When the controller’s voice came over the air again, his tone was frustrated, almost panicked. “We’re picking you up moving away from the designated runway, is that correct?” 98

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“Yes. My first request went unanswered, so I made the decision to avoid a ground collision.”

“That decision isn’t yours to make, Captain.” The controller gave a huff loud enough for any incoming flight to hear it over the radio. Then he cleared Connor’s flight for a landing on the other runway.

Long before he landed the plane that day, Connor knew he was in trouble. Representatives from the FAA ushered him into an initial inquiry the moment he was at the gate. At the end of the brief meeting, a red-faced man in his fifties stared at Connor and shook his head.

“This type of defiance is unacceptable, Captain Evans.” He tapped his pencil on the sheet of notes he’d taken. “I’ll be recommending a formal FAA investigation first thing in the morning.” The demotion came before his next flight.

He was informed that until the investigation was completed, he would fly as a copilot only. Michele was frightened by the change, worried Connor would be stationed in LA longer. For the next month, every time he and Michele spoke, things felt strained between them. Tense. As though they’d become strangers.

Finally, in June that year, Connor made a decision. He would purchase a small regional airport near their home in West Palm Beach and he’d forget commercial aviation for good. The FAA could figure out their investigation without him.

The airport had been on the market for nearly a year, and after his transfer to Los Angeles, Connor checked on the price every month or so. It had dropped from nearly a million dollars to $550,000. With a hundred thousand down, he could have payments that would easily be covered by the small plane owners who used the airfield.

Finding the hundred down was the problem, but not one Connor couldn’t see past.

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Connor’s father, Loren Herman Evans, had been more than an ace pilot in his day. Long before he hung up his wings, he and Connor’s mother invested heavily in real estate. It wasn’t so much what they bought, as where. They purchased open land and rental houses in an area of New Jersey thirty minutes outside of Manhattan.

By the time his father retired and sold their real estate holdings, the value of each piece had gone from tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands. When it was all sold and counted out, his parents netted nearly two million dollars.

Pilots were a different breed, and though Connor had never had an intimate relationship with his father, they shared a mutual respect and admiration for each other. There was no one Connor would rather shoot a round of golf with, but hugs were stiff and rare, declarations of love all but nonexistent.

His parents settled on a ranch in Cambria, California, not far from San Luis Obispo and the Pacific coast. His dad was healthy and hearty, a man whose gray hair and piercing blue eyes only made him more attractive as the years passed. For a while he dabbled in stocks, but he showed a continual penchant for buying high and selling low. Finally Loren Evans relaxed and left his money alone.

Once a year in the spring he organized a family vacation for Connor and Connor’s three sisters and their families, and over time the lot of them came to expect glitches in the itinerary. One year their hotel reservation ran out three days before their outbound flights. Another time they were forced to bring cots into each of the rooms to make up for his booking three rooms instead of six.

In the summer, Connor and Michele would meet up with his father at the Cambria ranch, where he cranked up a bucket of homemade strawberry ice cream and convinced the group to play a round of croquet. At some point in the visit the conversation would turn to the paperwork towers in his father’s office.

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“Hire someone, Dad,” Connor would say. “You shouldn’t have to live like that.”

But always his father’s answer was the same. “I like it this way. I know exactly where everything is.”

His answer was typical pilot speak. Always in control; never admitting error or defeat. It took utter confidence to take hundreds of people into the air every day, so Connor understood. He was the same way, after all. Still, sometimes Connor wondered how his father had ever been organized enough to fly commercial airplanes.

In the end, their visits were pleasant enough, and Connor did more than respect his father when they were together. He enjoyed him.

So when the idea for the regional airport came up, Connor used his two-day break to drive north to Cambria and talk to his father.

He felt certain of the outcome. What would a hundred thousand dollars be to his father? Besides, the man had always been gener-ous, giving to charities and scholarship funds. Why would this time be any different? By then, Connor’s mother was dead and his father had already suffered one heart attack. It wouldn’t be long before at least part of the money was his anyway.

Connor waited until they were seated at a table on his father’s back veranda, overlooking acres of rolling green hills and oak trees.

“Dad, I’m thinking about leaving commercial aviation.” His father looked up, but said nothing. The lines on his forehead froze, and his expression turned to stone.

Connor gulped back his sudden doubts and launched into an explanation of the airport and his ideas about running it. “The place could handle twice the air traffic it has now. With a little advertising and promotion, profits could double in two years.” Silence hung in the air for a beat. “You know my feelings on finishing a job. Work now, invest now. Make a hobby out of a regional airfield later, when everything else is finished.” 101

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“Dad.” Tension sprouted between them. “I’m a man, and if I don’t want to wait for retirement to change careers, I don’t have to.”

“Fine.” His father’s gaze was unwavering. “Why are you here, then?”

Connor was convinced his father already knew the answer, but he plodded ahead. At that point, only a confident request would earn his father’s favor. “I’d like a loan against my inheritance, Dad. Either that, or I’d like you to consider going in on the airport with me.” His father looked hard at him for a moment and then chuckled.

“You’re kidding, right?”

A rush of heat filled Connor’s cheeks. “No, Dad. I need the money. I’ve already made up my mind. The airline has me stationed across the country from Michele, and the FAA investigation is—” Suddenly he stopped short.

He watched his father’s eyes narrow and grow angry, disapproving. “What investigation?”

Connor gave his father a short version of the story, heavily weighted in his favor. But still the old man sat unmoving, his arms crossed. Connor finished with, “So that’s why I want out. It isn’t worth it. Michele and I are fighting all the time, and the girls won’t even know me. I need to get back to Florida.”

“You need to obey the rules.” He gave an abrupt shake of his head and smacked his lips. As if Connor had buzzed the control tower or done a 360 loop with a plane full of passengers. “That’s always been your trouble, Son. You think your opinion is all that counts.” He hesitated. “Stay in the air and you’ll never be sorry.” Connor’s control dissipated like early morning clouds over Phoenix. For the next hour, he and his father debated—sometimes in loud voices—Connor’s request for the money and his father’s staunch refusal to write Connor a check.

The last thing Connor said before he left was this: “If you won’t help me, I can’t possibly call you my father.” 102

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His dad stood up and followed him to the door. He wasn’t ready to give in, but he was clearly concerned by Connor’s statement. The elevation of his tone made that much clear. “Don’t be childish.”

“Look, Dad . . .” Connor spun around and met his dad’s gaze head-on. Anger filled his heart, anger that had been building toward the man for decades, anger about his expectations and lack of expressed love. All of it came to a head. “I always wondered how you really felt about me.” Connor bit the inside of his lip. “Now I know. You think I’m cocky and arrogant, irresponsible.” A chuckle that was more angry than funny came up from him. “I’ll tell you what. Until you change your mind about the money, our relationship is over.” He took another few steps toward the door. “I’ll be waiting.”

He hoped his father would reach out and grab his shoulder, tell him not to be crazy, that it was all a misunderstanding and yes, they could talk about the loan, or at least they could talk about their relationship. After analyzing that moment for so many years, Connor was convinced the argument that day wasn’t about the money.

At least not on his part.

It was about seeking his father’s approval. The airport and the loan to fund the purchase was only the means by which Connor sought it. But the combination of the man’s attitude and his callous statements convinced Connor that the relationship had suffered a heart attack that afternoon.

After that confrontation, Connor felt like a lost boy, confused and out of sorts. At times that week, he wondered if he’d become a different person altogether. He was no longer satisfied with being a commercial pilot. He suddenly no longer had a father—or a passionate interest in his wife.

And whatever his waning feelings toward Michele, she felt even less excited about him. The loss of her mother and her frustration with his living in Los Angeles had brought back her depression.

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The few times they were together each month, Connor found himself afraid the wife he loved might never return. Gone was the woman who looked into his eyes, hearing not only his words but his heart. Instead Michele’s expression seemed distant. Dead.

Often she handed Susan to him the moment he walked in the door. “Here, she needs a new diaper. I’m going back to bed.” Then without another word, she’d turn and head for their bedroom.

Their bond badly frayed, Connor avoided coming home.

All of these feelings weighed on him that fateful Thursday in August 1996. He’d already had a one-night layover in Honolulu, and that morning he checked out of his hotel. But because of the storm, his early afternoon flight was delayed first one hour, then two. By the afternoon the tropical storm grew to hurricane levels and took up residence just off the islands.

Winds were too strong to fly in, so while Tropical Storm Henry did its slow dance around the Hawaiian Islands, Connor and hundreds of pilots, flight attendants, and passengers sat grounded.

Hotel rooms were gone in less than an hour, full with both the out-going and incoming tourists. Some people gladly roomed with strangers. Whatever it took to find a safe place to stay.

He saw Kiahna for the first time Thursday night, when the storm was building at a rapid rate. From the beginning, something about the young woman reminded Connor of Michele. The way she angled her head, or the light in her eyes when she talked to the waiter. Not the flirty, forced look some flight attendants had with men, but something deeper. A sensitivity, maybe.

She was pretty enough—light tan island skin, and vivid green eyes. But even so he wasn’t interested. Intrigued, yes. Curious about the way she reminded him of Michele, but nothing more.

Their tables were adjacent, close enough that he was aware they had ordered the same thing. When the waiter returned to the kitchen, her eyes met his and held. What would it hurt? He had 104

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plenty of time to kill. Besides, he wanted to know exactly how much like Michele the woman was. So Connor spoke first.

“You live here?”

“Yes.” An odd sadness haunted her eyes, but she smiled. “My flight’s delayed. And with the storm, we might not fly at all.” She leaned back and studied him. “You’re a pilot?” Connor nodded. “Finished my layover. Supposed to fly out a few hours ago. The new time is in two hours.”

“Me, too.” She glanced out the nearest window. “But I’m not counting on it. This one could hit pretty hard.” Their conversation continued. Questions from Connor about the island, and questions from her about the airline he worked for.

Before their meals were delivered, they joined tables, and he told her about his plans to own a regional airport. When dinner was over, she anchored her slim elbows on the table, linked her fingers, and rested her chin.

“You know what I like about you?”

The candid way she spoke caught him by surprise. She was so like Michele. The Michele he’d fallen in love with. “What?”

“You’re a doer; I can tell. You’ll do whatever you set your mind to, and somehow you’ll make it work out.”

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In the hundred times since, whenever Connor would analyze that scene looking for escape routes, he was certain that comment was the turning point. Back then, Michele was forever telling him he wasn’t doing enough. Not enough to find a way out of Los Angeles, not enough to help with the kids, and not enough to keep her happy. But without knowing him, the island girl saw something in him Michele no longer saw.

He was a doer.

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The rest of the memory was smudged black and charcoal, streaked with dirty oranges and yellows. He’d tried to get away from her, hadn’t he? Hotels and bed-and-breakfasts, even the airport pilot lounge, none of them had been open. And he tried at least what, three times to tell her he was married? Tried to find a way out of the strange circumstances that somehow conspired to bring them together.

But it was no use. His convictions about faith and morality and marriage were no match for the way things played out that night, or the temptations that presented themselves in the next twenty-four hours.

Not in light of her comment.

As time passed, the FAA investigation ended in Connor’s favor, with a warning for him to follow control tower instructions. Flying became fun again, and with the help of prayer and medication, Michele found her way out of depression. Before the end of that awful year, he was even stationed back in Florida.