The Color of a Promise (The Color of Heaven Series Book 11) (14 page)

I gave him my number as well.

His driver slowed at the entrance to the hotel parking lot where dozens of satellite news trucks—including one from CNN—were parked along the road. By now, news teams had arrived from all over the world—France, Germany, Australia, and other places. Crowds of photographers with cameras stood behind a barricade, and cops and paddy wagons with flashing lights created a very intense atmosphere.

“Looks like it’s going to be a packed house,” Jack said.

He lowered the window to speak to a police officer in a bright yellow vest who stood on the street, directing traffic. Jack held up his press badge. “I’m here for the debriefing, and this lady is with the National Transportation Safety Board. She’s staying in the hotel.”

The cop bent at the waist to peer in at me. “How do you do, ma’am. Everything looks good here, Mr. Peterson. Go on in.”

We pulled into the lot, and the driver dropped us off under the overhang at the main entrance.

“Are you coming inside now?” I asked Jack as I unbuckled my seatbelt.

“No, I’ll head over to the news truck and find Joe,” he said. “We still have a few hours before the press conference starts. Good luck in there, okay?”

“You, too. Thanks for the drive.”

“Anytime.”

I got out with my heavy gear bag, shut the car door behind me, and walked into the hotel.

What a day it had been.

And it wasn’t over yet. The really difficult part was only just beginning.

Chapter Twenty-three

Jack

As I watched Meg Andrews disappear through the sliding glass doors of the hotel, I marveled at the fact that I might be entertaining a bit of a crush. It was a rare and unexpected thing, especially in circumstances like these, where I was focused on covering a major global disaster.

Last night, a commercial airliner had narrowly missed crashing into my parents’ house—by a mere few hundred yards. We were all lucky to be alive, and today, not a moment had passed where I didn’t think about that.

Or the poor dead child and the battered teddy bear I had seen in the darkness late last night.

The memory caused a knot in my stomach and a heaviness in my chest. No doubt, the images would be burned into my consciousness for the rest of my life, and beyond.

For that reason, I, like everyone else in the world, wanted answers about why this tragedy occurred, and I wanted assurances that it would never happen again. Maybe that was an impossible dream, but I wanted it, all the same.

So did Meg Andrews. She struck me as an exceedingly competent professional who was deeply and passionately motivated to determine the cause of an accident, and make recommendations for improvements to safety and security. With people like her at work on the investigation, I believed we were in good hands.

But there was something else about her that caused a curious spark of interest in me—something outside the fact that I found her mind-bogglingly attractive, even in those unflattering black trousers, black work boots and bulky NTSB jacket.

Meg wore no makeup. Her blond hair was tied back in an untidy ponytail, but that worked for me, because I had never been into the glamorous types. I’d lost interest in women like that at a very young age.

Consequently, I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off Meg for most of the afternoon. There was something about her that struck a chord in me the instant she got out of the car and walked toward me, across the parking lot. I’d felt it even before we spoke a word to each other.

Some people might call it love at first sight, but I knew it wasn’t as simple or romantic as that. It was a deeper, more longstanding recognition. Though I had no idea who Meg might have been to me in another life and time, I knew she was
someone
. And this was significant, because I’d never felt this way about anyone in my current life except for Katelyn, which was why I had once believed she was the only one for me.

It turned out that she wasn’t. She had been the one for my brother.

All that aside, this feeling I had about Meg was not the same. With Katelyn, I had conscious, vivid memories of our past together, even before I met her. With Meg, there was only an intuitive sense of familiarity and connection. I wondered if I would
ever
know who she was, with certainty.

“Let’s get going,” I said to Curtis, my driver. He took me out of the hotel parking lot to where Joe waited for me in the news truck, half a block away.

My cell phone rang just then, and I checked the call display. What a coincidence.

“Katelyn,” I said, answering the call. I checked my wristwatch. “You must be getting ready to go on the air.”

“Yes,” she said, “in about ten minutes. I just wanted to check in with you. I’m assuming you’ll be at the press conference tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m here at the hotel right now. I’ll attend the briefing, then I’ll do my show immediately afterwards. We’ll do it live from the Portland Head Light.”

“That’s a good spot,” she said. “I’ll be at the briefing as well, as soon as I finish up here, so I’ll probably see you there.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” I replied.

“Okay. See you later.”

I ended the call and got out of the car.

o0o

Not surprisingly, the press conference was intense.

I sat in the front row, listening to the local authorities describe the crash and rescue effort. All the while, I was aware of Meg, who sat at the end of a long table of experts with Gary and Carol. She looked pasty white, almost green, and she kept her gaze lowered as the navy explained that they would not yet call off the search for survivors in the water, even though no one had yet been found alive. The subtext was, of course, that we should all prepare ourselves for a very high death toll and no survivors.

Other reports were equally grim. We learned that a local community center had been converted into a temporary morgue for the bodies that had been recovered so far. The medical examiner was as delicate and tactful as he could possibly be, as he described the extent of the casualties.

There was a mad flurry of questions when the FBI spokesperson delivered his report. Unfortunately, none of the authorities had any concrete or new information about whether or not it had been an act of terrorism, or some sort of mechanical failure on the plane.

He was unable to relay any information about the black box, which had not yet been found, and the weather was turning. They expected rain and high winds that night.

One thing was certain. There had been a massive explosion in the air. Witnesses on the ground had described it as a sudden fireball, accompanied by a thunderous noise that was heard all over Cape Elizabeth and as far as Portland and even Augusta.

Based on what the authorities now knew about the crash and the wreckage on land and in the water, it was clear that the explosion had occurred toward the center of the aircraft, causing it to break in half. Most of the front half landed near my home, while the rear of the plane had been blown to bits. This was what made the recovery so difficult in the water off Cape Elizabeth. It was a debris field full of small pieces, long-sunk or floating with the current.

Lastly, a representative from the airline stood up to offer his regrets and condolences to the families. He promised to fully support the investigation, help in every possible way, and provide any and all information that the authorities required.

A few family members stood up to shout at him and ask angry questions about airline security. The press conference had to be cut short.

As soon as they shut down the briefing, I noticed Meg—who had not been required to speak—get up from her chair and hurry out the back door of the ballroom.

Though I was expected back at the news truck to go live on the air in thirty minutes, I pushed through the noisy crowd to follow her.

Chapter Twenty-four

“I’m embarrassed that you’re seeing me like this,” Meg said, bending over with her hands braced on her knees. She had just vomited into a trash can.

I handed her my bottle of water. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip, then wiped her watery eyes with the back of her hand.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I’ve done hundreds of briefings over the past decade, and I’ve seen and heard a lot of stuff, but I’ve never reacted like this. Maybe it was something I ate.”

People walked by, gaping at us curiously. Sometimes it sucked to be a celebrity.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said in a low voice as I took hold of her arm and guided her to an alcove in a less busy corridor. “It was rough in there.”

She nodded her head and leaned against the wall. “Maybe I should think about retiring. I can’t seem to handle this like I used to.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head with frustration, then stared at me directly. I was momentarily overcome by the depth of feeling in those beautiful eyes.

“You’ve seen a lot too,” she said. “I know you have…over in Afghanistan. And this isn’t your first airline disaster.”

“Unfortunately I’ve covered a few.”

“And the bomb that you survived…” she continued, “and all your injuries. The pain. You lost your friends. I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

We regarded each other steadily, while people flooded through the busier corridor, talking heatedly about the briefing. All I wanted to do was stay hidden where we were and talk to Meg some more, or take her somewhere less chaotic—away from all this—but the clock was ticking. I checked my wristwatch.

“You have to go,” she said. “You have a show to do. I shouldn’t be keeping you.”

I didn’t want to leave, but I hadn’t touched base with my producer yet.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course. I’m feeling better now, and I have a lot to do, too. I should text Gary and see where we’re supposed to be right now. He’s probably looking for me.” She pushed away from the wall and pulled her phone out of her pocket, then gave me a small smile. “Break a leg.”

I rolled my eyes. “I already did that once. Don’t really want to do it again.”

She grimaced apologetically. “Poor choice of words.”

I started backing away from her, still not wanting to leave. “I’ll text you later to see how you’re doing. After the show. Will you watch?”

“Probably not,” she said. “There’s so much to do tonight.”

I understood. “No worries. But I’ll still text you.”

“Please do.”

I experienced a rush of anticipation at her response, and couldn’t wait to text her after my show.

What the heck was going on here?
I felt like I was back in middle school, crushing on the new girl.

She turned her attention to her phone, while I took off in a run toward the news truck.

I was halfway across the empty ballroom when I spotted Katelyn, talking to the Portland mayor, who I’d interviewed earlier that morning.

Still dressed in a suit and heels, having come straight from the station with her red hair swept up in a loose bun, Katelyn noticed me and waved.

“Don’t you have a show to do?” she called out from the back corner of the ballroom.

“Yeah, I’m late,” I replied, without breaking my stride.

“Call me later,” she said.

I nodded and continued on.

Chapter Twenty-five

Meg

As it happened, I
did
watch Jack’s show on CNN that night, because Gary ordered me back to my room to rest and regroup. He reminded me that I had been working non-stop for thirty hours under high-stress conditions, and that if I was going to be any good to him in the coming days, I had to get some sleep.

He was right, of course. He was always right about things like that, which was why he was the boss and I wasn’t.

I followed his advice and took a shower. Then I sat down on the foot of my bed in the white terry hotel bathrobe, with my long, wet hair wrapped in a towel. I pointed the remote control at the TV and turned on CNN.

Jack’s show was just starting. While I watched the opening, I pulled the towel from my hair and began to dry the ends.

I had watched his show many times in the past, but everything was different tonight because now I knew him personally. I found myself captivated by every word he spoke, every hint of emotion or reference to something we had seen together or discussed that day. Everything he relayed was accurate and spot on.

I had no regrets about allowing him to shadow me that afternoon, or about letting down my guard. In fact, I was glad. There was something about Jack Peterson that had a calming effect on me. It seemed to permeate through the television screen as he urged everyone to have patience while we sought answers.

He was also unbelievably sensitive and compassionate about the human side of this terrible catastrophe. He spent a significant amount of time highlighting the kindness, compassion and generosity of the people of Maine. He described fishermen and yachtsmen who had risen from their beds to help search the waters off Cape Elizabeth all night long. Women’s groups made plates of sandwiches by the hundreds, working tirelessly and with little hope for a good outcome. Others were opening their homes to family members of the victims, or offering their cars for them to use. Stress counsellors had volunteered their services, and emergency workers had stepped up to the plate in every possible way. At times, I could barely watch through my tears.