Chapter Four
The airport around me was humming with activity, people, shuttles and trolley’s bustling from place to place within its walls. I know it’s crazy, but at that moment, it felt like it was reflecting the nervous energy that was building in anticipation inside of me.
The two weeks that had passed hadn’t been able to go by quickly enough, but now that I was finally here, time seemed to move even slower. I had only been waiting about fifteen minutes to go through baggage claim, but it felt like days.
I kept a close eye on the arrivals and departures board. Flight to Brazil, scheduled layover in Florida, Estimated Departure—2:00 p.m.
My flight. The start to my new life. They’d decided that because of my degree in Teaching and Education, that I would be most useful teaching at one of the schools that had been set up for underprivileged children that lived in the Amazon. The tribe had reluctantly agreed to let Americans build a school near their village, and I would be allowed to stay there, to help them grow and thrive in whatever ways I possibly could.
It was more nerve-wracking than any job interview I’d ever had, or any case that I’d handled at Trestmont. I was actually going to be responsible for doing something, for teaching something, that could change someone’s life. It had taken me the full two weeks not only to pack, but to get my ideas together, although I had been told I would have to restructure my lesson plans based on what level the children were at.
I glanced another look at my watch. 1:30. The plane would be allowing people to board soon, so at least I wouldn’t have to sit at the gate for very long. The crowd of people around me thinned as each made stops at the flight gates that they would be leaving from until there were only a handful of people left. One of them was a handsome man that looked around my age, sitting and reading a newspaper.
I didn’t want to keep staring, but once I had noticed him, it was hard not to. The angled curve of his chin had a five o’clock shadow just gracing the tanned skin, which he rubbed with a calloused hand as he turned the page of the newspaper. His blue eyes looked mysterious and haunted, and lay beneath a strong brow, which was creased with his deep concentration. His short, dark hair was cut in a sensible way, and he was biting the soft pink hue of his bottom lip as he read the paper. All in all, he was the most attractive man that I’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on, and my eyes, devious traitors that they were, wouldn’t stop from stealing glances at him every chance that they could.
The last time that I looked up, right before the trolley stopped at the gate that I needed to get off at, I found that those incredible blue eyes happened to meet mine. He was staring at me. The realization made me blush, and fumble with the handle of my suitcase as the trolley lurched to a stop, where the baggage abruptly fell over. I reached down to grab it, but before I could, I felt another hand reach for it as well.
“Please, allow me.”
The man’s voice was just as attractive as the rest of him, gravely and somehow soft at the same time. It couldn’t have been nicer if he’d sat in front of a mirror and practiced it. I gave him a smile of thanks and backed off, letting him pick up the suitcase for me, aware of the fact that his muscles picked up the case a lot easier than I would have been able to.
“Is this your first trip to Brazil?” He asked conversationally, as we walked from the seats of the trolley to the line that had already formed for boarding the flight. There weren’t that many passengers in front of us, but enough that we had the time to get out our identification and tickets to show to the gate guard.
“Yes, actually.” Something about the man made me almost nervous. Perhaps it was just his good looks, or the fact that I didn’t hardly know him, and no matter how good looking he was, it wasn’t exactly sensible to go out giving your personal information to strangers.
“Business or pleasure?” He asked. Before I could answer, he gave his passport and ticket to the woman at the counter, who scanned it with a bored expression before waving him forward.
Instead of moving on, however, he waited for me, making it look like just standing there should have landed him a spot in a magazine. Finally, he returned the baggage to my outstretched hand as I passed through the security checkpoint and entered the tunnel that connected to the plane. It was almost too easy to fall into step with him, although his stride was much longer than mine.
“A little bit of both,” I said finally, aware that I still hadn’t answered his question and that he was still waiting for one expectantly.
“Same here.” His smile made me feel like a school girl with a crush. I wondered if he knew what kind of effect he had on people, or if he was genuinely a good natured person that was completely unaware of what his smile could do to a woman. Butterflies filled up my stomach, a sensation that I hadn’t felt, or rather hadn’t allowed myself to feel, for a very long time.
We discovered on the plane that we had conjoining seats, coincidence of all coincidences, so we were allowed to continue our conversation as the other seats filled with people.
His name was Charles Reid, he was in his mid-thirties, and he enjoyed reading and playing softball in an adult league. He admitted to me halfway through the flight, and a quarter the way through a glass of scotch, that he also enjoyed watching HGTV, the home and garden channel, on slow days when he had no work to do.
“It’s my guilty pleasure,” he said shrugging and taking another sip of his glass. I couldn’t keep myself from laughing just a little at the fact that the man’s guilty pleasure involved watching people renovate houses and design rooms. It hardly seemed the kind of skeleton that most people had in their closet.
“Everyone has a guilty pleasure,” I told him, voicing my thoughts, unable to wipe the smile from my face, “but I don’t think you have to worry about yours making headline news.”
“All right then,” he said, leaning a little closer to me in his seat. I took in a deep breath at the unexpected movement.
“All right,” he said again, clearly aware of the sudden heat between us as he backed off a little, “then what’s yours?”
“My guilty pleasure?” I asked. My voice sounded breathless, like I’d just run a marathon. All from one small movement on his part. His blue eyes searched mine for a moment, like they were penetrating me, seeing right down to my soul.
“I don’t have one.” I said.
“You just said that everyone has one,” he reminded me, tapping his head as if to say the thought had come out of his own head instead of mine.
“Well, most of the general population does.” I couldn’t stop my face from turning a little red.
“Aha!” He exclaimed loudly, pointing his hand in my direction.
The man on the other side of me looked at the two of us like we had lost our minds. We both gave a sheepish little grin at him and then turned back to each other.
“Tell me what it is,” he demanded, more quietly this time, but still just as insistent. “I told you mine.”
“Fine.” There really was no arguing with him when he wanted something. Even in the short time I had known Charles Reid, I could already discern that.
“Sometimes, sometimes, mind you, when I’ve had an awful day, or am just in the mood for it…I…I listen to bluegrass.”
I expected him to wrinkle his nose, or to laugh, but he just kind of made a face and said, “I didn’t expect you to be a banjo picking type girl.”
The fact that he even knew what it was astonished me. Most people didn’t listen to bluegrass, much less know what kind of instruments played a part in it. “You listen to that kind of music?”
“I travel a lot. Hear a lot of different genres of music,” he told me. It seemed that the longer he spoke, the bluer and deeper his eyes got, like they were a deep pool of water threatening to suck me in. How was that possible?
“Mmmm-hmm.” I said, nodding, and almost losing track of what he was saying.
The rest of the long flight was spent talking about our diffe
rent various likes and dislikes of food, movies, music and everything in between. I knew different odds and ends about Charles, or as he finally asked me to call him, Charlie, but I couldn’t tell you where the man had lived, or what he did for a living. It was strange, knowing a person so well and so quickly, and yet, not really knowing them at all.
It seemed almost too quickly that the captain was speaking to us, telling us that we would be landing shortly. We had talked for five hours, not even noticing that the time was passing by as quickly as the ground beneath us. It had been nice, pleasant. Not like the weather in Florida when we landed.
Even though we weren’t off the plane yet, I could already practically feel the moisture and heat of the coastal state, and I cringed, thinking of the mosquitoes and other creatures out there that were practically dying to get a hold of a tasty thing like me.
“I hate swamps,” I said, whining slightly. “They really aren’t my thing.”
“Have you ever actually been to Florida before?” He asked me, raising his eyebrows and grabbing both of our luggage cases from the compartment overhead. He sat them down on the floor, allowing me a moment to grab it before heading down the small aisle.
“No, but I’ve been to Louisiana once. Kind of the same thing, right? Mosquitoes, muggy weather, heat?”
He shook his head sadly, and even though I couldn’t see his face right at that moment, I could imagine the pitiful and sarcastic look he was making. “You poor, misguided creature. You have much to learn.”
“As long as it involves me learning from the confines of this airport…” I muttered under my breath.
Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to observe the wonders, or lack thereof, that Florida offered. It looked like the layover wouldn’t be the two hours that the flight had originally promised. The airport traffic had been held at a standstill until some impending, doomsday thunderstorm passed over, which we were informed could be anywhere from three hours to ten. The rain clouds around the terminal seemed dark and threatening, ominously laughing at our bad fortune.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The statement was more to myself than anyone else, but Charlie, who had been standing next to me, hearing the same information that I had, simply rolled his eyes.
“You’re such a drama queen. At least they’re putting you up in a hotel for the night.” His words were teasing, not harsh, but I still smacked him on the arm for it. Like we were old friends. It was strange how talking to someone for a few hours could make a difference.
They were putting us, and the rest of the people who were still trudging on to Brazil in a hotel that was right next to the airport. The deluge of rain nearly drowned us all as we ran, suitcases in hand, from one building to the next, finding our safe and warm place to spend the night.