AUTHOR'S NOTE: Get ready to experience Galen Randall's extreme fear of flying! Meriweather has promised to book him in the front row, so he can die immediately and without undue suffering, if there's a crash. Happy reading. :D
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When Randall stepped through the cabin door and onto the airplane, a flight attendant looked at his boarding pass, noted his seat assignment, and pointed him to the front row of the first class section.
"It really is the first row," Randall murmured. To the attendant he said, "Is anybody in the last row?"
"Yes, sir, we're fully booked today."
"Wonderful."
In the cramped last row of the plane, two seats had been installed against the restroom bulkhead, with no possibility of reclining or stretching one's legs. A fat cowboy sat in the row, barely fitting into the width of two seats. The fat man held up a hundred-dollar bill he had just this second received. He looked up into the eyes of the man who had paid him.
"Let me get this straight," the cowboy said. "I take your seat in first class, you take my seat here, and I get to keep the hundred to blow in Las Vegas? And I get a bigger seat and free drinks up there?" He pointed toward the first class cabin at the opposite end of the plane's center aisle.
Randall was already gently pulling the cowboy out of the seat and pushing him toward the first class section. "That's right. And the flight attendants are prettier, and the food is much better up front. Whattaya say?"
"I knew I felt lucky when I got up this morning!" said the happy cowboy, walking toward the nose of the plane.
"That makes one of us." Randall sank gratefully into the back row seat. He closed his eyes in relief.
Then he heard someone say, "Excuse me, I think that's my seat."
He opened his eyes to behold Lourdes O'Malley and her carry-on luggage.
"I think I'm in sixty-nine A," she said, gesturing with her boarding pass. "Maybe you're in sixty-nine B?"
Randall, of course, could not produce a boarding pass that said anything but "row one," so he made no demur. "Oh, right. Right, sorry. I'll just ... I'll get ... let me let you in here. Just a second." He struggled to squeeze out of the seat and edge past Lou into the aisle.
Lou scrunched past him with her backpack and camera bag and looked for a place to stow them. She stuffed the camera bag under the seat in front of 69A. She looked longingly at the space in front of 69B, then looked at Randall.
"Oh, it's okay," he was quick to respond to her silent question. "My stuff's in the overhead ... somewhere." He had a flash of realization that he had fled the first class cabin without collecting his leather carry-on and would have to ask an attendant to retrieve it. "You can use the space under the seat in front of me."
"Thanks." Lou smiled at him, then she jammed her backpack into the space in front of 69B. She settled into her seat, using the fur jacket from Debbie's closet as a pillow between her head and the outer bulkhead.
Randall eased into the seat beside her. He gestured to the fur jacket. "That's not rabbit, is it?"
"No, it's fake," she said. After a second, she turned to him in alarm. "Your name isn't Harold, is it?" Oh, please, don't let this guy be Debbie's animal-activist sugar daddy.
"No, it's Randall."
She let out a long breath of relief. "Right. What would be the odds?" She held out a hand to shake. "I'm Lourdes O'Malley. They call me Lou."
They shook hands and then buckled their seatbelts.
Meanwhile, at the law office where Lou and Debbie worked, Lou's desk was vacant and piled high with work. In the next-door cubicle, Debbie's desk was clear except for her personal knick-knacks, that is, a hundred and one photos of boyfriends.
Debbie sauntered in, sat at her desk, and took her makeup kit out of the drawer where she placed her purse. She opened her compact mirror and touched up her look.
The boss opened his office door, looked at Debbie, looked at his watch, and smiled. Then he looked at Lou's empty chair and frowned. "Where's Lou?"
"Takin' a sick day. Don't get your knickers in a knot."
The boss turned abruptly to stomp back into his office, but he stopped when he noticed something was amiss with the shiny brass nameplate on his door. He waggled the loose nameplate, jangled a dime out of his pocket, and tried to use the coin to tighten the brass screws on the corners of the brass plate. It wouldn't work.
"Debbie! Screwdriver! Now!" he barked.
"Terrific!"she chirped. "I'd love a Bloody Mary. Let's order in!"
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Thanks for reading and voting! Now, hurry on to Chapter 16 > > > > > > > :)