Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

“Why are you trying to piss me off even more than I already am?”

“You needed the charter. Their money is good. Tell me where I’m wrong.” After a silence, he grunted with satisfaction, then said, “I got work to do,” and hung up.

In days past, Dent had loved hanging out at airports of any kind, be it a major hub or a county airfield with a grass landing strip used mostly by crop dusters. He liked nothing better than talking shop with other pilots.

Now, he avoided conversation with them. Nor would any want to talk to him once he introduced himself by name. He went into the pilots’ lounge only long enough to grab a couple of newspapers, then made himself comfortable in an armchair in a remote spot off the main lobby. He read both sports sections. Tried to work a crossword puzzle, but didn’t get very far. He idly watched a five-year-old soccer game being telecast on ESPN.

When lunchtime rolled around, he picked up a cheeseburger at the grill and took it outside to a patio eating area. He ate the burger while watching planes take off from Hobby. Each time one soared off the runway, he felt that familiar and thrilling tug deep in his gut. As much as anything, maybe even more than anything, he missed the adrenaline rush of jet propulsion, the thrust that was virtually sexual. It had been like a drug to him, and he’d quit cold turkey.

Eventually Houston’s sultry heat drove him back into the air-conditioned building. He returned to his spot and, out of sheer boredom, opened Bellamy Price’s novel and began to read.

The prologue left him numb with disbelief. After five chapters, he was angry. By the time he came to the last chapter, he was seeing red.

It was the calm before the storm, otherwise known as dinner at Maxey’s.

Sister restaurants in New York and Boston had already established its reputation, so almost as soon as Maxey’s Atlanta opened fifteen months ago in the tony Buck-head area, it became a choice spot for the well-heeled and beautiful—and wannabes—to see and be seen in.

Co-owner Steven Maxey was seated at the brushed-chrome bar, reviewing the chef’s specials for the evening and mentally gearing up for the onslaught that would begin as soon as the doors opened at five-thirty. When his cell phone vibrated, he glanced at the caller ID and, with a sense of dread, answered. “Hello, Mother.”

“I know you’re busy.”

“Never mind. Is it Howard?”

“We’re in Houston. We came down to see what our options are in terms of further treatment.”

Their viable options were dwindling, but neither had the heart to say so out loud. “Give him my best,” Steven said.

“I’ll be sure to. He’s napping now. Bellamy’s sitting with him. I just stepped out to phone you.”

He could tell she had more to say, although for several seconds a hollow silence was all that came through the line. Then, “We flew down in a private plane.”

That statement, while seemingly innocuous, vibrated with a portentous note. Steven waited.

“Bellamy chartered it. Guess who the pilot was.”

Steven’s gut clenched. “Please tell me you’re not about to say—”

“Denton Carter.”

He placed his elbow on the bar, bent his head toward his hand, and rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers in an attempt to ward off the migraine this information would no doubt bring on.

“I tried to dissuade her,” Olivia continued. “She was determined.”

“For crissake, why?”

“Something about getting closure, mending the past. You know how your stepsister is.”

“Ever the mediator.”

“She wants everything to be… nice.”

“Was he ?”

“Nice? No. No happier to see us than we were to see him.”

“Then why did he agree to fly you?”

“That old man who owns the airfield—”

“He’s still alive?”

“He arranged it, apparently without telling Dent who’d booked the charter. When he realized who we were, he was as unpleasant and arrogant as ever. There’s no love lost on either side.”

“Did he know about Bellamy’s book?”

“According to her, no. But he might have been pretending, or being obtuse. Who knows? We have to fly back with him when we’re finished here.” Steven heard a sniff and realized just how upset his mother was. “I never wanted to see that boy again.”

She continued to bemoan what an untenable situation it was. Steven understood how she felt. His emotions ran the gamut from dismay to alarm to anger, as they’d been doing since the day Low Pressure was published. His anxiety had worsened when Bellamy’s identity and the biographical nature of the book became public knowledge.

William Stroud, his business partner, tapped him on the shoulder and signaled that it was time to open. The receptionist had moved into place inside the door. Wait-staff were scattered throughout the dining room, putting finishing touches on the table settings. The sommelier was standing by to answer questions about the extensive wine list.

“Mother,” Steven said, cutting in, “I’m sorry, but I must go. We’re about to open for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, I should have realized—”

“No need to apologize. Naturally you’re upset. Bellamy shouldn’t have subjected you to seeing Denton Carter, not on top of everything else.”

“She’s apologized a thousand times, Steven. She never intended for anyone to know that her book was based on… fact.”

“I’m sure her apologies are sincere, but what good are they? She chose to write the book. She risked her identity becoming known. But she also risked exposing the rest of us. That was very unfair.”

“She realizes that now,” Olivia said around a heavy sigh. “But in any case, it’s done.”

“Yes, it’s done. But the last thing you needed was another reminder in the form of Dent Carter. Put it out of your mind and focus on Howard. Don’t forget to give him my regards.”

He hung up before more could be said, then moved to the end of the bar to make room for eager first arrivals. Unobtrusively, he asked one of the bartenders to pour him a vodka on the rocks. He watched the dining room fill, watched the bar become three people deep. After the initial flurry of activity, William joined him and must have discerned from the drink and his broodiness that the recent telephone call had rattled him.

“Your stepfather took a downward turn?”

Steven related the latest about Howard’s condition. “That’s bad, but there’s more. Denton Carter has now entered the picture.” William knew the history, so there was no need to explain or elaborate on why that was disturbing. “At Bellamy’s invitation, no less.”

Steven told him how the reunion had come about. William shook his head in disbelief. “Why on earth would she contact him now? Since leaving New York and returning to Texas, she’s suspended all the publicity for her book and virtually disappeared from the public eye. Why is she stirring things up again?”

“For the life of me, I don’t know.”

Concerned, William asked, “What are you going to do?”

“What I’ve been doing most all my life.” Steven tossed back the remainder of his drink. “Damage control.”

Bellamy guessed Dent had been watching for the limo from inside the building. Even before the car glided to a halt, he was there, beating the chauffeur to open the rear door. As soon as she alighted, he brandished the copy of Low Pressure in her face.

“I want to know why in the name of God you wrote this damn thing.”

She wondered if his bristling anger was a good sign, or bad. Good, she supposed, because it indicated that he’d told her the truth when he claimed not to know anything about her novel, which made it unlikely that he was the one who’d sent her a rat wrapped in silver tissue paper.