Nancy Warren - Breakaway

“You’re welcome.”

“You seem too young to be flying planes.”

She laughed. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard such a comment. “My grandparents started Polar Air. I’ve been flying since I was sixteen years old.” She didn’t bother telling the Carpenters the sad part of her history. That her parents had been killed in a car crash coming home from a dinner party one night. Nobody’s fault. The car had gone into a turn and skidded off a cliff thanks to a deadly combination of ice, poor visibility and old snow tires. Fifteen and grieving, she’d been sent to live with her grandparents. She’d planned on hating Spruce Bay and running away. But a lot of love, good food and time had helped ease her hurt. And when she was sixteen her grandfather put her in the copilot’s seat and gave her the controls for a few amazing minutes.

From that moment she’d known what she wanted to do with her life.

She wasn’t sixteen anymore. She was nearly thirty. And she still loved flying more than anything else she could think of.

Once she’d finished unloading the Carpenters and their baggage, three businessmen from Albuquerque were waiting for their return trip. She loaded them onto the plane, then assessed the trio. Some sunburns and a general air of satisfaction told her their week had gone well. “How was your trip?” she asked.

“Fantastic. We caught some of the nicest sockeye I’ve ever tasted.”

For the price she knew they were paying for their week, she was glad they’d caught some salmon. Meant they’d tell their friends, maybe come back. “You’ll never get better fishing than up here,” she said into her headset.

Even the whales cooperated with her tour guide routine, hanging around in the same area where she’d last seen them. Once more she dipped down low, giving the men an up-close view of whales at play.

When she landed at the dock of Polar Air, she powered down and took a moment to enjoy the silence, before hopping down from the plane and tying up to the dock.

She had a couple of hours before her next flight, so she headed up the dock and turned, not to the office, but in the direction of her grandmother’s house.

Lynette Lundstrom was nearing seventy-three and Claire’s favorite person in the world. She usually found time to visit her grandmother every day, either for coffee or a sandwich. They ate dinner together at least twice a week.

She banged open the front door and headed for the kitchen, cheerfully calling out, “Coffee on?” She didn’t immediately get a response.

She quickened her step and found her grandmother sitting at the big oak kitchen table with a scatter of papers fanned in front of her.

She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her grandmother, concern building when she saw the expression on Lynette’s face. “What’s up?”

Lynette looked up at her, looking like an old woman for the first time Claire could remember. “I think we’re in trouble. The bank is threatening to call in the mortgage.”

Claire glanced at the fan of papers on the table. “What mortgage?”

The older woman was obviously upset. Her voice wavered. “Your grandfather and I started that airline back in the ’50s,” she reminded Claire as though she could possibly have forgotten the family history. “We used to fly in supplies for miners, fly in timber cruisers and transport Indian chiefs. We’ve helped with rescue missions. We delivered mail.” She tapped her fingers angrily against the table. “My whole life is here and connected to Polar Air. How can a bank take this airline away?”

“Calm down, Grandma. Nobody’s going to take our airline away from us. I don’t think they can.” She swallowed. “Can they?”

“The trouble is I’ve let things go a little. I know there have been some problems, but—”

“What problems?” Everything seemed fine to Claire. But she was busy with flights, and didn’t have a lot of patience for paperwork and administration. Some of their previous business had dropped off, it was true, but they’d added a lot of new business through tourism.

Claire frowned over the sheets of paper Lynette passed to her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She glanced up at her grandmother’s worried face.

“I didn’t want to bother you. You’re busy flying. Now that I don’t fly anymore, I feel that I should at least be able to run the place. I thought business would pick up and we’d be able to pay the mortgages back.”

Lynette turned to gaze out over a pair of old armchairs that sat by the window of her log house. The window faced one of the most spectacular views in Alaska. Probably the entire world. Set on a bluff overlooking the ocean, the house commanded views of crashing waves, of the islands out in the strait, and of the otters, whales, dolphins and seals that called the area home.

And they weren’t the only ones. Lynette had called Spruce Bay home her whole life. Claire realized she’d been doing the same for almost half of hers.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Lynette said once more.

“Well, I’m worried now. What’s going on?”

“After your grandfather died, I left Frank in charge of day-to-day operations. They won’t let me fly anymore and I’m not good in the office.”

“I know.” Lynette had been a bush pilot for forty years. It had nearly killed her when she’d had to give up her license after a mild heart attack. The irony was that the heart trouble hadn’t slowed her grandmother down at all. It was losing her license that had devastated her. Fortunately, she’d found a new calling coaching the women’s hockey team in Spruce Bay. It was something she’d done back when Claire first turned in her figure skates for a pair of speed skates.

Sometimes Claire felt guilty that she hadn’t stepped in to run the airline after her grandfather died, but she loved to fly and she had no interest in running an airline. Like Lynette, she’d believed Frank Carmondy was both capable and honest.

“Oh, honey, I’m not sure. Frank came to me around five years ago and said we needed to get a bigger credit line. You know, we always used to have one. The recession was on and we needed to access some capital. He arranged it all and I signed the papers.”

“Grandma,” she said, making an effort to keep her voice calm, “how much money are we talking? And why the hell is the bank calling the loan?”

2

MAX LOVED TO FLY almost as much as he loved sex. In some ways the two were similar. The freedom, the feeling of utter contentment. The ride was sometimes wild, sometimes smooth and familiar but he always, always ended up with a thrill.

Today was no different. He flew over majestic stands of evergreens, interspersed with logging clear-cuts as he skirted the coast. His flight plan took him over tankers and cruise ships, a pod of hunting orcas. He landed his Cessna at Polar Air’s airfield in Spruce Bay, and coasted until he came to a stop on a serviceable strip.

He turned off the engine, took off his headset. Climbed out of the plane and grabbed his battered briefcase.

He secured his plane and then entered the small, squat building that housed Polar Air.

And walked right into a very interesting situation.

The first thing he noted was the shapeliest backside he had ever seen. The rounded hips belonged to a dark-haired woman with a ponytail hanging down her back who was currently asking a portly middle-aged man in a Polar Air jacket some very pointed questions.

They were so deep in conversation that neither of them had heard his entrance. He was about to cough or announce himself in some way, when she said, “I spent the last couple of hours looking at the financial records on the computer. It seems to me that this company’s financial situation is worse than it should be.” Max bit back his fake cough and listened. Seemed his flight up here was already paying off.