Nadia Nichols - From Out Of The Blue

“Campy! Get out here, woman. I need you to bear witness. Wally’s changing his story on me again.”

The door to the airfield’s warming hut opened a crack and a thin face framed by bleached blond hair stuck out, cigarette dangling from pouty red lips. She looked to be in the same kind of mood as Wally. “Go to hell, Mitch, and take that bastard with you,” she snarled around the cigarette and slammed the door again.

“I told Raider I could have the money by next week,” Mitch said, as he followed Wally toward the plane. “If we called Yance, he’d front us the money, and if I had it in hand I know Raider’d except my offer. We could sell the Stationair and pay back some of that loan right away.”

“We ain’t selling Babe and we ain’t buying a Pilatus/Fairchild Porter. It’s a good plane, I’m not arguing with you on that score, but Raider wants too much for it. Thinks its a goddamn Concorde jet. Besides, Yance’ll tack a high interest on that loan if he’d even give it to us. He’s a friggin’ shark. Bottom line, we can’t afford it.”

“The price is fair and the plane’s in great shape. Dependable. Flying a plane like that will boost our business a hundredfold. You know it’s true and you know we need it, and I think Yance’ll back us, so just bite the bullet and get it over with.” Mitch jammed his hands in his jeans pockets, ducked his head and rounded his shoulders, hesitating. “Forget the plane for a minute and tell me what you think about this. This woman I knew over four years ago, Navy pilot, suddenly shows up out of the blue, and she…”

Wally stopped abruptly, turned and took the cigar out of his mouth. “K. C. Jones?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“It’s not rocket science. It was my saloon you wooed her in back at Eielson, and you showed us the article about her in Air Force magazine. She’s here, in Alaska?”

“She’s out at my place.”

“And you’re standing here, talking to me? You big dumb son of a bitch. Hey, Campy!” he bellowed toward the closed door of the warming hut. “You think I’m uncaring and heartless? Listen to how Mitch treats his women!”

“C’mon, Wally, cut me some slack,” Mitch said. “I need your advice.”

“Campy, you’re missing out. Mitchell McCray is asking for my input on a romantic matter.”

The warming hut door opened and Campy reemerged, dressed in tight hip-hugger jeans and a stretch Lycra top that barely concealed Wally’s two best friends. She slouched against the doorway with a frown. “Mitchell,” she drawled, “if you’re desperate enough to take advice from Wally about matters of the heart, I feel real sorry for whoever your latest girlfriend is.”

“It’s that hot Navy pilot who was written up in that air force magazine last fall,” Wally said. “Mitch showed it to us. Remember? She’s out at his place even as we speak.”

“No kidding?” Campy tossed her long blond hair back and took a drag of her cigarette, regarding Mitch through narrowed eyes. “If she looks as good in real life as she did on the cover of that magazine, you don’t want to be making any mistakes with her.”

“I just want to know why the hell she’s here,” he said. “Not a word of warning, she just lands on my doorstep. She must want something. I just don’t know what.”

“She wants you, Mitch,” Wally guffawed. “A career bachelor like you should know all the signals by now.”

“One thing’s for sure. It’s not your money she’s after.” Campy flicked the cigarette down and ground it out beneath one of her fancy, hand-tooled, black Tony Llama cowboy boots. “Tell you what. The two of you get that plane fixed and back in the air so we can all keep eating, and I’ll take Thor back to your cabin. That woman shouldn’t be there without a dog, not when the salmon are getting ready to run and the bears are walking that creek.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Mitch said.

“Campy’s got a point,” Wally said. “Might be good if she took the dog back to your place. They can meet each other and have some girl talk.”

“Girl talk?”

“Trust me, they thrive on that stuff, and Campy’ll find out more about where that woman’s coming from than you could in a whole year of beating around the bush.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Look, you wanna know why this chick showed up on your doorstep or not? Send Campy over. You’ll get the lowdown without all the dancing around.”

Campy gave Mitch’s arm a squeeze. “Hon, I hate more than you’ll ever know to say this, but this one time, Wally’s right. I’ll go scope things out.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Campy, but…”

“Hey, what are friends for? Keys in the truck?”

“Yeah, but…”

“You like this gal, or don’t you?”

Mitch ran his fingers through his hair. “I like lots of girls. I just don’t know why this one’s here, and I don’t want you playing matchmaker on my behalf.”

Campy gave him an innocent look. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always trying to pair me off, but I like bachelorhood just fine.”

“That’s only because you haven’t gotten to know the right woman yet.” Campy turned and walked away. When she reached the driver’s side door, she glanced back over her shoulder before hoisting herself into the cab. “Don’t look so worried, Mitch. I promise I’ll behave.”

KATE SPENT a half an hour just browsing through Mitch’s books after touring the comfortable, homey interior of the main cabin, which wasn’t nearly as messy as he’d warned her it would be. Aside from some clothing tossed over various pieces of rustic furniture, it was quite neat. His kitchen sink was empty of dishes, the counters were wiped down and the floor swept. His bedroom was in the loft and consisted of a double mattress laid on the bare wood floor with a down comforter over the top and a window that was opened wide to the outside air. The downstairs was one large room, the kitchen and living area divided by a big brick chimney that hosted a woodstove on one side and a fireplace on the other. The cavernous fireplace was on the living-room side, where the bookcase was located. Most of the books were paperbacks, some were hardcovers, and there was one magazine lying flat on the shelf: the Air Force magazine that featured her as the cover girl. She wondered at the man who had tucked that magazine among all those books by authors as diverse as Albert Einstein, Jack London and Thor Heyerdahl.

She ran her fingers over the gilt letters embossed into an old leather bound volume of poetry printed in 1876 and carried it with her onto the porch, where the sound of rushing water lulled her senses. She lowered herself into one of the comfortable Adirondack-style chairs and sat for a few moments, wondering if this was wise. She might very well fall asleep with that beautiful creek calming her and the sun’s warmth soaking into her. But what harm would a short nap do? Mitch wouldn’t be back for at least an hour, and it was so peaceful here.

She could easily imagine Hayden clattering down the porch steps with his fishing rod and his dog. This place was made for little boys to grow up in, and for dogs to keep them company while they did. She sighed and opened the book to a random page, trying but not quite able to imagine Mitch reading poetry. She scanned the first line of the chosen poem and before she could finish the second, a curious lethargy soaked through her bones. On impulse she removed her wig, relishing the feel of cool air and warm sun against her scalp.

She’d worn the wig in public since she was first discharged from the hospital after losing her hair. Her mother had handed her the box and said, “I thought you might want the option of wearing this until your own grows back. The hair’s real.”