A Fortuitous Meeting (3)
Anne stuffed herself into the aircraft, strapping herself in, holding her hands out for the headset. She couldn't help blushing at his comment. "I think you're right." She took the headset out of the pilot's hand. "You want me to listen in?" "Yes, of course. Amuse yourself with ATC lingo. Besides I can talk to you, it will be easier." "So," she said settling in, "this is what it's like when the cockpit isn't damaged." "This is it. Scared?" "Oh, no. I’m not the one responsible if it goes down!” His laugh was sudden and expressive, warm, and tingling. “Hey I know, that’s my department!” "True enough." She met the pilot's eyes, her smile just as easy. "I trust you, though. You got the other plane down okay." "Just okay?" He turned and smiled at her, wondering why in the last four months since their fortuitous meeting he had been so nervous about calling her. "More than okay. Did you check the fuel on this baby?" He snapped his fingers. "Damn! Forgot!" Their friendship was sealed. "OF course I did. Come on; let's get out of here! I'm starving." Anne Chambers laughed, showing her almost perfect teeth; her smile shaking this nervy adventurous pilot in places he had forgotten existed. "The last time you saw me," she reminded him, "you were sick and injured, just a bit confused, and ready to go to sleep." "You are right," he said, finally coming out of his shock. "I was pretty tired. It was a hard three weeks after that. My AME cleared me for flight two months ago.” "Well," she said, falling into step beside him, "it's probably a good thing you were a little dazed. When we met I was in a robe and slippers. What a way to meet someone, eh?" I must have been dazed not to notice you even in a robe and slippers, thought the thirty-three-year-old private pilot, resisting the urge to take her by the hand as he led her out to the little white Cessna 172 which gleamed invitingly and helped her into it. "I think under the circumstances any way you would have been dressed would have been fine." Anne stuffed herself into the aircraft, strapping herself in, holding her hands out for the headset. She couldn't help blushing at his comment. "I think you're right." She took the headset out of the pilot's hand. "You want me to listen in?" "Yes, of course. Amuse yourself with ATC lingo. Besides I can talk to you, it will be easier." "So," she said settling in, "this is what it's like when the cockpit isn't damaged." "This is it. Scared?" "No. I'm not the one driving this bucket of bolts." His laugh was sudden and expressive, warm, and tingling. "Oh, it's more sophisticated than that. This isn't a Liberator." "True enough." She met the pilot's eyes, her smile just as easy. "I trust you, though. You got the other plane down okay." "Just okay?" He turned and smiled at her, wondering why in the last four months since their fortuitous meeting he had been so nervous about calling her. "More than okay. Did you check the fuel on this baby?" He snapped his fingers. "Damn! Forgot!" Their friendship was sealed. "OF course I did. Come on; let's get out of here! I'm starving." I must have been dazed not to notice you even in a robe and slippers, thought the thirty-three-year-old private pilot, resisting the urge to take her by the hand as he led her out to the little white Cessna 172 which gleamed invitingly and helped her into it. "I think under the circumstances any way you would have been dressed would have been fine." Anne stuffed herself into the aircraft, strapping herself in, holding her hands out for the headset. She couldn't help blushing at his comment. "I think you're right." She took the headset out of the pilot's hand. "You want me to listen in?" "Yes, of course. Amuse yourself with ATC lingo. Besides I can talk to you, it will be easier." "So," she said settling in, "this is what it's like when the cockpit isn't damaged." "This is it. Scared?" "No. I'm not the one driving this bucket of bolts." His laugh was sudden and expressive, warm, and tingling. "Oh, it's more sophisticated than that. This isn't a Liberator." "True enough." She met the pilot's eyes, her smile just as easy. "I trust you, though. You got the other plane down okay." "Just okay?" He turned and smiled at her, wondering why in the last four months since their fortuitous meeting he had been so nervous about calling her. "More than okay. Did you check the fuel on this baby?" He snapped his fingers. "Damn! Forgot!" Their friendship was sealed. "OF course I did. Come on, let's get out of here! I'm starving." "How are you feeling?" "Much better. You won't recognize me!" Anne thought about that golden blonde hair. "Sure I will." "Listen," he said easily enough now, "I know it's early, I'm calling from the airport. I found you in the phone book, I hope you don't mind that I gave you a call." "Mind?" she said in surprise, "I don't mind at all." "Well," he plunged perilously ahead, "I'm in the area today, I do charter flights. One of my evening passengers canceled, but I'm flying back here tonight. You wouldn't be free for dinner, would you? I know you're very busy." Anne shuffled some papers on her desk, already knowing the answer to that question. "I can fit you in. I'd be happy too. You want to meet at the airport for dinner?" "Well," responded Andrew Crance a little hesitantly, "Actually," and this was the excuse he needed, "the airport restaurant isn't open for dinner. I was thinking maybe I could fly you out to San Diego. I already have approval for the flight plan. Anne clinched her hands together in anticipation. "Yes, I would like that. I'll meet you there then." When Anne Chambers arrived at the airport and saw him sitting in a plastic chair beside a fake plant, she recognized him immediately. He got up, came over to her with his hand out. "Hello." "Well," she said, taking in his tall, lean figure, casual dress, easy stance, "I hardly know what to say. The last time I saw you..." "I know, I got blood on your sleeve." "And you," she said easily, letting him hug her, "made me climb into a wrecked plane." "No, you did that yourself." "I had no choice." "Of course you didn't." She looked up into his face, his brown eyes sparkling behind the glasses she remembered retrieving. She let her eyes play along his face, now not quite so damaged, her glance fell on the scar above his eye, and there it was, that incessantly mischievous lock of hair teasing her. She seemed transfixed by it. But it was Andrew Crance who was taken aback. He took in Anne's mediumly plump figure, her hair curling at her ears, sweeping majestically to her shoulders, her exquisite face, not to mention her red, summer outfit which made her eyes look very peaceful, and her hair... He had to shake himself. "Please forgive me for staring. I don't even know that I got a good look at you before." Anne Chambers laughed, showing her almost perfect teeth, her smile shaking this nervy adventurous pilot in places he had forgotten existed. "The last time you saw me," she reminded him, "you were sick and injured, just a bit confused, and ready to go to sleep." "You are right," he said, finally coming out of his shock. "I was pretty tired. It was a hard three weeks after that. My AME cleared me for flight two months ago.” "Well," she said, falling into step beside him, "it's probably a good thing you were a little dazed. When we met I was in a robe and slippers. What a way to meet someone, eh?" I must have been dazed not to notice you even in a robe and slippers, thought the thirty-three-year-old private pilot, resisting the urge to take her by the hand as he led her out to the little white Cessna 172 which gleamed invitingly and helped her into it. "I think under the circumstances any way you would have been dressed would have been fine." Anne stuffed herself into the aircraft, strapping herself in, holding her hands out for the headset. She couldn't help blushing at his comment. "I think you're right." She took the headset out of the pilot's hand. "You want me to listen in?" "Yes, of course. Amuse yourself with ATC lingo. Besides I can talk to you, it will be easier." "So," she said settling in, "this is what it's like when the cockpit isn't damaged." "This is it. Scared?" "No. I'm not the one driving this bucket of bolts." His laugh was sudden and expressive, warm, and tingling. "Oh, it's more sophisticated than that. This isn't a Liberator." "True enough." She met the pilot's eyes, her smile just as easy. "I trust you, though. You got the other plane down okay." "Just okay?" He turned and smiled at her, wondering why in the last four months since their fortuitous meeting he had been so nervous about calling her. "More than okay. Did you check the fuel on this baby?" He snapped his fingers. "Damn! Forgot!" Their friendship was sealed. "OF course I did. Come on, let's get out of here! I'm starving." "Oh, by the way, Andrew," said the mechanic. Andrew turned back, focusing his brown gaze on the man who was so vehemently pushing him into the arms of someone he hardly knew, that golden blonde hair which Anne had found so appealing, and which was totally lost on the mechanic, touching the now healed gash over his right eye. "You know the NTSB didn't think that was such a great idea her climbing into that plane." The pilot frowned. "So what?" "Oh, Andrew," the mechanic laughed, "That's why you're one of the best pilots in general aviation, you're so calm about everything. Some pilots would be ripping their hair out about something like that." "Yeah, well, there were no good Samaritans to call the ambulances, everyone was asleep and I only had time to make one emergency frequency transmission before getting slammed into the front dash of that plane despite the harness. I'm not going to argue with them about something so minor as their opinion about that. The reason for the engine failure, I'll argue with them about that, but not a girl climbing into a plane that wasn't burning." "Yeah, Andrew," the mechanic said acknowledging another pilot who had just entered the shop, "I think you better call that girl." Perhaps a month after this conversation, when he was still working on aquiring his plane, when he could rent one, when he was working again for the charter company, collecting thousands of dollars to take passengers across short distances, filing flight plans for routes of more than fifty miles, he woke up early one morning with two images in his head: the girl, and the fence. Over the passage of time, images of hitting the fence were abating. Hadn't he and his instructor practiced engine out exercises in training? Piece of cake, right? Well, perhaps sometimes, he was human after all, but those dreams were coming less often, less often than thoughts of Anne Chambers teaching high school kids how to spell or whatever she did. It occurred to the pilot, sprawling in his king-size bed, listening to the ticking of the altimeter wall clock above his desk, looking at the desk alarm clock on the nightstand, that he didn't even know what she did. They hadn't talked since she had left his house a week after the accident. His sister liked her well enough, but good old Rachel hadn't mentioned her, and with all the paperwork, and the phone tag and the questions and the engine tear-down, even though she had been on his mind, he hadn't contacted her, nor she, him. They went their separate ways, so it was kind of strange that he would be thinking of the fence and the girl at the same time. He lay wide awake now, noting the slight chill in the air. He was usually up by 3:30, readying for his day, and today was no exception. He had been hired for some charters, he would have to be at the airport in two hours. He allowed himself time to clear his head, to wake up, and now as he did so, his thoughts turned to Anne Chambers once again. This morning as the gray haze of fog lay across the sky and he still lay beneath the comforter he wondered what she might be doing at this moment. It was possible she would be awake. Maybe not. She had been awake that day, perhaps she would be awake now? The sudden jangling of the phone clattered into the pilot's thoughts, sharply bringing him back to the present. He turned and looked at the luminous dial on the alarm. It was 3:45. The alarm would be sounding in a few minutes. His hand crept out of the sheets, he flipped the knob into the off position, swung his feet over the side of his bed, put a hand to his hair, rubbed his eyes, put on his glasses. The phone jangled impatiently. He walked over to his cluttered desk, pushed aside a few photographs, moved a Mustang P51 model out of the way and silenced the insistently jangling phone. "Hello." "Andrew?" A purring voice on the phone. "Isn't it time for you to be up?" "Just about." "Well," said the perky voice on the other end of the line, "Sorry to wake you, sounds like you weren't quite up and running yet." "What's up, John? You got business?" "Well, that's why I'm calling, Andrew. We have an evening cancelation. Your charter passenger from out in the boonies called in sick." "Oh?" "That going to set you back?" "You don't have anyone else?" "No, I'm afraid not. Maybe we'll get a call or something. But you know this business." "Yeah," said the pilot, "I know it. Okay." Morning was starting to break and he was shaking the images, getting into gear. "Call me if you come up with something." Just before he hung up, he thought of something. "John?" "Yeah?" "Let's keep that flight plan if you don't mind." "Okay. Schedules not too tight. I suppose we can do that." He hung up the phone, looked at the cluttered desk. He really should clean it. A coffee mug that said "I love the smell of jet fuel in the morning" sat by the phone with an inch of cold, stale coffee in it. He grabbed it, headed out of his spacious room and went into the kitchen to wash it. He rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes, his bare feet sliding across the cool tiled floor. He pulled out a coffee grinder and ground up some Irish Cream coffee and then returned to his room as the pot gurgled cheerfully into life. Hopping into the shower, he had to wonder about keeping the flight plan. Maybe Anne Chambers, whom he hadn't seen in four months, would want to have dinner with him, you know, a friendly call, and why not take her out there for dinner? He didn't know if she had ever been in a small plane, maybe she would like that? It couldn't hurt to ask, right? Anne was sitting at her desk grading a paper when the phone next to her jangled into life. Its pleasant, soft bell tone startled her. She thought it was a bit early for the phone to be ringing, but she lifted it to her ear. "Miss Chambers?" a voice questioned quietly. "Yes." "Did I wake you by chance?" "No. Who is this?" "Miss Chambers, it's Andrew Crance," he paused, she did not respond, "the pilot?" "Hi!" She felt as if she had just heard from a long lost friend. "Where are you? Not in the sky?" "No, not in the sky, not yet." He chuckled easily, wondering why he had been so nervous. "You remembered me." "Of course I did. You think I could forget driving a man back home with a concussion and a broken plane? That doesn't happen everyday you know." "No, no, I suppose not." There was a pause on her end of the line. "How are you feeling?" "Much better. You won't recognize me!" "Sure I will." "Listen," he said easily enough now, "I know it's early, I'm calling from the airport. I found you in the phone book, I hope you don't mind that I gave you a call." "Mind?" she said in surprise, "I don't mind at all." "Well," he plunged perilously ahead, "I'm in the area today, I do charter flights. One of my evening passengers canceled, but I'm flying back here tonight. You wouldn't be free for dinner, would you? I know you're very busy." Anne shuffled some papers on her desk, already knowing the answer to that question. "I can fit you in. I'd be happy too. You want to meet at the airport for dinner?" "Well," responded Andrew Crance a little hesitantly, "Actually," and this was the excuse he needed, "the airport restaurant isn't open for dinner. I was thinking maybe I could fly you out to San Diego. I already have approval for the flight plan. "Oh, I see. What about the landing fees. You don't have to pay them?" "Already taken care of. Are you up for it?" "Yes, I would like that. I'll meet you there then." When Anne Chambers arrived at the airport and saw him sitting in a plastic chair beside a fake plant, she recognized him immediately. He got up, came over to her with his hand out. "Hello." "Well," she said, taking in his tall, lean figure, casual dress, easy stance, "I hardly know what to say. The last time I saw you..." "I know, I got blood on your sleeve." "And you," she said easily, letting him hug her, "made me climb into a wrecked plane." "No, you did that yourself." "I had no choice."
Copyright © 2002 Shelley Alongi |