Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (16 page)

“‘I’ve always been kind of a heel with women. Everybody knows that. But that night in Atlanta, for once I did the right thing—probably the only time in my life, where a woman was concerned. Nobody, especially Carole, believed me when I said nothing happened. But it’s true. It was all incredibly innocent. This girl was something special, and I realized that. And you know what? After all these years, I
still
wonder if she wasn’t the one that got away.”

He was talking about
me
? I sat in disbelief.

Of course, none of it made sense, not here in the present, but that was nothing new to me since I had grown accustomed to the havoc of my time-traveling escapades.

As I changed from my clothes into a robe, I discovered a wad of paper in the pocket of my jeans. An old grocery list, perhaps? When I removed it, I saw it was a cocktail napkin still damp with red wine. In barely legible script, it read:

Forget the canary diamond, or any of that other fancy jewelry.

Frankly, my dear, you have something far more important:

You have jewels inside.”

C. G.

December, 1939

THE THERAPY CHRONICLES:

Part Two

This morning I dressed in my Sunday best, not because it was Sunday but because it was Friday: Therapy Day. Mr. Perfect looked so cute—especially the way he kept brushing his hair back from his face. Could he have been nervous? We had a series of discussions about why I’m not meeting the right kind of man. And now I know that this curse isn’t only related to the present, but also to the past. But do I have any control over that?

Although I’ve enjoyed the time travel and the interesting men I’ve met in the past, I find myself beginning to long for something in the here and now. But how will I find anyone who can compare to Hemingway, Van Gogh, or Clark Gable? Good luck, Ariel. You have about as much chance of that as losing a race to a one-legged man.

The only person I feel any spark for present day, is Mr. Perfect. And that flame is
not
reciprocal.

In his dark, wood-paneled office sitting on one of his leather sofas, he said, “I’m glad you told me that you are no longer interested in married men. That’s a big step forward, right? The goal is to meet available men who are relationship material.”

I still wasn’t convinced that “available” and “relationship material” didn’t equal “boring.”

“Yeah, married men do come with a lot of baggage—wives, ex-wives and alimony, child support, custody issues, etc.,” I said. “It can be exhausting.”

A sudden lightning quick revelation came to me:
Just like the living, dead men seemed to carry a lot of baggage—just of a different kind.

Were all interesting men unbalanced, unavailable, and untruthful? I know the old saying, “you can’t live in the past,” but sometimes I seemed to be doing just that. With my time-travel I knew the drill.  With the crystal heart working its magic, I found great romances in the past, but so far they held no future.

I was starting to believe that I might never meet anyone, and was destined to becoming one of those weird cat ladies living with thirty felines.

Chapter Eight

THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS

Flying the friendly skies sure ain’t what it used to be.

I found that out after this weekend in St. Louis, visiting a childhood friend. I returned home to New York City on the only flight I could find, a nonstop to LaGuardia leaving at 6:30 a.m. I confess, I would rather stick pins in my eyes than face the world any time before ten.

I will always remember Flight 1722. I made sure to note certain details of it on the vomit bag provided in the seat pocket in front of me, specifically, the name of the offensive Nazi stewardess—ahem, I mean,
flight attendant
. I intended to register a complaint.

The problem is that post-9/11 flight attendants have taken on a new kind of power. They have done away with pleasantries such as “please” and “thank you.” They act as if the airline—and they, as its representatives— are doing you a huge favor by
allowing
you to spend hundreds of dollars to pack yourself like a sardine into a seat on an overbooked flight. In coach, you’re lucky to get a bag of stale peanuts. If fortunate enough to fly first-class, you might be treated to a vile plastic meal. My compliments to the chemist!

I took one of the seats in the back, 40C. I figured I would be safer there, since they say that if a plane goes down you have the best chance to survive in the rear sections. What a reassuring thought. I struggled to place my roll-aboard suitcase into the overhead bin, noticing that not one man volunteered to help. And it is obviously beneath the flight attendant to help. Finally, after huffing and puffing my way into a probable future back brace, a man heading down the aisle to a seat next to mine asked if he could help. Not to be a smart-ass, but to make a point, I said in a very loud voice, “I am sure glad there is at least
one
gentleman on this flight.” I placed my writing satchel under the seat in front of me, and rested my purse in my lap. Already edgy after a mere four hours of sleep, and one too many cocktails with my friend the night before, I had only one nerve left—and Ms. Nazi-flight-attendant was standing on it.

“That purse needs to go all the way under the seat in front of you,” she spat. She had fried, bleach-blonde hair, and a mouth that bled with severe red lipstick.

I pulled my eyes from her nasty appearance to examine my purse, which was the size of a paperback book. “So when did they start this?” I inquired, holding it up. “Look how small it is. This shouldn’t be a problem
,
should it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Those are the rules. It needs to go all the way under, not on the seat next to you, nor on your lap.”

Wow. I looked down at my hardcover copy of
War and Peace
, almost the size of a telephone book. She hadn’t said anything about
that
. As I opened my mouth again, I wondered why I couldn’t leave well enough alone. It’s a question I’ve asked myself my entire life.

“Well,” I said, “since this book is
twice
the size of my purse, why doesn’t
that
need to go under the seat as well?”

“You know what we do with rude passengers?” she snarled. “We make them get off the plane. Do you want to stay on this flight?”

“Look, I’m not trying to be a smart-ass here. I’m just asking a simple question. It seems to me this book would be far more dangerous flying around the cabin than my purse. That’s all.”

“You can
hold
the book, but the
purse
has to go
all
the way under the seat.” She watched as I did as asked. She continued up the aisle, barking out similar orders to others, and with a twenty-minute delay she had to time to come around again. “It is
not
all the way under the seat.”

Jesus Christ. You could barely see the damn thing.

Then she snipped at the guy across the aisle. “Your seat-back needs to come all the way up.”

If this plane went down, did she really think these things would make one iota of difference, since we were all gonna die anyway? I think about those things. Especially at 6:30 a.m.

Shortly after take-off, I flipped open my in-flight magazine. I should have been working on a piece I was writing for
Cosmopolitan
, but a particular article had caught my eye. It not only listed tourist attractions in the St. Louis area, but also mentioned a specific museum and showed a picture of a handsome man standing beside an airplane.

Charles Lindbergh. First man to fly across the Atlantic, in 1927.

I nodded off, with thoughts of airplanes and Nazi flight attendants filling my head. As the plane lifted, a steel-gray mist descended.

***

I awoke to find myself traveling by train. What was I doing here, and what time was it? I opened my purse, found a ticket dated Saturday, April 8, 1939, for an oceanic voyage aboard the
Aquitania
, from Cherbourg to New York. Interesting. I checked with a man walking down the corridor, and he told me in broken English that we were now en route from Paris to Cherbourg.

Okay. So I knew
where
and
when
I was going, but not
why.

Used to this routine by now, I settled into my seat, thinking about what adventures might lie ahead. If the past was any indication, I knew there could be a new man on the horizon very soon.

The train ride to Cherbourg was insufferably long. I noticed I had my valise and writing satchel. I spent the time editing my
Cosmopolitan
piece. With no faxes or computers here to transmit my article, I hoped I would be back in New York in time to meet my deadline.

In the seats behind me, a family was traveling with a pack of noisy kids, and one boy kept kicking the back of my seat, then leaning over with snot running out of his nose staring at me like I was an alien from outer space. I wanted to say, “take a picture kid, it will last longer.” What sort of parents allowed their children to act this way? I wanted to knock the mother’s block off, but decided moving to the next car was probably a more suitable solution.

Hastily, I stuffed my papers into my satchel. The aisles were tight as I made my way into the forward car, and an unexpected lurch of the train threw me off balance. I caught myself, preventing a nosedive, but the satchel flew from my hands and scattered its contents along the aisle. As I stooped to retrieve them, a man came to my aid.

“Here you are, miss,” he said, kneeling beside me.

My face flushed, and I was too embarrassed to look up.

“You missed a paper,” he added. “It’s under the seat.”

“Thank you so much.”

As he rose to his feet, I ventured a look and noticed he was tall and lean. My eyes moved up his body to his face, where I saw bright blue eyes and a sensual mouth. An amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and I wondered if this was the new man I was supposed to meet. I sure hoped so.

“Here you go.” He handed me the last pages. “I think that’s all of them.”

“Thanks again,” I said.

He returned to his seat, and I found an empty one next to a woman wearing a brown tweed coat and a paisley scarf.

“You know who that was, don’t you?” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “Who was he?”

“Why, he’s
only
the most
famous
man on earth. That was Charles Lindbergh. Can you believe it? First man to fly solo, nonstop, from New York to Paris. I hear he’s going back to the States.”

Inwardly I groaned that he had witnessed my clumsy moment. Would we be on the same ship together? I hoped I could show a little more grace should I encounter him again.

The train arrived in Cherbourg, and I flagged a taxi for the short ride to the harbor. The
Aquitania
hovered over the dock, gleaming with Old World charm.

I was ushered to my cabin. After unpacking, I removed my magazine piece, which I set out on the small desk. Feeling tired—my jumps through time seemed to have an effect on me like jetlag—I decided to go to dinner early. I needed to turn in at a decent hour so I could get an early start writing the next morning.

I dressed for dinner in a simple black dress, showing up in the dining parlor just before six. On the way, I passed the first-class drawing room. The walls were adorned with prints of English seaports, as well as portraits of royalty and prominent people of the day. The parlor itself rose through two decks and was beautifully decorated in Louis XIV-style. The maître d’ seated me at a quiet corner table by a window. While gazing at the menu, I was interrupted by a voice.

“Excuse me, miss … but don’t I know you?”

My jaw slackened. It was Mr. Lindbergh.

“Care if I join you?”

“But of course.” I tried to regain my composure. “I, um … please sit down.”

“We never formally introduced ourselves. Charles Lindbergh,” he said, offering his hand.

“Ariel. Ariel Richards,” I replied, blushing. “I’m sorry. I seem to be the only person on the train who didn’t recognize you.”

He wore the same amused look as while down on his knees in that aisle. “You are a writer, no? I couldn’t help notice the papers you dropped. But I am hoping you aren’t a reporter.”

“No, not a reporter. Just a writer from New York, working on a magazine piece.”

“Well, good. Reporters are a terrible lot, and I’m told there could be some onboard. They tend to descend on me like vultures, which is why I’m dining here so early.” He sighed. “Most likely, I’ll need to hide out in my cabin for much of the trip.” There was a hint of playfulness in his tone. “So what were you doing in France?”

I had no idea, so I had to scramble something up. “Well, you see, I’ve been visiting my aunt, uh … she’s been ill … and I hadn’t seen her in a long time. It was a chance to visit Paris. I adore Paris.”

“So do I. See, we already have something in common. Since you’ve been so kind as to allow me to join you, I’d like to order us a bottle of wine. You do like wine, yes?”

This was asking for trouble, but I nodded my head. “Love it.”

Although Charles ordered a good vintage, he poured himself only one glass. We talked over dinner, and he seemed eager to open up, perhaps weary of the guardedness that fame had foisted upon him. We discussed his career, and he mentioned he was working on a book of his own, about his trans-Atlantic flight. He planned to finish it for publication, during this voyage.

“Hey, I just had an idea,” he said, smiling. “Would you be interested in reading a little of it? Normally my wife gives me feedback, but since she’s not here …”

“I would love to, Charles.”

“I write in the mornings. How about we get together tomorrow afternoon, say three o’clock?”

“I write in the mornings too. So three is good,” I said.