“Luca, that’s terribly thoughtful,” I say. I drop my voice even lower, suddenly concerned someone will hear us. Come out and see us. Even though there’s nothing clandestine to see. “But as a reporter, I can’t accept anything of value from someone involved in a story. Even dinner was, perhaps, pushing it. And now I should say good night.”
“It is just a small token,” he says. With a quick gesture, he tucks the tiny box into my tote bag. “A thank-you from all of us, for your efforts.”
For a moment, we look at each other. The hall is silent, still. A softly lighted corridor of closed doors and the secrets behind them.
I feel Luca make a decision, and in that instant, he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Softly. Fleetingly.
“Au revoir, reporter,” he whispers.
Before I can respond, or recover, he’s gone.
The glowing green numbers on the hotel nightstand clock now read 3:30 a.m. I’ve seen them say 1:34 a.m. and I’ve seen them say 2:31 a.m. And I know I must have slept at least some of the time in between. The green glow also illuminates the lavender-and-gray D-M box, the sleek lavender satin ribbon still pristinely tied in its bow. I’ve seen the box every time I check the clock. I shook it once, with no resulting clues as to what’s inside. But I haven’t opened it.
Yet it’s not only Luca I’m thinking about. It’s Josh. Maybe life’s sweetest moments only come after a little tension. A little suspense. And nothing that’s worthwhile is easy. Every investigative reporter knows that.
Punching my unfamiliar pillow into submission, I wish I could do the same to my buzzing brain. Maybe what Josh and I are doing is moving into new territory. Maybe that takes some patience. Maybe that’s how you know it’s the real thing. If you’re willing to wait for it.
Chapter Sixteen
I dive for my cell phone. It’s in my purse, somewhere. I turned it off to save the batteries last night, and forgot to turn it on before we left the hotel. Kevin probably called. Again.
We’re crammed into the back of a ramshackle taxicab, trapped in out-of-control highway traffic, twisting and turning our way to the Atlanta airport. The car smells like some maniac’s idea of strawberries. There must not be one functioning spring left in the low-rider backseat. Whatever music is blasting from the radio surrounds us like a swarm of demented bees, the buzz punctuated by the driver’s unintelligible and probably untranslatable challenges to the cars he insists on passing. Franklin, his face headed for green, clutches his briefcase as we weave across two lanes of cars, then back again, on the NASCAR-wannabe free-for-all that’s Georgia’s I-85.
“Don’t you get carsick? Checking your messages in the backseat?” Franklin manages to say.
“Nope. Reading, texting, using my laptop in a car? No problem. I spent my childhood reading Mad Magazine lying across the wayback of our station wagon,” I reply, punching buttons on my cell. “Mother was in despair, but turns out, it was all practice.”
“We’re flying home through Baltimore again, I told you, right?” Franklin says. “I hope you make it all the way home this time. With your suitcase.”
“Yeah, I’m living dangerously, though. Checking it. You should, too.” I say. “It too much of a pain to lug it through security. Besides, how many suitcases can the airlines lose?”
“Well, the latest Department of Transportation statistics show it’s about-”
As the phone powers up, I whap Franklin in the arm before he can reel off his stats again. “Rhetorical question. I don’t even want to know. Uh-oh. There are already text messages. Two of them. I’m betting: Kevin and Kevin.”
I’m hoping: Josh and Josh. Or Keresey, telling me she’s okay.
The first message appears. From Maysie. U 2 BACK TOGETHER? HOPE NO STRIKE OUTS. TXT ME IN NYC.
“Maysie,” I report to Franklin. That girl is relentless. I delete her message, and the next one appears.
SORRY MISSED MTG. CALLED AWAY. RESKED.
I close my eyes, thinking I must be mistaken as I stare at the signature. I hold my phone out to Franklin. “Read this,” I say. I can hear my own voice, tentative and hollow.
“I told you I can’t read in this cab,” Franklin says. He glances at the phone, grimacing, then waves it away. “Just read it out loud to me.”
“It says, sorry missed meeting, called away, resked. Like, reschedule. And then…”
Franklin slowly swivels his head toward me. “You’re kidding.”
I press my lips together, staring again at the name of the sender. “Nope, not kidding. It’s signed, K Harkins. And it came in overnight while my phone was off.”
“Holy…”
“Yup,” I say, clicking my phone into reply mode. “This is fantastic. This is great. What a relief, you know? I was feeling somehow responsible. I guess we were all overreacting. So mystery solved. She’s fine. She’s a P.I. after all. They have to disappear from time to time. I’m texting her back.” I pause, concentrating briefly on the screen. “Okay, sent. I said we’ll be in the office today.”
“Wonder if Keresey knows,” Franklin says. “And that state cop. Yens.”
The cab careens into the departures lane at Hartsfield Airport, me grabbing the strap above my window so I don’t crash into Franklin, Franklin bracing himself against his door. We climb out, weak-kneed and grateful for solid ground. If only briefly. I’d rather be in that cab than in the air.
“Want to do curbside check-in?” Franklin asks.
“I’m not that much of a risk taker,” I say. “Let’s just go in, get coffee and papers, then go to the regular desk agent. I never trust leaving my suitcases outside. It’s like asking someone to steal it. Or send it someplace I’m not going.”
A whoosh of air as the doors to Terminal A slide open. We check the destinations board. We’re on time. For now.
“So the usual plan, right? You guard the stuff, I’ll get coffee and papers,” Franklin says. “Meet you right here. We have plenty of time.”
As Franklin heads off in search of caffeine, I deposit our bags on the floor and plop my purse down on the chair next to me. Inside, I see that lavender ribbon.
Franklin’s nowhere in sight. And Luca told me to open the box in the airport. I hold it in the palm of my hand, then with one quick tug on the ribbon, the bow slithers open. I lift the lid. On top of a carefully folded puff of tissue paper, there’s a tiny white envelope. With a business card inside. Luca’s.
“May every journey’s end bring your heart’s desire,” it says on the back. And it’s signed: L.
I carefully peel away the metallic oval D-M sticker holding the tissue paper together. Inside is a luggage tag. The signature pale silvery-gray leather, also embossed with the D-M logo. I lift a flap and my business card-maybe the one I gave Luca at the studio-is already inside.
“What’s that?” Franklin says. He’s peering at the tag, and points to the box and tissue paper on top of my bag. “Where’d you get that?”
“From Luca,” I say, holding out the tag. “He gave it to me at dinner. And told me to open it at the airport. It’s just a gesture. No big deal. It would have been rude not to take it.” I put the box in my suitcase, then unlatch the tiny gold buckle on the tag’s strap and wind it through the handle of my new suitcase. I pat it into place, admiring it.
“So I see you’ve charmed Purse Man,” Franklin says, watching me. “Very cozy. How’s Josh, by the way?”
“It’s a luggage tag,” I retort. I tuck Luca’s card in my purse. “What could be the harm? Now let’s get these babies onto the plane and go home. We’ve got more important stuff to think about.”
“Anyone pack your suitcase for you?” The gate agent is checking my ticket, punching something into his computer, reciting his litany of questions at the same time. He’s said this a million times a day. I can’t imagine anyone saying yes.