"No," he agreed. "We don't have to be nasty at all."
"Uh... about your airplanes..."
God, it kept hitting you from different directions. "I'll move them to another airport," he promised. "As soon as I can make arrangements for hangar space."
"Thanks, Jake," she said. "I know we don't own the airport or anything, I just think it would be... you know... awkward if we kept running into each other there."
"I agree," Jake said. "I wouldn't want anything to be awkward."
He walked back into the house and headed up stairs. Listlessly, he began to pack his belongings. It took about thirty minutes.
He didn't say goodbye to Helen when he left.
Chapter 18a
Santa Monica Municipal Airport
November 24, 1989
Celia Valdez stood on the tarmac of the airport, looking at Jake's twin-engine plane nervously. Jake had just finished the exterior pre-flight inspection of the aircraft. He had checked the control surfaces, the tires, the brakes, the fuel sumps, the propellers, the antennas, the lights, and had visually verified that his two tanks were actually full of fuel (true, he had watched the fuel truck pump both tanks full just thirty minutes before, but his instructor — Helen Brody — had taught him you could never be too careful). Now, it was time to climb inside and fire up the engines for the final pre-flight check.
"Are you sure this thing is safe?" Celia asked softly, her tongue coming out to lick her lips every few seconds.
"It should hold together," Jake said, giving it a little rap on the left engine cowling. "I just put some fresh duct tape on the rudder and those bald patches on the tires look like they're good for at least two more landings."
"You're a funny man," she said sourly, though with a slight hint of humor in her eyes.
"Don't worry," Jake told her. "I hardly ever crash this thing."
Celia shook her head and gave him a playful punch on his shoulder. "Tell me again why I agreed to this," she said.
This, was the flight they were about to embark upon. Celia had been in Brazil for the last eight weeks, staying with her husband, Greg Oldfellow, who was knee-deep in filming his latest movie. She had come to Los Angeles three days ago in order to attend the premier of a movie called Whenever It Rains. The film starred Michael Stinson, who had been Greg's best man at the wedding. Since Greg was unable to break away from the Brazilian rainforest where his shoot was taking place, Celia had been sent as his representative at the premier. She had called Jake to see how he was doing after his well-publicized break-up with Helen and during the conversation had happened to mention that she needed to go to Palm Springs to check on Greg's summer home. Her plan had been to drive there but somehow, despite her fear of leaving the ground, she had allowed herself to be talked into letting Jake fly her.
"Beats the hell out of me," Jake said. "I sure as hell wouldn't climb into a plane with someone like me at the controls."
She shook her head again and then climbed in through the side door before she could lose her nerve. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a cashmere sweater. Jake found himself fondly looking at her rather lovely derriere as she squeezed through the small opening.
"How's it looking?" Celia asked when he climbed in after her.
"How's what looking?" he asked.
"My butt," she said. "I could feel your eyeballs checking it out when I bent over."
Jake laughed, embarrassed at getting caught, but reassured by the gentle good humor in her tone. "It's as fine an ass as I've ever had the privilege to get caught staring at," he told her.
"Hmmph," she grunted. "At least someone thinks so. Greg keeps telling me I need to lose some weight and the damn American Watcher did an article on me that said I was letting myself go."
Jake had seen that article. It had featured an entire collage of the most unflattering photos that the paparazzi — shooting from concealment with telephoto lenses — could produce. "Welcome to being a celebrity," Jake said. "The American Watcher I can understand, but I'm a little surprised that Greg is giving you a hard time. I think you look very sexy."
She smiled at him, her brown eyes shining. "Thanks, Jake," she said. "You do my ego good. As for Greg, he's locked into that whole Hollywood idea of what makes a woman attractive. He concedes that I look good in person and that he likes the way my body is shaped, but he keeps telling me about how the camera adds ten to fifteen pounds and that I'm starting to look fat when I'm photographed."
"He's not looking at you through a camera when you're walking around naked in the house, is he?" Jake asked.
Celia laughed. "Good point," she said. "I'll have to mention that to him next time he starts nagging me about my weight."
Jake closed the door and made sure it was properly sealed. He then took his seat in the left side cockpit chair. Celia climbed into the right side chair. She fumbled with her seatbelt for a few minutes (Jake saw that her hands were shaking a little with nervousness) and finally managed to get everything situated properly.
"I thought the pilot was supposed to sit on the right side," Celia said as she looked over the confusing array of dials, switches, knobs, and levers.
"That's usually how it's done," Jake said, "but I like sitting on the left. It just seems more natural to me since that's how we drive cars. And, since the controls are the same in both seats, there's really no reason why I can't sit over here."
"You're a rebel, Jake," she said. "Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not."
Jake went through the engine start checklist and fired up first the left and then the right engine. He went slowly and methodically through the pre-flight checklist. This took about ten minutes. It then took him another five minutes of staring at his charts to program his route into the autopilot system. Celia remained quiet through these processes, no doubt intuiting that it wasn't a good idea to distract a pilot during this particular phase of the trip.
When everything was ready to go, Jake contacted the tower, asking for and receiving permission to taxi to the head of the runway. He released the brakes, throttled up the engines, and started them on their way.
"Oh boy," Celia said, taking a few deep breaths.
"Relax," Jake said, patting her leg comfortingly. "Remember what I told you. You'll be a lot less afraid when you're sitting in the cockpit with the pilot. As long as you don't see me worrying about anything, you don't have to worry about anything."
She nodded. "I'll try to keep that in mind."
They had to wait for one plane that was taking off and two that were landing before they could go. Jake held them in position until it was their turn and then throttled up again, bringing them forward onto the runway. He paused here for a few seconds to make one last check of his controls and engine readouts. Everything was exactly as it should be.
"You ready?" Jake asked.
"No," she said, "but let's do it anyway."
He did it anyway. He pushed the throttles slowly forward and the engines wound up to full power, pulling them down the runway. Jake kept up a running commentary of everything he was doing in order to reassure Celia.
"When we reach eighty knots, I'll pull back on the stick and we'll rotate off the runway."
"Okay," she said, gripping the sides of her seat, her eyes staring hypnotically in front of them.
The 414 accelerated considerably faster than the commercial jets Celia was used to. It was only a few seconds before they were at eighty knots. "Here we go," Jake said and pulled back on the control. The nose came up and they lifted off the runway. Celia closed her eyes for a few seconds and then reluctantly opened them again.
"And we're up," Jake said. "Everything going smoothly." He reached down and grasped the gear level. "Landing gear up. You'll hear the whine as they retract."