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“That’s impossible,” said Cyd at the same time.
“Nothing’s impossible,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll contact my office, have them call another airline.”
“You can call,” answered Jordan, “but nobody’s going to fly in this.”
“Why?” asked Jeffrey, eyeing Cyd while still talking into the microphone.
Cyd started to speak, but let Jordan answer. “Weathered in is weathered in,” he explained calmly. “Nobody will risk an aircraft, and I’m sure you don’t want to risk your life. Stick with Cyd. She knows what she’s doing. She’ll get you out as soon as possible.”
Jeffrey didn’t buy into her “so sorry” look. She was up to something.
“Let me get this straight,” said Jeffrey, sitting on the table and lifting the microphone to speak into it. “Your pilot could have landed me in Artic Luck, but she flew me to Katimuk instead?”
Cyd pursed her lips.
“She landed where she felt the plane and passengers would be safe,” Jordan said.
“Bull.” Jeffrey glared at Cyd. She’d pulled a fast one, although he was clueless as to why. He’d get Jordan to fix this.
“Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said Jordan. “True North Airlines will be happy to offer you a free round-trip passage to any city in the interior after the weather clears.”
“I only want to go to Artic Luck. When will the weather clear?”
“No way to predict that,” Jordan answered calmly. “My best guess is two days minimum, possibly a week.”
“Neither option is acceptable.” Jeffrey maintained eye contact with Cyd, who looked back at him with big eyes filled with concern and innocence. What a little actress. “I have a critical meeting in Los Angeles Monday morning which I must attend. My career depends on it. This ‘weathered in’ is not my problem, it’s yours, and I expect you to come up with a solution.”
There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the sounds of laughter and music from the tavern.
Jeffrey was accustomed to such situations in business. Person A created a problem and expected person B to solve it. Jeffrey never accepted such blame passing and always put the responsibility where it lay.
And at this moment, it lay with Jordan Adamson of True North Airlines.
“I’ll call you back in an hour,” said Jeffrey, “to hear how you’re going to fix this situation.” In New York or L.A., an hour was always plenty of time to get someone’s brain cells fired up with ideas.
“The situation will be the same in an hour,” said Jordan. “You’re right in the path of the storm front.”
Now it was Jeffrey’s turn to pause. Jordan, he had to admit, was a worthy opponent. Cool-headed, informed. He could use more managers like this back at Argonaut. “Then I’ll call you first thing in the morning, at which time we’ll discuss your solutions.”
He handed the microphone back to Cyd, wondering what the two of them would do for the rest of the night.
And wondering how to deal with this little dynamo who seemed determined to screw up his plans.
CYD TOSSED BACK A WHISKEY, then slammed the shot glass on the bar. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand, savoring the alcohol’s stinging warmth as it worked a path down her throat.
“Tough flight, Juliet?” asked Harry, his blue-green eyes glistening in a face that was all beard with room for a nose.
“You’ve known me for years, and suddenly you’ve forgotten my name?” She motioned to Charlie, the owner of the Mush Lodge, who was working the bar.
“Yep, known you for years, but never seen you have so much trouble getting out of a damn sled….” Harry let the sentence dangle as he took another sip of beer.
“Yeah?” Charlie said, wiping his hands on a towel. Charlie had been in these parts as long as Cyd could remember. Some people said he’d landed here in the sixties in a psychedelic-painted school bus. Others said he’d gone to Canada to avoid being drafted into the Vietnam war, then relocated to this remote region of Alaska when he met May, his wife.
He never explained his past. Or his future, for that matter. He seemed pretty content to just live in the here and now, tend the bar, play his favorite music. Grateful Dead, Neil Young, the Stones.
“Coffee, don’t be stingy with the cream,” Cyd said. “Please.” She’d gotten so riled up over the last few hours, she was losing her manners. Again. If she didn’t stay in practice, try to be polite, she’d get another of those etiquette lessons from Jordan.
“Coffee, white. You got it, hon.” Charlie nodded and turned away.
“Jul-i-et,” Harry sang under his breath before taking another swig.
Cyd fought the urge to give him a piece of her mind. She was one of the guys, dammit, not some girly Juliet. One of the items on Jordan’s customer relations cheat sheet flashed through her mind. Don’t respond to criticism or taunts. Stay focused on the problem. Stay calm.
She’d never thought about it before, but those rules were good for real life, too. She’d let Harry’s comment go…but damn, it was hard trying to be good. If Jordan didn’t want to win that Alaskan Tourism thing so bad, she’d blow off practicing being “polished” and just be her usual, feisty self.
Charlie set a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. “Hungry?”
“What’re you grilling?”
“You,” Harry chortled. Several of the guys laughed.
Cyd pursed her lips, determined to ignore him.
“Got some moose steak,” answered Charlie, darting a glance at Harry, then back to Cyd.
“Get me some. Don’t be stingy with the fries, either. And a salad.” She almost forgot. “Please.”
“Please?” Harry guffawed. “Where the hell you pick up them manners?”
That did it. Cyd swiveled on her bar stool and faced Harry. But just as she opened her mouth, Charlie cut in.
“Harry, May baked your favorite apple pie,” said Charlie. “Wanna slice?”
Harry groaned like a bear. “May’s apple pie? I’ve died and gone to heaven. Make that two slices.”
“You got it.” Charlie turned to go.
“Wait, Charlie,” Cyd called out. “You seen Geraldine?” Geraldine, her aunt, lived on the outskirts of Katimuk.
“Yeah,” Charlie answered over his shoulder. “About two hours ago. She picked up supplies and headed back to her place.”
Great. That meant Aunt Geri was home. Cyd wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into her hands as she contemplated the carved names in the old oak bar top. Once upon a time, Harry had carved their names here, although both of them pretended to have forgotten.
The bar grew oddly silent.
She turned her head and looked down the stretch of worn oak.
Jeffrey stood at the end of the bar, looking like some kind of fancy thoroughbred surrounded by buffalo. He’d doffed his parka so everyone got an eyeful of his blue-and-white pin-striped, button-down shirt. She squinted. Were those cuff links?
“What’ll you have?” asked Charlie. He’d paused halfway through the swinging kitchen door.
“Mind if I run a tab?”
“Brother, half of Katimuk does. What’ll you have?”
“I could use a double martini, up, Bombay, twist.”
“Bombay?” One of the guys snorted. “You got the wrong part of the world, buddy.”
Everybody laughed. Somebody slapped the surface so hard, the entire bar rattled.
Charlie released the door and stepped back to the bar. Picking up a bottle of whiskey, he poured a shot and set it in front of Jeffrey. “Best I can do for a martini,” he said, “unless you’re a beer man.”
“Thanks, this’ll be great.” Jeffrey downed it, then glanced down the bar and made friendly, but direct, eye contact with each man.
Cyd released a pent-up breath. It appeared Jeffrey was up to the challenge and could handle this group.
“Anyone know where I can get a hotel room?” he asked.
On second thought, he couldn’t.
As though a dam had burst, the entire group erupted in laughter and more table slapping.
“Yeah, there’s a Hilton right down the road.”
“Wait, let me call you a taxi.”
“No, a limo!”
“Neither option is acceptable!” a guy yelled, evoking another explosion of laughter.
Jeffrey frowned in confusion. “Did you guys overhear?”
More laughter and bar thumping.
And Cyd thought the sled dogs made a hell of a racket.
Charlie returned from the kitchen, holding two plates of steaming apple pie in one hand. With the other, he poured more whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. “This one’s on the house.”
Jeffrey raised his drink. “To the great North.” He tossed back the whiskey.
One by one, the guys raised their drinks, some muttering “to the North,” some nodding solemnly. Cyd smiled. Mr. Jeffrey Bradshaw was showing that a thoroughbred could run with the pack. Damn if she wasn’t more than a bit impressed. He might be all city slicker on the outside, but he almost seemed to have the soul of a Northerner. As though he knew what it was like to be fierce, independent, tough.
Jeffrey strolled down the bar and sat on the stool at the very end of the bar, next to Cyd.
Harry, sitting on the other side of Cyd, glanced over, but before he could say anything, Charlie plunked down the plates of pie in front of him. Harry inhaled as though he’d never sucked in a decent breath in his life, groaned something about May deserving sainthood, then dug in.
Relieved that Harry was distracted for the time being, Cyd turned to Jeffrey. She glanced down. “Got the boots on, I see.”
He just looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Took me a while to figure them out.”
She shot him a questioning look.
“I never have to lace up my Italian loafers.”
She continued to stare at him, unblinking.
“I’m joking, Cyd.”
She rolled back her shoulders. “I knew that.” Her insides did a funny fluttering thing when Jeffrey flashed her that crooked, Harrison Ford-like smile.
Fortunately dinner arrived. The aroma of grilled meat and fries almost brought tears to Cyd’s eyes. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and it was all she could do to pick up a knife and fork and not dig into the meal with her bare hands.
“Looks good,” Jeffrey commented. “What is it?”
“Mooth,” she said with a full mouth.
Jeffrey gave her one of those quizzical looks, then nodded.
She swallowed. “Want some? Charlie makes killer homemade fries, too.”
“Uh, I’ll pass.”
Jeffrey checked out the back of the bar, his eyes landing on a Crock-Pot. “Got some soup there?” he asked Charlie.
“Caribou stew.”
Jeffrey paused. “Nothing with chicken or fish?” He didn’t dare ask if they had a vegetarian plate. Not unless he wanted to be attacked by a horde of moose-men.
Charlie, rubbing a glass with a red-checkered cloth, shook his head.
“I’ll take a bowl of that, then.” He lifted his empty shot glass. “And hit me again.” If he numbed himself enough, he wouldn’t think about what he was eating. Or that he should have packed his vitamins for this trip.
Or why Cyd seemed to have a love-hate relationship with him. He’d prefer more of the former and less of the latter.
He watched Cyd eat. She ate with the gusto of a lumberjack. She’d cut off a slab of meat, stack it with some fries and salad, then shoved the mess into her pretty little mouth and chew with a glazed look that bordered on blissful.
A woman who ate like that could probably kill a man in bed.
Charlie poured another whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. Jeffrey noticed the older guy had a red-white-and-blue peace symbol tattoo on his forearm.
Jeffrey raised the glass, toasted him, then downed the drink. The stuff hit like a hot jolt. Swallowing, hard, he thought back to how just last week he’d been in his New York loft, whipping up his specialty dish—Rock Cornish game hen in apricot sauce—and washing it down with an elegant, buttery chardonnay.
And mere days later, here he was deep in Moose World, numbing himself with mind-altering whiskey.
Charlie leaned closer to Jeffrey. “Brother, I have a cot that can be set up in the back, but my cousin-in-law has dibs on it for tonight. But if you don’t mind sleeping with a few dogs, we can throw a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace tonight.”
“That’d be great. I have an important radio call in the morning—”
