Too Close For Comfort

“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?