“Anything I can help with, in terms of providing information, making her feel better?”
He’d looked away for a moment, trying not to send the ungracious message that he’d like to run, but suddenly wishing she’d leave him alone. There was a slight New York lilt in her voice. Were all New Yorkers this brutally direct? He’d forced his eyes back to hers before she got any closer to the truth.
“Diana, I’d prefer to stay in the background. I’d rather not do that show.”
“Please don’t make me beg! I might have to buy you dinner, and I’m already over budget.”
The thrill he’d felt at that moment had nothing to do with national television and it surprised him, making him blush. It had been the radical thought of dining with her. But he’d covered his embarrassment—and his interest— with a laugh.
Minutes later Diana had guided him to an anteroom where she effortlessly greeted a young woman reporter while a bored cameraman with a pigtail waited to pin on a microphone and position Kip just so. At last the cameraman indicated to the reporter that she could fire the first question.
“So, Mr. Dawson,” she’d asked. “How does it feel to be going into outer space?”
Kip’s thoughts return to the ASA suite, his eyes on the clock. It’s almost 11 P.M. but even though he’s tired, sleeping is going to be difficult. For some reason his mind has locked on Diana and his conversations with her in the weeks after New York, as well as the dinner she flew him to in her own airplane—a delightful evening for just the two of them that felt dangerously close to a date. It had ended with a proper handshake back in Mojave, but not before they’d discovered how much they had in common, and he’d been thrilled to hear her say his enthusiasm for what ASA was doing was so infectious, she was thinking of making him their “poster boy.” The publicity, he thought, didn’t matter to him as much as the chance to work with her. If there had been a mutual attraction in New York, the dinner had endorsed it, and each subsequent verbal spat with Sharon in the weeks that followed breathed more life into the reality that there were other women out there who might actually like him just as he was.
Kip sighs as he places his cell phone by the bedstand and scans the small screen, surprised to find a message symbol blinking. He checks the call list and feels an instant loss at finding a Colorado Springs area code and his oldest child’s phone number at the Air Force Academy.
Jerrod almost never calls, and to miss one of those rare moments hurts. Especially now. His son has always wanted to fly, and perhaps be an astronaut. But never in his wildest thoughts has Kip expected to beat Jerrod into space.
He retrieves the voice mail, expecting words of support. But Jerrod’s message is angry and hurt, and it hits Kip like an unexpected haymaker.
Dad, I’m having to talk to your goddamned voice mail again. Julie called in tears tonight, Dad, and said you were going ahead with that spaceflight and that Sharon says you’re going to die, and that you haven’t paid any attention to their worries. They’re all torn up down there. My sister says you aren’t listening to anyone. I’m tired of you thinking about no one but you, Dad, and… if anything happens to you, you’ll be leaving an awful mess behind. I don’t want my sister crying! Call me before you take off. I’m really mad at you! Julie doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. Neither do the twins.
Kip hears the catch in his son’s voice, but the words are clear enough. He knows there’s been hardly a moment since his first wife’s death that Jerrod hasn’t been mad at him. And that never changes. Nor does it make the hurt easier to bear.
He punches up his son’s phone at the academy and listens to it ring through to voice mail, but he’s too stunned to leave anything but a cursory message.
Kip folds his cell phone and puts it on the nightstand, taking the time to be deliberate so he won’t have to react too quickly to the renewed doubts Jerrod’s words have shoved back in his heart. He feels the slide toward his old habits, the need to yank out his phone again and rip-snort through however many numbers and command posts are necessary to get his son live on the other end.
Laughter reaches him from somewhere down the hall. More happy customers, he figures, scheduled to fly sometime later and anticipating their incredibly expensive flight to space. Tommy and Anna Altavilla and Tariq, a Saudi royal, each paid a half million dollars. Yet the Altavillas in particular welcomed their contest-winning freeloader as a full partner, and he’ll miss sharing this with them.
He should lie down, he thinks. He’s running out of night.
Fifty feet down the hallway, Diana Ross stands and debates with herself yet again. She knows Kip Dawson has been back from the meeting less than fifteen minutes, but she’s also aware he has less than four hours to sleep.
Yet for some reason, the thought of his going to orbit alone with Bill Campbell is unsettling, and she can’t think of a single reason why—other than the unusual nature of having only one passenger aboard. Maybe the gear collapse on ASA’s other spacecraft several weeks back is making her nervous.
She poises her hand to knock and finds herself hesitating. Is this business or is this personal? She’s not sure. Maybe there’s some of both: Protecting her “investment” in him as a potential spokesman, and at the same time, maybe scratching an itch?
Not that he’s under her skin or anything. She smiles at the idea. If she wanted companionship or marriage, she wouldn’t be thinking about a married guy from Tucson.
Yet there’s something about him.
She knocks gently and waits in vain for an answer before knocking again, unwilling to put much energy into it lest she wake any adjacent occupants—all of whom she’s met.
Minutes elapse before he opens the door just inches, and she smiles to see him leaning at an angle so she can’t see what state of dress he’s in.
“Kip! Sorry to bother you so late…”
“Diana! Hello. This is a pleasant surprise… I think. Is anything wrong?”
“No, no. I just… wanted to wish you a good flight, and maybe give you some pointers on what to expect.”
He opens the door wider and motions her in and she enters, amused that he’s holding a death grip on his bathrobe. He carefully reties it before looking up at her and then closing the door awkwardly. She heads for the couch and sits.
“I was just about ready to dive into bed… I apologize for the bathrobe.”
“No problem at all! A swimsuit would cover a lot less.” She feels off balance, as if someone of greater maturity was going to burst through the door and demand an explanation as to why she’s invaded this married customer’s bedroom in the middle of the night before his big flight.
She sees the sudden look of doubt trending toward minor panic, the expression transmitting that he’s attracted to her and he’s getting worried about having her all alone in the same room when here he is naked beneath his bathrobe. The message is so clear it might as well be crawling across a marquee, and she has to suppress a laugh.
“What I want to urge you to do is think about the fantastic sights you’re going to see through the eyes of a poet, which I think you may be.”
“I’ve never written poetry, Diana,” he says, looking like he’s failed to prepare for a test.
“No, I don’t mean as in writing poetry, but as in looking at things as if through the eyes of someone who can appreciate the ethereal, the beautiful aspects, the emotional impact, and then put it into words.”
“That’s a tall order for a mere salesmen of pills.”
“But you can do it.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
Their eyes are locked for a few intimate moments of pregnant silence and she sees the sparkle of panic mixed with interest again as he suddenly looks away, as if embarrassed.
She gets to her feet suddenly. “Well, I’ve got to go and let you get… ah…”
“Sleep. Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”
She looks at his eyes again, a smoky aquamarine color. She realizes for the first time that she’s holding his arm to steady either herself or him, she’s not sure which.
He smiles.
She sees the smile at close range and cocks her head unconsciously, forcing herself to release his arm as if it
