Swallowed by the unending tasks of groundskeeper and all-around handyman, Mick soon discovers that the Zen-like energy of the wooded acres works on him like a soothing balm, breathing life back into his weary soul.
He begins each morning with the same mantra, Just make it through today.
A monthly trek, the familiar Arrivals & Departures Board at Sea-Tac, the term locals use for the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, indicates that the plane for the first guest, Emma Benton, will arrive in a moment from San Diego. The flights for the other three guests are staggered to arrive over the next hour.
Mick finds it interesting getting to know the guests who carve out three weeks of time from their schedules to write in near seclusion. Each one has a unique process for transferring ideas from their head to the page. They arrive on the first day of each month and depart on the twenty-first. This offers them a significant amount of protected time to work on their manuscripts.
The fourth week of every month—guest free—provides Niall, Libby, and Mick with time to relax and prepare for the next group of writers. It also affords the opportunity for the siblings to take turns visiting their parents in San Francisco; a two-hour nonstop flight.
Each month when Libby hands Mick the name-boards for their guest authors, she also shares a brief summary of what she imagines their personalities to be like based on the phone conversation or email correspondence she has with them. Mick enjoys indulging his sister because her predictions are darned close, if not dead on accurate.
“Let’s see now. Emma Benton is arriving from San Diego. She’s single, in her mid-thirties, and falls somewhere in the middle of several brothers, so I suspect she has a good sense of humor. Well-educated and artistic, she’s our wheelchair guest this month.”
“Do you know why, or how long she’s been in a wheelchair?” Mick asks.
“She didn’t say, but I don’t get the feeling that it’s been long-term.”
“There you go with your feeeelings again,” he drags the word out while rolling his eyes. “I know. I know. You’ve told me time and time again that ‘dogs experience life through their noses, and humans experience life through their feeeelings,’ and that I should tune into mine more often,” he ends with a cocky smile.
“If you’d listen to your big sister . . .” Libby trails off, shaking a finger at him. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, Cynthia Winters is arriving from Tucson. She’s single, has refined taste, is eclectic, and cordial. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she’s . . . hmm, let’s just say ‘seasoned.’”
“What do you mean ‘eclectic?’” he asks.
“I get the feeeeling,” she raises an eyebrow in teasing emphasis, “that she’s well-traveled, which lends itself to a wide variety of interests.”
Brows knit, Libby continues, “Jason Hughes is arriving from Cleveland. I wasn’t able to get much of a handle on him.” With a perfect imitation of Niall’s Scottish brogue, she says, “He’s tight as a camel’s arse in a sandstorm!” Trilling the “r,” she nails the burr in “arse.” Both of them laughing, she continues, “That’s what I get for being married to a Scotsman for thirty-two years.” Libby composes herself. “That may not be a fair assessment of Mr. Hughes. He may just be shy, reserved, or private.”
“Not everyone pours their heart out to a stranger,” Mick retorts in mock severity.
Not stung in the least, Libby feigns aloofness, sticks her nose in the air and goes on. “Fran Davies is arriving from Boston. When we spoke on the phone, I didn’t detect an accent, so my guess is she’s a transplant.” With a “So there!” look, Libby continues, ticking attributes off her fingers. “She’s proper, organized, thorough, and no-nonsense, while at the same time, polite.”
Brow lifted, eyes narrowed, “What do you mean by proper?” Mick enunciates the word.
“Maybe ‘stiff’ would be a better descriptor. And I sense that she’s sad,” Libby ends with a perplexed tone in her voice.
Amid a busy hub of travel activity, Mick’s thoughts return to his surroundings, his gaze sweeps the space, taking everything in like a dry sponge soaks up water. He’d learned at the beginning of his police training that, “It’s all in the details.”
Ever vigilant, he mentally notes people’s hair color, facial expressions, body language, tattoos, jewelry, clothing, footwear, and baggage details.
His nostrils catch the smell of jet exhaust, fast food, and the heady mixture of perfumes and colognes that hang like an invisible cloud over the throng of bustling people. Who among you is a killer? he wonders.
Mick read in this morning’s paper that Sea-Tac served over thirty-two million people last year alone. As each plane lands, passengers pour from the terminals, like human lava, into the baggage claim area.
He turns at the rapid slap of heels against linoleum and sees a woman running full speed from the baggage carousel area with a brief bag slung over her shoulder, bouncing against her back, and a carry-on biting her heels. She hangs a left. He continues watching as she gallops up the escalator, just missing people who also have luggage draped over their bodies, and wheeled carry-ons following disobediently behind. Mick shakes his head. I’m glad I’m not part of that rat race.
He returns to the task at hand, raising the name-board for “E. Benton” so it can be seen from a distance. Mick scans the crowd and spots Emma first. She’s wearing a vibrant green, short-sleeved top, jeans, and ballet flats. Mick’s surprised and impressed that she isn’t using a motorized wheelchair. Instead, a manual wheelchair powered by her own suntanned arms. Libby neglected to tell him that she’s beautiful.
Emma rolls to a stop in front of Mick. The delicate curve of her throat is revealed when she tips her head back to look up at him.
Something inside him flips.
Mick takes in dark auburn hair, reminiscent of deep Bordeaux wine, that frames moss-green eyes sparkling with devilish mischief, and an infectious smile. She extends
