“I’m Sean McPherson, but please call me Mick, everyone else does,” he says, noting the firm, self-confident grip of her handshake.
“If you give me your claim tickets, I’ll get your bags from the carousel.”
“I’ll come with you and point them out. It’ll be easier to spot them that way.”
If she notices his limp as they make their way to the ever-circling conveyor belt, she gives no indication.
“When will the others arrive?” she asks, tucking thick, shoulder-length hair behind her ears.
“We’re waiting for three more within the hour,” he replies, noticing impudent freckles marching across the bridge of her tanned nose.
“There’s one of my bags now,” she points to a large suitcase.
He turns back to her with laughter in his eyes. “I don’t think I could have missed that.” He gives a pretend groan as he hefts the large, brushed aluminum case off the belt. “It’s bright orange.”
She looks up at him with an impish grin. “Pumpkin Spice,” she counters. “The other two look the same, just a little smaller.”
And he watches, heart beating a little faster, as a smile is born on her lips. Pumpkin Spice, he thinks to himself, well I’ll be damned.
After collecting the other two suitcases and putting them on the baggage trolley, Mick checks his watch. “The next guest is about to land. Would you like to wait in the lounge while I gather the others?”
“That’s a great idea. It’ll give me a chance to check my voicemail and email. Should I meet you back here in about twenty minutes?”
“That’ll be fine,” he nods, tucking his hands in the back pockets of his denim jeans. And with that, she tilts her chair back, does a saucy little turn, and maneuvers toward the lounge.
Pumpkin Spice, he thinks again, smiling as he holds up the hand-calligraphed name-board for “C. Winters.”
As passengers from the Tucson flight pour into the baggage area, a tall, slender woman with short white hair cropped close to her head like an elf cap, makes eye contact with Mick. Her liquid brown eyes have a faint slant and glimmer when she smiles. She’s never known airports to be quiet. In her entire life, traveling is a buzzing, busy, energetic experience with a hive of people scurrying everywhere. And she loves it.
As she walks toward Mick, the gauzy fabric of her skirt swirls around her ankles, and metallic highlights wink from the folds of bright purple floral and striped panels. A jumble of silver bangles on each wrist—some thick, some thin—clank in unison with the rhythmic cadence of each purposeful step she takes on the buffed linoleum floor in strappy, Greek-inspired sandals.
“I’m Cynthia Winters,” she says. Her easy smile, white against olive-toned skin, creases her eyes as she she extends well-manicured hands, bejeweled with chunky turquoise rings, to clasp one of his in both of hers. “You must be Mr. McPherson,” she says while turning his palm up with practiced ease. As her hands hold his, she lets impressions of him come and go, to sort out later. Her intuition tells her that he is a man of integrity, someone you can trust and rely on.
“Please call me Mick,” he says to the top of her bent head as she peruses his hand. Taken aback, eyebrows flirting with his hairline, he asks, “Are you reading my palm?” while trying to regain possession of his work-worn hand from the bohemian-looking woman.
“Oh, it’s just a little hobby of mine,” she assures him, hanging on, still gazing with deep interest at his hand.
With hesitation, he asks, “What do you see?”
She looks up with deep brown, knowing eyes and answers. “Each line makes a statement, but like words in a sentence, they must be read in context with each other. The shape of the hand, the flexibility of the fingers, the depth and color of the lines, all combine to form a statement about a person’s character.” There’s more than anguish, she thinks to herself. There’s grief and a sense of guilt. For what? she wonders. With a gentle squeeze from her warm hands, she looks with kindness up into his vivid green eyes and smiles before letting go.
Was that sadness in her eyes? Mick furrows his brow. What did she see?
As he’s about to ask, Cynthia turns around as if on cue and points a red-tipped fingernail to designer luggage just belched from the fringed-rubber confines of the airport netherworld. And with that she sets sail, heels clicking across the smooth floor, her long, colorful skirt billowing like a wake behind her.
Not your typical “grandmother,” Mick muses. Curiosity piqued, he scratches his head and follows. How in the world did she know that her luggage just arrived?
Ten minutes late, the Cleveland flight carrying Jason Hughes lands just ahead of Fran Davies’ flight from Boston. Short, maybe five foot, six inches, but wiry and strong, his complexion is washed out, not just pale, despite the deliberate smudge of a three-day beard. With a crewcut of salt and pepper hair on his head and face, it’s difficult to gauge his age. His nose, hooked and sharp, casts a shadow on thin, unsmiling lips. His ice-gray eyes are bottomless pools of seeming indifference.
When he shakes Jason’s hand, Mick experiences a strange feeling of distrust, of instant dislike. Maybe it’s because I’m standing next to Cynthia and her hoodoo-voodoo’s rubbing off on me. Nonetheless, he has a disturbing feeling, like a warning, in the pit of his stomach, yet there is nothing to base it on. But if he’s learned anything from his years on the force, it’s to trust his gut instinct, another is to never show his hand.
“Jason, I’d like to introduce you to Cynthia Winters,” Mick says, smiling. “She’s another writer who’s staying at Pines & Quill this month.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Cynthia says. When Jason extends his hand, she takes it in both of hers, turns it palm up, and studies
