“Departures. American Airlines. We’re here,” the cabbie said. He went around to the trunk, or the “boot” as the English cal ed it, and started unloading. Chloe shoved the letter in her bag. The American Airlines logo shone in her face. She slid out of the cab, grabbed her bag, and looked back at the crate.
She handed the cabbie his fare. “And here’s ful fare back. Please take that cat back to Dartworth Hal .”
The cabbie looked at her as he lit up another cigarette. “I’m not going back. I’m staying in London tonight.” The smoke made her nauseous.
Rap music rumbled from the inside of the cab, the bass throbbing in her brain. “Then take it back tomorrow. Next week. I don’t care.” She handed him the money, but he pushed it away.
“I don’t like cats.”
Chloe looked around. “How about another cabbie, then?”
Near the curb a couple kissed good-bye. The woman started crying. She stood alone for a minute to watch her man run through the automatic doors to catch his plane.
The cabbie handed the crate to Chloe. “Thank you very much. I’ve got a pickup.” He left her there on the curb, loaded with baggage, meowing crate in hand. And he didn’t even bow.
Alistair turned in his crate and scratched on the door. She lumbered over to a line of cabs. She knocked on every window, but nobody wanted to drive out to the country at this hour. Did these people want to make money or what?
Final y, she gave up. It was time to check in. The overhead announcements, flashing computer screens, ads, and throngs of people dashing around made her queasy. She leaned on the metal stand that marked the end of the long, mazelike check-in line for economy class. Crying children clung to their parents. Some people carried suitcases and cardboard boxes wrapped in duct tape. She glanced over to the business-class checkin. Two men in suits and a woman with a laptop floated to their respective check-in desks.
Her check-in guy didn’t even smile. He just handed the crate back to her. “Al animals need to be brought to the international cargo desk.” He did say this with a charming, posh English accent, though. “Four hours ahead of departure.”
Chloe’s passport shook in her hands. “What? But my flight leaves in an hour!”
He gave her a blank stare. The man behind her bumped into her with his rol ing carry-on and didn’t even apologize—or stop.
“Can the cat go on the next flight, then?”
No response.
“Without me?”
“I do believe that’s possible.”
An hour later she was in the boarding line, half expecting Henry to burst through the crowd and give it one more shot. But he didn’t.
If she weren’t so hungry, she might’ve thought the empty feeling inside was something like regret. She was so hungry she might’ve even eaten a rabbit with head and furry ears stil intact.
“Second row from the back, middle seat,” said the flight attendant on board. She had an American accent.
The person behind Chloe pushed into her. Chloe took her ticket from the flight attendant.
“Um. Just a question. If I’ve changed my mind, can I go back now?”
The flight attendant smiled. “No.” She nudged Chloe along. “Second row from the back, middle seat.”
Chloe wedged herself between a sprawling teenager playing video games on his phone and a pregnant woman breathing heavily and spil ing over two seats. A child behind her kicked her seat incessantly. Nobody taught manners anymore. Mental note: buy iPad with earbuds as soon as possible.
She covered herself up in a blanket up to her chin, and decided to rid herself of al vestiges of her English fantasy world. It was over. So over. Stil , she hoped Alistair was okay. And Abigail. She couldn’t wait to see her!
Chapter 23
They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter They quickly settled back into the strong mother- daughter team they’d always been and Chloe served up pasta for nights on end. But it took weeks to deprogram Abigail out of the princess mode that Grandma and Grandpa had gotten her into, despite their current lack of cash. Chloe packed away the pink dress-up trunk ful of shiny gowns, magic wands, and plastic tiaras for good.
She donated the books of fairy tales to Goodwil and put Abigail on a strict diet of nonfiction because she didn’t want to perpetuate the myth of charming princes on horses and happily-ever-after.
“Grandpa stil cal s me his princess,” Abigail said days later as Chloe brushed her long brown hair for school. “And he said he’s the king.”
Chloe looked at the two of them in the bathroom mirror and pointed with the pink brush for emphasis. “Have I
