Unfinished Symphony (Logan 3)

"I'll make sure she gets it right away," I promised, tucking the tiny box away in my purse.

"Thanks. Well," she said as the airplane hangars came into view, "we're almost there."

My heart thumped like a parade drum at the sight of all the cars, the limousines and buses, people scurrying everywhere and skycaps loading luggage. Horns blasted, policemen shouted at drivers and waved at pedestrians to make them walk faster. Airplanes thundered overhead. How would I ever find my way through this maze of activity? Everyone else looked like he knew where he was going and was going there fast. I felt like I was floating through a dream and could be bumped toward one direction or another.

"Now don't worry," Holly said, seeing the expression on my face. "As soon as we pull up, the skycap will take your bags and give you your baggage receipts. Then he'll tell you what gate to go to for boarding. The directions are posted clearly inside the airport," she assured me. "And if you have any questions, there will be someone from the airlines nearby."

I took a deep breath. I was here; I was actually going. She pulled to the curb and we stepped out. The skycap took my bags and stapled the receipts to my ticket.

"Gate forty-one," he mumbled.

"Gate forty-one?"

I tried to get him to repeat it, but he was already helping someone else. I turned to Holly.

"I can't stay parked here any longer. They just give you enough time to drop someone off. You'll see a television monitor inside with your flight number and gate number, along with the time your plane takes off."

"Thanks for everything, Holly."

"You call and I'll call you," she said. She held my hands and stood looking at me. Then she shook her head. "Your mother must have been some blind woman to leave a daughter like you behind," she said. She hugged me and I held on to her, held her as if she were a buoy keeping me afloat in this ocean of people and noise and activity.

She turned and got back into her car, flashing a final smile my way. I watched her drive off, waving and looking after her until she was gone. Now I was really all alone, without a friend in the world. Two elderly people brushed past me roughly, neither realizing they had almost knocked me over with their suitcases. I was standing in the wrong place. I clutched my purse and headed inside before someone else trampled me.

It wasn't much different inside. People were rushing by, pulling luggage on wheels, calling to each other. At the desk, a man was arguing vehemently with the attendant while the people behind him all wore looks of annoyance and frustration. How they could all use Billy Maxwell's calming words and meditation, I thought, shaking my head.

"What's so funny?" a young man in a dark gray suit asked. He had curly blonde hair and impishlooking hazel eyes with a dimple in his right cheek that appeared when he pressed his lips together. He carried a black briefcase and an umbrella.

"What? Oh. I was just watching those people and seeing the steam coming out of their ears."

"Steam?" He turned and looked at the line.

"Oh." He smiled pleasantly. "You're a seasoned traveler, huh?"

"Who? Me? No sir. This is my first trip on an airplane, ever!" I exclaimed.

"Really? Well, you don't look it. Where are you going? Wouldn't be Los Angeles by any chance, would it?"

"Yes," I replied. "I've got to go to gate fortyone."

"That's easy. I'm heading that way, too." He nodded to his left. He took a few steps and paused when I didn't follow. "I don't bite," he quipped.

"I didn't think you did." I said nervously, and started after him.

"I'm Jerome Fonsworth," he said.

"Unfortunately, I have to travel a lot so I am a seasoned traveler." He grimaced. "Hotel rooms, taxis and airports, that's my life. What a life," he concluded with a smirk.

"Why do you travel so much?" Like everyone else, he walked at a quick pace. I nearly had to jog to keep up.

"I'm in banking and I have to go from Boston to New York or to Chicago or Denver often. Sometimes I go to Atlanta and sometimes I go to Los Angeles. Today, it's Los Angeles. Ever hear of that movie, If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium?"

I shook my head.

"Well, anyway, that's me. Busy, busy, busy. Sometimes, I feel like a bee," he muttered, swinging his briefcase as he walked. He stopped suddenly and turned to me.

"Look at me," he said. "Do I look like a man in his late twenties or a man in his late thirties, early forties? Don't lie."

"I don't lie," I said, "especially to strangers." He laughed.