We eye the steep flights of oak stairs that wind all the way to the ground floor, recently stained a dark walnut, the spindles and risers painted a warm white.
And then holler in unison, “Simon!”
Chapter 5
“Yeah . . . there’s only a couple carriers that work well enough up here.” The middle-aged cab driver flashes a crooked-toothed grin over his shoulder as I scowl at the lack of bars on my screen.
“I guess mine isn’t one of them,” I mutter, tucking my phone away. So much for the US international plan I purchased this morning, while waiting for the first of my flights to board. I’m praying that my dad has Wi-Fi at his house or this week will test my sanity like never before.
The driver smoothly navigates the van along the road toward the small regional airport where my fourth—and last—plane awaits me. I found him standing at the baggage carousel, holding a sign with “CALLA FLETCHER” scrawled across it. After fifteen hours of traveling, thanks to a delay in Seattle, I’m grateful for the prearranged ride.
I shift my focus to a small ski plane as it climbs into the sky over us, its red paint vibrant against the bright blue canvas. How does it compare to the one I’m about to fly in?
“First time in Anchorage?”
“Yeah.”
“What brings ya here?”
“I’m visiting someone.” The man is just making conversation, but right now my stomach is rolling. I try to calm myself by taking deep breaths and concentrating on the scenery—on the tranquil cobalt water ahead, the lush evergreens in every direction, and the snow-capped mountain range in the far distance. This is the landscape that Diana assumed when I said Alaska. On the last flight, I had a window seat for the descent and I spent all of it pressed against the glass, mesmerized by the vast mosaic of treetops and lakes.
How different will my end destination look?
“Is Bangor far by plane?” It’s early evening and the sun is still high, with no hint of it going down anytime soon. Will we get there before dark?
“About four hundred miles. An hour’s ride. Somewhere in and around that, anyway.”
I release a shaky breath against this odd mix of eagerness, dread, and fear. An hour and a bit until I meet my father.
“I take it that’s where you’re going, then? Bangor, I mean.”
“Yeah. Have you been?”
“Not in years. But they’ve got them Dash 8s flying out that way a couple times a day. So who’re you flying with?”
“Alaska Wild.”
He nods. “Fletcher’s planes. They’re good. They’ve been around a long time.”
There’s something familiar in the way he says my last name, a way that pricks at my senses. “Do you know him? Wren Fletcher, I mean.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The driver nods for emphasis. “I’ve been doin’ this job for twenty years now. You recognize faces after a while, and Wren’s come out to Anchorage enough times for me to get to know him. In fact I gave him a ride to the hospital not that long ago. He had a nasty cough he needed looked at. Some sort of bug.”
My stomach tightens. Yeah, a bug. One that will slowly kill him.
“Hey, wait a minute.” He frowns as he lifts the clipboard with the sign he was holding at pickup. “You related?”
I hesitate. “He’s my dad.” Why does it sound deceptive to say that? It sounds like I know him, like I’ve seen him since leaving this very city twenty-four years ago. But the truth is, this shuttle driver knows him better than I do.
“You’re Wren Fletcher’s girl?” His murky green eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror and I see the incredulous look in them before he
refocuses on the road ahead. “Didn’t know he had one,” he mumbles under his breath, but I hear it all the same.
I stifle my sigh. I’m not sure he remembers he does.
“Will we be taking off over the water?” I pause to give my foot a shake. The loose stone caught between my toes tumbles out.
“Nah. We’ve got a gravel runway, too.” Billy, the short, twenty-something grounds crewman who met me at the main door of Lake Hood Seaplane airport, drags his work boots along the ground, my suitcases wheeling clumsily behind him. “Jonah flew in with his Cub.”