Flirting with Fifty

Jack yawned, and yawned again, as he shuffled forward in the line for customs. Immigration was never fun, but immigration and customs in Los Angeles was nothing short of a grind. At least he was on the ground, and since he never checked luggage, he hadn’t had to claim any. Once he cleared customs, he’d be free.

Initially he’d wanted to just get a cab and head to his son’s place, but Oliver had insisted on picking him up despite the later hour, and now that he’d arrived, Jack was looking forward to seeing Oliver. It had been almost eight months since he’d last seen him. They’d had a few days together late December, which was never enough, but they were both busy, working, traveling.

Oliver hadn’t gone into science. Instead he’d studied film and at twenty-eight was making a name for himself as a talented young director. Oliver would be leaving to go on set soon, sometime this week, which is why he’d wanted to pick Jack up tonight.

The customs agent asked Jack all the usual questions—Where have you been? What were you doing there? What do you plan to be doing here?—and Jack answered honestly but briefly, knowing that too much small talk actually made one look more suspicious. He thought he was about to be waved through when the agent flipped through Jack’s passport one last time.

“Will you be doing any more episodes for your show, Dr. King?” the agent asked in a flat, monotone voice, even as he continued to study the colorful stamps in the passport.

Jack shouldn’t have been surprised that the agent recognized him, but he was. He tended to forget about the Discovery Channel program, forgetting that the show had made him familiar to millions. “There is discussion about doing another season. Just trying to figure out when we’d go on location.”

“Do you write the script, or do they?”

Jack couldn’t help a laugh. “I do me, and they film.”

“I thought all shows like that were scripted.”

“They try to give me a script, but I have a hard time sticking to it. I’m not an actor. I won’t reshoot scenes just to get a line right.”

“Maybe that’s why I like your show so much.” The agent slid Jack’s passport across the counter, handing it back. “Take care. Enjoy Los Angeles.”

Jack nodded his thanks and, shouldering his bags, headed toward the exit into the arrivals hall. As he stepped out of immigration into the terminal, his watch pinged with a text from Oliver. Here. Driving your car. Let me know where to find you.

Outside on the curb, Jack looked at the signs around him. Terminal X, Door X, he texted back. Look for Air India.

It was another long wait as just getting around the airport could take forever. Jack fought a yawn, and another. He looked forward to sleeping in a bed tonight. Oliver had a guest room, which was also his office, but the pullout sofa in there was comfortable and the air-conditioning and blackout blinds meant Jack would sleep better than he had in days.

Then Jack saw his old car, driven by his tall, curly-haired son, and Jack grinned and lifted a hand to wave.

Oliver spotted him immediately and pulled as close to the curb as he could before climbing out.

Oliver was wearing old Levi’s and a faded Smokey Bear T-shirt emblazoned with the words Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires.

Jack felt a surge of emotion—love and pride—and his chest tightened. The bond he had with his son was still so strong. It had been just Oliver and him for most of Oliver’s life, and they’d been a team. A very good team. “Hey,” he said, wrapping his son in a bear hug. “You look good.”

Oliver hugged him back. “You’re really going gray, Dad.”

“Not that gray.”

Oliver stepped back, smiled. “Have you seen your beard?”

“Okay, that is gray, but I’m planning on shaving in the morning.”

“Let’s get you home.” Oliver took the duffel bag from Jack’s shoulder. “You must be beat.”

“I did sleep for a couple hours on the plane,” Jack said, climbing into the passenger seat. “You brought Gertie,” he added as Oliver slammed the trunk closed and slid behind the steering wheel.

“She hadn’t been driven all summer. I figured it was time to warm her up, get her ready for her new life in California.”

“Did she start up without a problem?”

“She did.” Oliver patted the dash, even as he shifted into drive. “She’s not a power machine, but she is reliable as hell.”

“Which is all I want or need in a car.”

“How did the conference go?” Oliver asked, merging into the slow airport traffic. Even though it was almost eleven at night the airport was crowded, the wide road filled with red brake lights.

“Good.” Jack rolled down his window and rested his arm on the car door.

Oliver shot his dad an amused glance. “That’s it?”

“It was a good conference. But they always are.”

“Anyone there you knew?”

“A few.” Jack hesitated. “Camille was there. She asked me to say hello to you.”

“Camille Ormond?”

“Yes.”

“How is Dr. Ormond?”

Jack took a moment to answer. Camille was a complicated subject, and it had been uncomfortable seeing her. Too many memories, too much of a past between them. “Exactly the same.”

Oliver shot his father a curious side glance. “Do you regret not marrying her?”

“No.”

“You loved her.”

Jack felt the fatigue of his flight, and he rubbed his dry, gritty eyes. “She wasn’t mom material.”

“I had you,” Oliver said simply.

“And I wasn’t a mom.”

“I didn’t need a mom. You were everything.”

Jack felt a sharp pang. Oliver once had a mom, and she’d been amazing. The best of the best. But she’d died when Oliver was seven, and while Oliver didn’t remember much about her, he looked just like her. Dark wavy hair, dark blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and a generous mouth. Jack had met Oliver’s mom early in his career. Mara had been a graduate student—not his, thankfully—working on the same field project in Montana, and she’d been a passionate conservationist. They’d spent hours discussing biodiversity, land-use change, climate change, the future of water. His interest leaned toward international, not surprising since he’d been raised in Australia by two English parents, and she’d been raised outside of Jackson, Wyoming. Mara’s dad had been a national park ranger. Her mom had been a high school English teacher. Mara was happiest outside, hiking, camping, exploring. They spent their honeymoon in the Serengeti, where he was in charge of a field study, and Jack was conceived there, under the African sky.

Mara finished her doctorate just before she gave birth to Oliver, and together they moved to the East Coast where Jack taught.

Mara was not a city girl. She didn’t love New Jersey. She pined for her mountains, and so every chance she could, she’d take Oliver home with her, back to her beloved Grand Tetons.

Oliver was two when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She fought hard and made it until his first week of second grade before she couldn’t fight anymore.

Three years after Mara passed, Jack began dating casually. It had to be casual as he was still numb. Camille was the first woman who’d made him feel much of anything, and they’d had a passionate, physical relationship. Camille, a fellow scientist from Winnipeg, was beautiful, sophisticated, interesting, but she would never replace Mara. Nor was she meant to.

“Is she still single?” Oliver asked, changing lanes, navigating traffic on the way to his apartment in Santa Monica.

“Who?” Jack asked, pulled from his thoughts.