Glad Tidings: There's Something About Christmas / Here Comes Trouble

Chapter Six

“Emma! Open up.” The words were accompanied by a loud knock on the motel room door.

The harsh sound of Oliver’s voice woke her abruptly, and she bolted upright. Taking a moment to orient herself she realized Oliver had awakened her in the middle of a dream about him. She blamed Oscar for this. The terrier slept at the foot of her bed, a constant reminder of his master. Her face instantly went red as she tossed aside her covers and hurried to the door.

“What do you want?” she demanded without unlatching the chain. She’d slept in her shirt and her legs were bare.

“The weather’s clear. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes? I don’t know if I can—”

“Hurry up. I’ll be waiting at the plane.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be as fast as I can.” Already she was fumbling about, looking for what she needed.

As soon as she heard him leave, she tore around the room, dressing as quickly as she could. Twenty-five minutes later she was strapped in the plane’s passenger seat with headphones on. They sat at the end of the runway, awaiting clearance. Oscar was asleep in his dog bed in the cargo hold, oblivious to the tension up front.

Oliver ignored her and spoke to the tower, again rattling off a list of letters and numbers.

That was when it hit her. In her rush Emma had forgotten to take her pill. The muscle relaxant was wrapped in a small plastic bag at the bottom of her purse.

Her first instinct was to interrupt Oliver and insist he taxi the plane back to the hangar. She needed to swallow the pill and then wait thirty to sixty minutes for it to take effect. One glance at the intense expression on his face and she could see that wasn’t the best plan. Just then, he pulled back on the throttle and the plane roared down the runway, gaining speed. Leaning against the seat, she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. A few minutes later, the wheels left the runway and they were airborne. Okay, she’d survived.

Emma held her breath. Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to think happy thoughts. Unfortunately, her mind had other interests, drifting back to the scene in the doorway last night. In an effort to dispel the memory of their kiss, she opened her eyes. That, she immediately decided, wasn’t a good idea. All she could see in the darkness was a blur of lights far below. Far, far below. Dwelling on exactly how far was not conducive to her peace of mind.

About twenty minutes into the flight, the Cessna hit an air pocket and bounced. She gasped and bit down on her lip. She’d grabbed a cup of coffee in the motel office; it was boiling hot, but after adding cold water, she’d managed to drink it. Now, with the slight turbulence, her stomach revolted. Feeling light-headed, she closed her eyes once more and pressed her cheek against the passenger window. It felt nice and cool against her skin.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Oliver glanced in her direction and asked how she was doing.

“I … is there any way it would be possible to land?”

“Land?” he repeated into his mouthpiece. “We can’t land here.”

Emma refused to look at him. “I think I might be sick.”

Oliver chuckled. “Quit telling yourself that. You’re going to be fine.”

“Quit telling me how I feel. I’ve got nausea.”

“Take deep breaths.”

“I’m trying.” He made it sound as though she had a choice in the matter.

Oliver took one hand off the controls and stretched his arm behind her seat. He appeared to be searching for something. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, he triumphantly gave her a plastic bag.

“What’s this?”

“A container for you to puke in,” he said without the slightest hesitation.

Emma supposed she should be grateful, but she wasn’t. “Thank you so much,” she muttered sarcastically.

His scowl told her he didn’t appreciate her sarcasm.

Her stomach settled down a few minutes later, and she slowly exhaled. “I think I’m going to be all right.”

He nodded. “I thought you would be.”

They exchanged no further conversation for the rest of the flight home.

Once they’d landed, Emma was out of the aircraft in record time, eager to be on her way. Unfortunately, her car was parked back at her apartment. Oliver offered to drop her off, and she accepted, but he certainly wasn’t in any hurry. She chafed with impatience as he tended lovingly to his plane, exchanged protracted greetings with various other men, then retrieved his truck. Finally they arrived at her apartment. As she politely thanked him for the ride, Oscar took her place in the passenger seat—well, his place, she assumed.

Emma watched them drive away, more determined than ever not to get inside a plane with him again. Somehow, she’d persuade Walt to listen to reason. With her mind made up, she headed into her apartment. After showering, washing her hair and changing clothes, Emma drove to the office.

It seemed that every eye in the newsroom was on her when she walked through the door. Judging by the looks cast in her direction, she could easily have been the page one story.

“How’d it go?” Phoebe asked the minute Emma entered The Dungeon. She hadn’t even sat down at her desk before Phoebe rolled her chair across the aisle. “I think it’s wildly romantic that you and Oliver Hamilton were stranded together like that.”

“It wasn’t.” Emma refused to elaborate. Bad enough that he’d kissed her without permission. “I didn’t even have a toothbrush with me. It wasn’t an experience I care to repeat.”

“But you were with Oliver.”

Emma sent her friend a glower that said she wasn’t impressed with the pilot.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Oliver’s pretty hot.”

“There’s more to a man than his looks.” Her father was an attractive man, too, but his character wasn’t any deeper than the average mud puddle. Emma suspected Oliver was like that. His glibness infuriated her. He took delight in making her uncomfortable, which she considered a juvenile trait—and one that seemed particularly typical of men.

Phoebe wouldn’t be thwarted. “I’ll bet he kissed you.”

Emma ignored the comment. She set her briefcase on her desk and removed her laptop. As soon as she could, she’d review what she’d written and go over her interview notes one final time.

Phoebe grinned knowingly. “He did, didn’t he?”

Her friend wasn’t going to stop tormenting her. Emma sighed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”

“I knew it.” Phoebe’s eyes flashed with victory, as if she were personally responsible for that kiss. “And?” She waited for Emma to elaborate.

“And nothing,” Emma returned. “It was okay as kisses go, but I didn’t feel the earth move or anything.”

“You didn’t?” This seemed shocking to Phoebe. “But everyone says—”

Emma had no interest in hearing the details of Fly-boy’s amorous exploits, even if it was only by repute.

“The truth is,” she broke in, “that ninety percent of the time we were stranded, Oliver was busy playing poker with his cronies.”

Phoebe’s expression suggested that she was terribly disappointed in both of them. The only way to end this inquisition, Emma decided, was to ask a few questions of her own. “While I have your attention, I want you to tell me what’s going on between you and Walt,” she said. “You promised.”

Phoebe glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I’ve probably said more than I should have already.” She rolled her chair back across the aisle.

Emma followed her, and leaned against the cubicle wall with her arms folded. “I’m not sure whether I should thank you or yell at you for getting me this assignment.”

“I did not,” Phoebe insisted righteously. “I just felt Walt should know that if he didn’t do something quick, he was going to lose you, so I … I told him what you said about quitting.”

“That’s practically blackmail!” Emma said in a horrified voice. “What if he’d fired me because you told him I threatened to quit?”

“Don’t worry about that. I wouldn’t have let it happen,” Phoebe said calmly. “But you deserve a shot at something other than obituaries. I knew Walt couldn’t afford to let you go—and he knows it, too.”

“Okay, at least you used your power for good,” Emma murmured. She was thankful that Phoebe had spoken to Walt on her behalf; still, she’d rather stand on her own merit. “Oliver said that when he asked about me, you sang like a canary. And that’s a quote.”

Phoebe laughed out loud. “Yeah, right, and if you believe that, then you don’t know me at all.”

“I thought he was exaggerating.” Just then the phone on her desk rang. Reaching across the aisle, Emma picked up the receiver. It was Walt, wanting to see her. Now.

Phoebe’s eyes widened in speculation when Emma hung up the phone.

“Wish me luck,” she mouthed to her friend. Grabbing a pad and pen, she walked up the stairs. When she got to his office, her boss was on the phone, but he motioned her inside. He grinned in her direction, which boded well. She had no idea who he was talking to or about what—although the word “no” featured prominently—but after another moment he ended the conversation.

Emma sat in the chair on the other side of his desk.

“So. You’re back.”

She nodded, but resisted mentioning the motel bill.

“I understand you and Oliver Hamilton had a bit of an adventure.”

She couldn’t help wondering how much Walt knew about what had happened in Yakima. “You could say that.” She mulled over how to tell him she refused to fly with Oliver again.

“The interview with Earleen Williams went well?”

She nodded. “Earleen was wonderful. She was flattered by the attention and excited about the article. Her recipe’s terrific—I had a taste and, believe it or not, I loved it. By the way, she’s already signed the legal documentation so we can print her recipe in The Examiner.” If nothing else, Walt should be pleased by that.

He inclined his head slightly in apparent approval. “I’d like the article about Earleen on my desk this afternoon.”

Emma’s mouth fell open. “This afternoon? As in today?”

Walt raised his eyebrows as if she’d contravened some kind of reporters’ code by daring to ask such a question.

Swallowing hard, she offered him an apologetic smile. “It’ll be there.”

“Good.” His eyebrows started to return to their usual position. “And be ready to leave for Colville first thing tomorrow.”

So soon? She wanted to tell him she needed time to regroup after the flight from Yakima. Yes, it had gone fairly well. Other than the fact that she’d nearly vomited. The best part was that she’d survived without drugs. Her employer simply had no idea what she’d gone through just to get to the other town and home again in one piece. Then there was the problem of no transportation when they’d landed in Yakima. Not only had she risked her life for this interview, but she’d encountered germs besides.

Now all she had to do was find a way to tell Walt that she preferred to drive to her next interview. “If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about Sophie McKay.”

Walt gave her a questioning look.

“As you know, I ended up spending the night in Yakima. In a motel room. A cheap one.”

He sat back in his chair. “Hamilton said that was unavoidable.”

So Walt had already spoken to Oliver. “There’s no guarantee it won’t happen again—being delayed due to weather, I mean.”

He pinched his lips together. “True. Not to worry, the newspaper will reimburse you for the room.”

Emma couldn’t prevent a look of surprise at his easy capitulation on the matter of her expenses. Still, that wasn’t her main concern at the moment.

“I appreciate it, but I was thinking, you know, that it’d probably be better if I drove to Colville this time, rather than fly. I realize it’s a full day’s drive, but—”

Walt raised his hand and stopped her. “Out of the question. I already have an agreement with Hamilton. He’s got a run into Spokane tomorrow morning. He’ll drop you off at Colville, fly into Spokane and then come back for you later in the afternoon.”

Emma’s heart shot to her throat. “You actually want me to do this again … tomorrow?”

Walt nodded. “Meet Oliver at the airfield same time as before.”

“Oh.” She stood, but her feet felt weighted down. In less than twenty-four hours, she was going back up into the wide blue yonder with Oliver Hamilton.

“Have a good day,” Walt said, turning to his computer and dismissing her. “Remember, I want that first article before you leave this afternoon. We’re already in the second week of December, and there’s a time factor here.” He gestured at some limp Christmas garland draped on his window.

“It’ll be on your desk,” she promised, relieved that she had the rough draft on her laptop computer.

More by instinct than knowledge, she stumbled back down to her cubicle in The Dungeon, preoccupied by the fact that she’d be flying again so soon. She’d learned that—especially with the help of drugs—she could handle being in a small plane. She didn’t like it, never would, but in all honesty, the flight hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared.

Examining her reluctance to repeat the experience, she was forced to admit something she’d rather ignore. More than the flying itself, it was Oliver Hamilton she wanted to avoid.

Chapter Seven

A fruitcake is to a chef what love is to a gigolo—an item we both desperately try to avoid.

—Michael Psilakis, executive chef

and owner of Onera, New York City

Oliver wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d made a recent and rather disturbing discovery: Emma Collins wasn’t good for his ego. Until he met her, he’d been doing just fine when it came to attracting the opposite sex. Better than fine.

His late-afternoon conversation with Walt had further eroded his ego. Apparently, upon their return from Yakima, Emma had attempted to get out of flying with him a second time. Fortunately, Walt had said no; a deal was a deal and Oliver didn’t plan to let her kill his chances of advertising his air-freight business in the local paper.

Okay, he’d admit it’d been a mistake to kiss her, a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat. If this was how Emma felt, then he could ignore her, too.

A glance at his watch told him she had five minutes to show up. If she wasn’t at the airport by seven, he was leaving without her. He would’ve kept his end of the bargain, and she’d just have to explain to her boss that she’d been late. He’d only signed this new contract a few weeks ago, flying Alaska salmon packed in dry ice to restaurants in Spokane and Portland. It was a regular job and he couldn’t afford to mess up the opportunity.

Just as he was about to board the plane, Emma hurried onto the tarmac, clutching her briefcase and a large takeout coffee.

“You’re late,” he snapped.

“I most certainly am not.” Then, perhaps to reassure herself, she stopped and checked her watch. “I’ve got five minutes to spare,” she announced with more than an edge of righteousness. “At least by my watch.”

“Well, not by mine.”

This time she wasn’t having trouble remaining upright because—or so he assumed—of some stupid pill.

Regardless, he was going to stick to his policy of ignoring her; he’d simply fly his plane.

He felt her scrutiny. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she said in a singsong voice.

He pretended not to hear. Oscar was already in the plane, ready and waiting to take off. The terrier poked his head out the passenger door as if to ask what was taking so long.

“Listen,” Emma said, “why don’t we start over, all right?”

“Fine, whatever.”

She rolled her eyes and climbed into the plane with absolutely no complaints. He didn’t know what had happened to get her to relax. She’d probably switched drugs and had swallowed some heavy-duty, industrial-strength mood enhancer. Nothing else could explain this cheerful state of mind.

Suddenly he wondered if she’d been drinking, although she’d denied it yesterday. He studied her and sniffed on the off-chance he could smell alcohol.

She glared at him. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, returning to the task at hand. He walked beneath the wing, stepping in front of the engine to examine the blades.

Emma’s headphones were in place, with the small microphone positioned by her mouth, before he’d finished his preflight check.

His faithful—or should that be faithless?—companion had obviously accepted her, barely raising his head when Oliver climbed into the plane. Oscar had settled onto his dog bed in the cargo hold.

“You didn’t wear perfume this time, did you?” he asked.

“No, because I didn’t want to get sneezed on again.”

“Well, good for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you’re in such a bad mood, but I wish you’d snap out of it.”

As if to apologize for Oliver, his terrier stood up and poked his head between the two seats. When Emma bent toward him, he licked her ear. Smiling, she stroked his face. Traitor that he was, Oscar seemed to relish her attention. Not until the engine started did the dog go back to his bed.

“Finish your coffee,” he said. “We’ll be leaving in a couple of minutes.”

“It’s not coffee. It’s latte. Eggnog-flavored.” She had to argue about everything. But she obediently drained the large cup.

Oliver taxied to the end of the runway and waited for approval to take off. It wasn’t long in coming. He was in the air before he realized that Emma’s eyes were squeezed shut. Like yesterday, she held on to the bar above the door with what could only be described as a death grip. But at least she wasn’t confessing at the top of her lungs that she’d lied about her weight. The memory produced a grin and for a moment he forgot that he was annoyed with her.

They hardly spoke the entire flight. Every now and then he felt her glance in his direction, as if to gauge his mood. An hour outside of Colville, he saw that she was squirming in her seat.

“What’s the problem now?” he asked.

Emma shifted from one side to the other. “If you must know, I have to use the, uh, facilities.”

“You should’ve gone before we left.”

“I did,” she said, not bothering to hide her indignation.

“There isn’t a toilet on the plane.”

She turned and scowled at him. “I noticed. Do you have any other suggestions?”

“You can do what I do,” he told her. Reaching behind him, he grabbed a wide-mouth red plastic container.

She looked at it as if he’d just handed her a dead rat. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

“You said you had to go.”

“You don’t honestly expect me to … go,” she said, apparently not finding a more suitable verb, “in that.”

“I use it.”

“It’s different for a man. There’s a bit more effort involved for a woman.”

“We’re a little less than an hour from Colville.”

She crossed her legs. “I guess I can wait.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

By the time he approached the Colville runway, Oliver’s sympathies were with Emma. She was clearly uncomfortable, if the number of times she’d crossed and uncrossed her legs was any indication. He didn’t have the heart to tell her there wasn’t a terminal in Colville. The runway was next to a cow pasture, and while there was an office, that didn’t necessarily mean anyone would be there to let her in. It’d been a while since his last visit and he didn’t recall if there was a restroom of any kind in the hangar. For her sake, he hoped there was.

Emma bit her lower lip when the wheels touched down. Oliver taxied and parked the plane and leaped out. Just as he’d suspected, no one emerged from the office.

“There’s a toilet in there,” he said, helping her down. “But I’m not sure it’s open….”

She had a desperate look.

Emma hurried toward the office, but no one answered her frantic knock. When she glanced over her shoulder, he shrugged, pointing at the hangar.

With that, she bolted for the large metal shed. She must have found what she needed because she didn’t immediately reappear. While he waited, Oliver got on his cell and phoned the Spokane restaurant with his ETA. Someone would meet him at the airfield to pick up the salmon delivery.

When she returned from the hangar she was frowning. “The conditions in there were deplorable. Downright primitive.”

“Hey,” he said, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “It wasn’t me who gulped down that eggnog latte.”

She threw him an irate look. “The least you could’ve done was warn me how long the flight was going to take.”

“You’re a reporter. You could’ve done the research.” He was about to say something else when he saw the small black dog.

Emma had noticed the mutt, too, a curly-haired mixed breed, probably part poodle. From the matted hair and the lost expression in her brown eyes, Oliver could tell the dog was a stray.

“Where did you come from?” Emma asked, gently petting her. The dog stared longingly up at her and started to shake. “She’s cold,” Emma said.

Oliver felt bad, but there was little he could do. As it was, Oscar had seen her, jumped down, barking loudly, and then promptly did what dogs always do when they meet another of their kind. He sniffed her butt.

“I had no idea this town was so small,” Emma commented. She looked over the cow pasture and wrapped her coat more securely around her. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“You’re hungry?”

“No, but the dog is. I don’t usually carry food with me.” She checked the inside of her purse; the best she had to offer was a half-used package of antacid mints. Unfortunately, Oliver wasn’t much help, either.

A lone car drove past the road next to the airfield. “Do you have my cell phone number?” he asked, following the vehicle with his eyes.

“You gave it to me in Yakima.”

“Right.” He remembered that now. “Call me when you’re finished, all right?” As soon as she was picked up, he’d fly into Spokane.

“When will you be back?” she asked.

So she was going to miss him, he thought, warmed by the question. She wouldn’t admit it, of course, but she was attracted to him. He decided it was better not to react.

“You’re sure you have a ride,” he confirmed.

“Sophie McKay said she’d come and get me.”

She pulled out her cell and punched in a number from her little daybook. After a short conversation, she nodded in his direction, letting him know her ride was on the way.