The Parting Gift(3)

“I don’t care about what anybody else does. You ain’t quitting school! Now get going. You’re wasting time, and I’m not listening to your trash! You’re making us both late!” The situation was teetering off the edge of control. If he didn’t defuse, this would be another blow out. Something he had noticed was occurring more often the last few weeks. “Let’s just calm down…”

But his efforts were already too late.

A hot fire leaped into Blaine’s steel gray eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his neck with thick emotion, like he was swallowing back his fury. His hands were balled into tight fists, the knuckles whitening before David’s eyes.

“No!” Blaine exploded. “No, Dad! I’m done calming down! You don’t ever listen to me! And now I don’t need you to tell me what to do either. I’ve been taking care of myself for five years! Ever since Mom died.

“You do remember Mom, don’t you? The woman you buried one day and forgot about the next? You didn’t give two cents then; you don’t give two cents now… other than whether or not I’m late for school! Hang school! – And hang you!” With that he grabbed his blue jeans off the edge of the bed and stalked out of his room slamming the door. On the other side of the door, he could hear Blaine hopping around on one leg, struggling to pull on his blue jeans. He heard the clomp of his boots and the screen door slam. David was left alone in the sudden quiet.

Quiet. But not peaceful.

His heart wrenched inside him, and he slumped to the floor under the weight of his anguish. Oh, Emily. Emily, if you were here… His heart wept. But she wasn’t, and he had made a mess of this by himself. The old indignation threatened to swallow him again. See, God? You don’t do nothing but take from me!

It was the last time he saw his son.

When David arrived home that night, Blaine was gone, and the note said, “Now you don’t have to worry about me being late to school.”





Chapter One


Boston, November 1950



“Logan Tower, flight one-seven-November-two-Bravo requesting permission to land.”

“This is Logan Tower, Captain. You are clear to land.”

Captain Blaine Graham banked to the left and brought the plane around into position to bring her safely onto the landing strip. The sun filtered over the eastern horizon, reflecting off the water surrounding most of the Logan International Airport.

It was good to be home again. Blaine had been out on a week long flight schedule and this last flight was an all-nighter. He did love to fly, but after a week of it, he was ready for a rest. Of course, as a pilot, he was “home” so seldom, he used the term loosely. Home was wherever he was sleeping that night. Today it happened to be Boston.

Within minutes, the plane pulled up to the terminal and Blaine cut the engines. As the passengers disembarked, he and his co-pilot went through the terminating protocol quickly.

“Long night. Be glad to get home to the wife,” his co-pilot muttered behind a yawn. Blaine stretched his arms over his head then stood, still stooped over a bit, because his full six-foot-three frame didn’t quite fit in the cramped plane.

“I’ll just be glad to get back to my own bed.” The exhaustion started to set in as he unrolled his white shirt sleeves and buttoned them, then lifted his blazer from its hook and slipped it on. Grabbing his overnight case, he turned again to the other man. “Sounds like it’s empty out there. You ready?”

“Just let me grab my cap.”

A light knock on the cockpit door told them the cabin was clear. Blaine ducked out through the little door and came face to face with the stewardess. She smiled sweetly, looking straight into his gray eyes. “It was a smooth flight, Captain.”

“Thank you.” She was still gazing at him, as if she expected him to say something more. Nothing was coming to mind. Not that he was much of one for talking, but exhaustion made small talk next to impossible for him, and conversing with women had never been one of his strong suits.

Behind him, the co-pilot seemed to understand his loss for words. “Yeah, ‘Old Cool Hand’ we call him. Smoothest pilot I’ve ever flown with.” He slapped Blaine on the back and a broad grin swept across his face.

Blaine breathed a sigh of relief and laughed softly with him.

“Y’all ready?” the dark-haired man gestured toward the hatch and nodded to the stewardess. “After you, ma’am.”

A brief glimpse of disappointment seemed to flash in her brown eyes, but she hid it well behind her polite smile and led the way down the stairs to the ground.

“Thanks, man,” Blaine whispered.

“A brother in need, son,” drawled the co-pilot. “I think she’s got a torch for you.”

“You think so?” He glanced at her walking a few steps ahead of him. She was a pretty girl. Particularly from this angle.

His companion poked him in the ribs and chuckled. “Oughta ask her dancin’.”

The girl inclined her head slightly, as if she had heard the comment. Blaine looked at the ground in embarrassment, though the early morning dusk offered adequate cover to hide him from her view. “Shhh,” he warned, but her pace seemed to slacken, perhaps in hope Blaine would take his co-pilot’s advice. He caught up to her without meaning too, and she fell into step beside him.