Uncharted(7)

There are about ten people already gathered inside the room, most of them men in their early forties, huddled at the conference table with their faces poised over phone screens and tablets. They glance up when I enter, but otherwise pay me little attention, returning to their calls and private discussions without missing more than a beat.

A woman with a shiny fall of blonde hair rises from the couch in a single, smooth motion. Her long limbs are concealed by wide-legged white linen pants — the kind you see on the glossy pages of fashion magazines but never in real life, because surely no one is elegant enough to pull them off. Except, apparently, Mrs. Flint.

“You must be Violet,” she murmurs, friendly but reserved as she slides her hand into mine with a firm shake. My palm feels like a pumice stone against hers. I marvel at her ageless skin — she looks barely older than I am, though I know she’s nearing forty. “Welcome. We’re so glad to have you.”

“Mrs. Flint, it’s wonderful to meet you.”

“Please, call me Samantha.”

“Samantha, then.” My eyes shift downward, to the small blonde shadow hovering a step behind her mother’s wide-legged pants. “And this must be Miss Sophie.”

I catch a flash of platinum pigtails and hear a muffled giggle before the little girl ducks behind her mother, so she’s fully hidden from view.

“She’s a bit shy,” Samantha says apologetically. “We’re hoping this trip will help her get over that.”

“I was pretty shy myself, when I was her age.” I smile as the little girl sneaks a peek at me from behind Samantha’s hipbone.

“She’ll warm up, once she gets to know you,” Samantha assures me. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

In response, Sophie gives a small nod and twines her fingers with her mom’s. A pang shoots through my chest as I think of my own mother. With all the drama at baggage claim, I haven’t even had a chance to text her. She’ll be worried.

“Come, sit with me and chat,” Samantha says, leading Sophie to the sectional and gesturing for me to follow. “We’re still waiting on one more person before takeoff.”

I follow hurriedly, sliding my backpack to the floor by my feet. My ungainly plop onto the cushion is a stark contrast to Samantha’s elegant motions. She doesn’t walk; she glides, barely disturbing the air. I wonder if that kind of grace is something that can be learned, or if you’re simply born with it.

Her smile is warm. “How was your flight from Boston?”

“Oh, it was fine.” Besides a bickering couple and a coffee-boob stain. “Somehow, I have a feeling it won’t compare to this one.” My eyes travel to the private jet, parked on the runway outside.

Samantha’s gaze follows mine. “Ever flown private before?”

“Actually, I’d never even been on an airplane until about seven hours ago.”

Her smile widens. “Well, you’re in for a treat, then. Flying private puts first class to shame.”

I think it’s best not to mention the fact that I spent my first leg of this voyage sandwiched in a middle seat in steerage.

“Any problems with your luggage?” she asks.

“They took it from me at the curb.” I pause. “Some rude guy did try to swipe it at baggage claim earlier, though.”

“Really?” Samantha’s eyebrows lift in two perfect blonde arcs. Her nose wrinkles, as though she can’t fathom a world in which one might handle their own luggage, let alone have it nearly snatched off the conveyer belt.

Okay, so technically I was the one doing the snatching.

Whatever.

“He was extremely rude.” I flush again at the memory of his intent green eyes. “I thought he was going to rip the bag right out of my hands.”

“Oh my,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Did you talk to airport security about him?”

“No, it wasn’t worth going to all that trouble. In the end, I got my bag. That’s really what counts.” I shrug. “And… he wasn’t violent, just—” An utter ass. “—a bit hotheaded. Thankfully, I’ll never see him again.”

“Still, I’m sorry to hear your trip started on such strange footing! I promise, it’ll all be downhill from here. You’re going to adore the South Pacific.”

“I really can’t wait.”

After another moment of pleasantries, Samantha excuses herself to go speak with her husband, who’s still fully entrenched in a business meeting with his co-workers from the Flint Group. My eyes move to Sophie. She’s sitting directly across from me, studying my every detail with narrowed, periwinkle blue eyes. Her cute-as-a-button face cants at an angle as she considers me.

I hold her stare and await her judgment.

Aside from dogs and horses, I’ve always thought kids are the best judges of character on the planet. Tiny bullshit detectors — they can see through you in an instant. Generally speaking, if you don’t like kids… it’s probably because kids don’t like you.

“What’s in your backpack?” she asks, breaking her silence as curiosity finally gets the best of her. I hide a grin as I pull the bag up onto the coffee table.

“Want to see?”

She nods.

I slide over on the cushion until I’m right beside her. Yanking open the drawstring of my backpack, I pull out a coloring book and a massive pack of crayons. “Do you want to color with me?”