Finding Isadora(121)

“Fine, thanks.” I was surprised she’d addressed us by name. Obviously in business class the flight attendants had a list of seat assignments.

Her brow furrowed. “You’re not traveling together, are you?”

“No,” I said quickly.

The man shot me an amused glance.

“Right, then,” the woman said, face clearing and another smile flashing. “It’s a long flight, but I’ll do my best to make it a pleasant one.” Now she was looking directly at my seatmate, leaning into his space as still-boarding passengers stepped around her, and I thought she’d put a special emphasis on the word pleasant.

“That’s good of you, Carmen,” he said, seeming quite happy that the fabric of her uniform trousers brushed his jean-clad knee. He sent her one of those eye-crinkling smiles.

So he knew her name, too. I could see her being his type. Well, pretty much any man’s type. I gathered the two of them had been chatting—flirting?—before I arrived.

Not that I cared, except I’d as soon not be ignored when it came to service. I cleared my throat to remind her I was there. “Thank you.” I paused. “Carmen.”

She gave me a smile that looked a trifle pitying. Women like her always gave me an irrational urge to spout off the fact that I’d been awarded a PhD—summa cum laude—at the age of twenty-two. Ridiculous, because I knew perfectly well that academic credentials wouldn’t impress her. She’d be looking at my average figure, average face, average clothing, and knowing my attributes could never compete with hers.

“May I offer you a glass of champagne?” she asked me.

I swallowed the silly surge of … surely not jealousy? “That would be lovely.” The treat would be a nice start to a long trip, and maybe distract me from the man beside me.

“Same for me,” my seatmate said.

“Of course. Coming up.” Was she actually fluttering her eyelashes at him?

When she went to talk to the older couple across the aisle, he turned to me. “All psyched up for ten hours on a plane? Any ideas how to pass the time?” he asked in a suggestive tone.

Great. He was a “love the one you’re with” guy who’d flirt with whichever female was closest. Even a woman like me.

The urge to banter had left me. “I have work to do.” I slid my tray table out of the arm of my chair and slapped the exam booklets down on it.

“Yeah, happens I do too.” Despite his words, he didn’t take out any work, just reclined his seat, adjusted the footrest, and closed his eyes.

Fine. He didn’t care whether I chatted with him. I’d got what I’d hoped for: a seatmate who would leave me alone. Not that I wanted the attention of an arrogant flirt like him, but sometimes it truly irked me that men found me so easy to ignore.

I tried to adjust my own footrest, but it didn’t cooperate, so I focused on the first exam. I’d barely started when my mobile—no, cell; I had to transition to Canadian terms again—rang.

I pulled it out of my purse and saw from call display that it was my sister Kat. There were four of us, a three-pack plus one, with the one—the unplanned afterthought—being Merilee. I was the oldest at thirty-two, the plain brainiac. Kat was a year younger, Ms. Sociability. She lived in Montreal and handled PR for a gorgeous hotel.

“Hi there,” I answered quietly. My seatmate’s eyes were still closed. “Can’t talk long, the plane’s almost loaded.” My brain calculated time. It was five thirty at night here, which made it… “Kat, isn’t it three thirty in the morning? Are you just coming in or getting up?” Surely even a party animal like Kat wouldn’t stay out this late.

“I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. Did you get the e-mail I sent a few hours ago? I haven’t heard back.”

“It may be on my laptop. I downloaded e-mail before I left. I’ll look at it during the flight. Were you able to swing that leave?”

Carmen was back with the drinks. I nodded my thanks as she handed me a flute of bubbly champagne. When she placed my neighbor’s drink on his tray, his eyes opened quickly enough.

Kat was saying, “Do you know how difficult it is for me to take time off without notice?” She went on about all the people at the hotel who depended on her. My sister. Always the life of the party, be it in her social life or at her workplace.

As she spoke, my seatmate and the flight attendant chatted away, accompanied by considerable eyelash-batting on her part. Didn’t she have other passengers to attend to? Or did she plan to spend the entire trip flirting with him, like he was God’s gift to womankind?

I broke into Kat’s ramblings. “If it’s a real problem getting off work, don’t worry about it. As I said before, I can handle this.”

There was a pause. Then, “Well, of course, I forgot that you’ve already handled one wedding, and so successfully at that.”

Ouch. I knew my younger sisters had always resented me: my brains, the responsibility our parents had given me, the way I’d lived up to their hefty expectations. Now I’d pushed one of Kat’s buttons, so she’d retaliated by pushing one of mine. My failed marriage.

If I’d been alone, I’d have sniped back about her brilliant ability to always pick the wrong guy. However, the flirtatious Carmen had departed and the man beside me apparently had nothing better to do than sip champagne and listen to my side of the phone conversation. So I said, “Sorry. It would be great if you could get off work and help out.” I picked up my own flute and took a calming swallow.