Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis by Maria Swan (feel good novels TXT) 📕

luggage? I’ll be waiting for you.” I swallowed, held my breath, praying he couldn’t hear the throbbing of my heart in my throat.

“Fiat?” Ouch, was he mad at me? “Fiat, you... I... girl, what am I going to do with you?” His voice caught, the tenderness palpable. He wasn’t mad which made me feel shakier and truth be told—vulnerable. Could I trust my voice?

Breathe, Monica, breathe.

“Okay then, remember, north side.” More swallowing. “See you soon.” Why did I hang up on him? Because I was scared, scared of what I really wanted more than anything in the world. To be with him.

Tonight, the next day, forever.

I put the car in drive and headed toward Arrivals.

Four lanes, all one-way only, were the access route to the ground-level arrivals. The place was depressing in daytime with so little natural light, the cacophony of idling engines, and landing planes. It was downright spooky at night. Only advantage, few cars and even fewer people hanging around the exit doors waiting for their rides. I found an easy parking spot right by door number three. I would wait fifteen minutes, and then let Tristan know where I was. The closer we got to the now inevitable meet time, the more my stomach churned independent of the hollow red indentation left by the waistband rivet button. Ouch. I kept my eyes bouncing back and forth from the clock on the car console to door number three.

Travelers with tired faces and sleepy eyes came through the magic door dragging their luggage, but not Tristan.

Then my cell chimed. “Fiat, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” He sounded stressed, ticked off, all of that. “My luggage didn’t make it, I guess not enough time between flights. I must fill out some paperwork. I hate the idea of you out there waiting. Would you like to come in?”

Come in? Nooo.

I cleared my throat. “Don’t stress yourself about it. I’m in a well-lit spot and have a soft throw to keep me comfy. Go ahead; do your thing. I’m smack in front of door number three. Sorry, it sounds like a line from The Price is Right.”

He chuckled. “Well, I can’t wait to see what surprise door number three holds.” He paused. “Thank you for being so sweet and so patient. I’ll be out quickly. Don’t leave me.” The last part was an obvious attempt at making me smile.

Leave him? As if.

By now many of the waiting vehicles had collected their live cargos and left. It felt odd, middle of the night, middle of the week. Not much going on. Still I waited and waited. One good outcome was the fact that my sense of fear/anxiety about what would come next had shifted from extreme to mild. Unfortunately, the snare around my waist had now turned into an itchy nightmare.

All that was forgotten when through door number three walked the love of my life, Tristan Dumont, looking good enough to deserve his very own cover as People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. He wore black clothing, everything black, as black as his hair now barely clearing his shoulders. Even the large briefcase he carried was black.

I couldn’t contain myself, kicked off the throw, opened the driver’s door, and rushed his way without even locking the car. He saw me, and his smile told me all I wanted to know.

I quickened my pace. Then I heard, “Tristan.” A loud, really loud female voice calling his name.

We both stopped about ten feet apart, looking at each other and then looking for the owner of the voice. People around us seemed to disappear as I noticed her coming from behind him, probably from another door? She looked like—an Eskimo. Okay, the television version of an Eskimo, as I’ve never been to Alaska or other cold places where they live. It was the icky green parka with fur around the hood and knee boots also with fur that gave her the look. She moved slowly, pulling a large suitcase on wheels, her eyes on Tristan. How the hell did she recognize him from the back and so far away?

He had now followed my stare and turned his head to see.

The woman waved, quickened her pace, and something about her gesture stirred memories in my head. Oh, God, it was her—the redhead, Smith. Yes, her last name was Smith, J. S. Smith, or Silly Jess as Tristan had called her. She had left town after the uproar of that famous psychic found face-down in the canal with a bra knotted around her neck. Now I remembered.

“Tristan, I thought it was you by the luggage carousel, you were leaving as I came down the escalator.” All smiles and giggly voice, “Didn’t expect to find you still hanging around Arizona.”

Unless I had suddenly become invisible, by now she must have recognized me.

She had, and her smile froze. She quickly readjusted her attitude and nodded at me. “Monica, how nice to see you.”

Was she aware I was there to meet Tristan and not just to tour Sky Harbor by night?

For the longest twenty seconds no one spoke. Considering all the mean things she wrote about Tristan and his family when she still made a living as a gossip columnist, his silence didn’t surprise me. Then she let go of the suitcase strap and rubbed the palm of her hand. Even from where I stood I could see the bright red marks. She kept rubbing. Must have been as painful as the noose circling my waist.

“Hi, Jessica,” I said. “Are you moving back to Phoenix?”

“Yes, flew in from Chicago,” she said to Tristan. “I have a job, thanks to our old friend Alexander. Remember him?”

“From U of A?” he asked, finally acknowledging her presence.

Jessie nodded enthusiastically as Tristan’s weariness began to show. He turned to me and took my hand, pulling me closer, and with that I felt validated.

“Monica was kind enough to pick me up.” His eyes squarely on Jessie’s face. Not a single word of encouragement to a friendlier conversation. Simply