Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

The actress noticed Tom’s stare but then realised he was trying to look out of the window. As she caught his eye, he looked at the first-class pod and mouthed “Wow.” Tom noticed the book she had laid out to read.

“How’s the book?” he asked with a gentle smile.

“Not good. Pretty crappy really, one of those trashy beach thrillers with gratuitous violence and bad sex. Not my cup of tea really, but a friend gave it to me as a plane read,” the actress replied diffidently.

“Aha. I see. What do you normally read?” Tom continued.

“Well, I’m also actually reading an Iain Banks. It’s a bit heavy, so was taking a little break from it. Thinking of picking it up again, oh, around Iceland.”

“Ah, good,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I like Iain Banks too, The Bridge is one of my favourite books, brilliant.”

“I prefer the Wasp Factory,” the actress said somewhat disdainfully.

Tom was aware of the difficult attitude the woman exuded but he found her intriguing. In a situation like this he would normally smile, put in his air pods, get lost in a book or magazine, and retreat further into himself.

“I’m Tom, Tom Price,” Tom said, with a ‘damn the torpedoes’ attitude which was unusual for him and he held out his hand.

“Hi, Tom, I’m Nia,” the actress said a little coolly and just brushed his hand in a facsimile of a shake. She stared up at Tom as he stood to take off his sports jacket and then settled back into the pod. She was anticipating a look of recognition followed by a statement like, “Are you the actress Nia Williams?” or “I loved you in that episode,” or “Has anyone told you that you look like Nia Williams,” or, a little less these days, “Hey Nia, give us a kiss then.” None of these happened. Did he really not recognise her? Shit, she thought, had she aged that much?

***

The Boeing taxied onto Montreal’s main north-south runway. It had been de-iced, but the pilots were still anxious to get the wide-bodied jet into the air as quickly as possible. They knew the troublesome sleet that lashed their windscreens would be no match for the jet’s speed and climb rate. The big Boeing would soon rise above the clipper system that had dropped the temperature along with a nasty stew of hale and sleet. The pilots received the okay from the traffic controller. The captain nodded to the co-pilot and applied pressure to the throttles and the two huge General Electric turbofan engines responded sweetly. The two-hundred-and-fifty-tonne aircraft accelerated down the runway as smoothly as a Ferrari from a traffic light. Its nose wheel appeared to almost levitate off the runway’s surface before the jet leapt into the air.

Inside the warm cabin Tom felt the plane become airborne and he pushed himself further back into the seat willing the jet to continue its climb. He missed sitting next to a window and attempted to look across the seat pod to his left, but the passenger had closed the window blind and appeared to be settled in for a nap. He looked to his right, across Nia, who was staring straight ahead with a blank determined look, to her window. He couldn’t see much through the window; different shades of grey and precipitation streaming across the window giving him a sense that they were under water. Then his gaze fell on Nia. Blimey, he thought, she really is lovely. He should travel first class more often. He found her looks and air of insouciance attractive. He continued to steal quick glances in her direction taking in the thick black hair with red highlights that fell past her shoulders, her generous mouth, and as she turned and captured his stare, her slate-dark eyes. Tom smiled reflexively and Nia half smiled back and pushed herself deeper into her seat to afford him a better look through the cabin window. She’s thoughtful as well, Tom recognised, nice.

It’s going to be a long flight, he thought, may as well try to make some conversation. “Flying home Nia?” he asked.

“Yup.” She exaggerated her novel reading body language for a moment but then felt rude. She put down her book. “I’ve been working in Montreal and Toronto for a few weeks, what about you?”

“Over here just for a long weekend really. An old friend was defending his doctorate and having a bit of a bash afterwards.”

Nia was now intrigued. “Sounds fun. What was the doctorate in?”

“Strategic studies, something to do with international terrorism,” Tom answered with a bit of feigned ignorance.

“And what is it that you do?” Nia asked looking into Tom’s face. It was a good face. She noticed his eyes, calm and blue grey, close cut dark hair with some pepper and salt at the temples, a face that was slightly weather burnt, he must work outside she thought. Close up she reconfirmed he had a warm, genuine smile. Yes, she thought, a nice face.

Tom hesitated, partly because he felt himself being sucked into Nia’s big dark eyes. He tried to think of a colour to describe them and felt ‘brown’ didn’t do them justice.

“Oh, I do a bit of writing now and then.”

He noticed Nia’s eyes immediately register suspicion. Why?

“Oh God,” she began with an obvious eye roll. “You don’t write for newspapers and magazines, do you?”

“No, not for newspapers but, errrr, I do write the occasional pieces for magazines.” He let the sentence trail off interested in how she’d respond.

“What magazines?”

“Um,” he smiled. “Well, would you believe magazines devoted to narrow-boating on British canals and some related touristy things?”

She stared at him for a moment, he watched light return to her eyes and her eyes crinkle as her full mouth broke into a