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

her infectious giggle as it grew into a full laugh. Two Canadian flight attendants who slyly observed them thought them a well-established pairing still deep in the throes of love.

Nia became aware of the cabin crew and leant closer to Tom, she was tired and a little tipsy now.

“You’re used to uniforms so what do you think of the cabin crews’ uniform then?”

Tom glanced up and noticed the two flight attendants. They were both wearing tight purple pencil skirts, white blouses under purple bolero jackets, with small, elegant gold wings over the left breast. Blue scarves rounded off the ensemble.

“Quite nice really,” he said. Then, with effete pomposity, “Smart, with a hint of a timeless classic style, but the manufactured material, although unquestionably durable, leaves a lot to be desired.”

Nia looked at him and laughed.

“I’ve worn lots of uniforms in my time. For some reason I’ve played a helluva lot of coppers,” Nia said. “Some good roles really, but I always feel their uniform makes me look a little… dowdy, matronly even.”

“Nonsense,” interjected Tom. “I bet you look really lovely. Look at you, you’re so beautiful, you’d rock any uniform.” What the fuck, you blithering idiot, he thought immediately.

Nia smiled but warily this time, took a gulp of wine and politely excused herself to go to the toilet. It had been a long time since anyone had called her beautiful. It was an odd remark given the context and she wasn’t sure how to take it. She instinctively felt it had been genuine, but she wondered if it was loaded somehow. And, what was with the “you’d rock” remark? She giggled as she looked at the reflection in the mirror. She reached up to her hair and pushed it off her forehead. She took in the fine lines emanating from the corners of her eyes and around her lips, age and all that damn smoking in her youth she thought. Her cheekbones were still fine, and she had always liked how her dark eyes glistened when she was happy or tipsy. Too many of her acting friends had panicked when age began to show, or when scripts were suggested with character parts and not leads. Many resorted to needles and knives, or worse, pills or the bottle. She’d had her moments with pills and bottles and powders but only recreationally.

Still, she couldn’t help comparing her face to her twenty-year-old self and the face that landed her first roles. She had definitely been pretty as numerous casting directors and cast members had remarked. But she had worn the prettiness lightly, she never let it define her, and she knew she hadn’t possessed the looks that would have been mainstream romantic lead. As she matured, she was cast as the love interest’s best friend or rival. She was the mistress not the wife, but she had her fair share of romantic and sexy characters. Life reflected art, for she had had her fair share of real-life romance and drama as well. She stepped back from the mirror and smoothed her sweater down and over her hips. She had moved on to character driven supporting parts, accepting the arc of the actor’s life with good grace. She was still in good shape but, she thought, there would be no more underwear or nude scenes. At least on film. She refreshed her lipstick, dabbed a smidge of her scent, Floris No 89, behind her ears and smiled to herself in the mirror.

Back in the cabin, Tom was mortified. Idiot. Lovely, pretty. It sounded like he was either trying to pick her up or damning with faint praise. Either way, he sounded like he was thirteen. And where the hell had the “you’d rock” phrase come from? He’d never used it before and probably never would again. He looked towards the closed toilet door. Was he trying to pick her up? He didn’t really know. He felt something. He couldn’t tell whether his pupils had dilated or whether his heart rate and respiration were elevated or whether he had had too much wine. But the strange look she had given him when excusing herself to go to the toilet had involuntarily worried him. His stomach had hollowed.

Nia returned and quietly sat down and buckled her seat belt. Tom watched her in silence, aware of the ambient engine noise for the first time in hours. She leaned over their seat dividers, she found his hand and held it tightly. She had decided to move this, whatever it was, forward.

“I like it that you think I’d… rock a uniform,” she said. “You flatter this girl from the valleys, for you, sir, have a fine line in sophisticated patter.”

“Well, yes. I am, after all, nothing if not considered urbane,” Tom said and added a shy smile. “Sorry, it’s been some time.”

Nia laughed, “That’s hard to believe.”

Tom had experienced a few relationships with women since leaving the army, but most had been one- or two-night stands. Intense, sweaty tumbles where both parties didn’t confuse momentarily passion or lust for any deep emotional coupling. There had been a longer relationship with the woman his sister now called Marina Girl, but that had been a disaster. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have a deep relationship, it was that he’d just convinced himself that he wasn’t ready for one.

They talked quietly; simply sitting next to each other, holding hands, they were both surprised how natural and how comfortable this connection felt. Nia squeezed Tom’s hand as the jet wobbled through some turbulence. He liked the physical connection to this amazing woman. Tom tried to ignore the change in the pitch of the Boeing’s engine noise, but it morphed into an all too vivid a memory.

Chapter Three

Afghanistan, Five Years Earlier

The big RAF Chinook’s engines screamed loudly as it swooped into the valley, flying low and fast. It was a dangerous night to be out. Intelligence