At the back of the plane, Celeste had been staring at the clouds for almost half an hour. She could not stop thinking about Pearl's little earrings or the way Ruby had looked at her when she stood in the aisle. Nine years. Nine birthdays, nine Christmas mornings, countless school concerts, first teeth lost, illnesses survived, and family photographs taken without her. The enormity of all that absence did not become smaller because it had once been easier to ignore.
Richard sat beside her with his arms folded. He had endured uncomfortable business negotiations, financial losses, and public arguments without showing emotion, but the events of the afternoon had shaken his sense of control. He was angry at Sloan for creating the problem, angry at the captain for correcting it publicly, and angry at Daniel for appearing at the exact moment those other frustrations converged. Beneath the anger, something else kept trying to surface, and he resisted it because he did not know what to do with it.
"Humiliating," he muttered. "Marched to the back of an airplane in front of everyone. Twenty-two years with this airline, and this is how they treat me."
Celeste turned toward him slowly. "We have granddaughters, Richard. Twin granddaughters. They turned nine today, and we didn't even know they existed."
"Daniel made his choice," Richard said. "He walked away. He changed his name. He made it very clear he didn't want anything to do with us."
"No," Celeste said. The force in her voice surprised both of them. "You told him he had to choose between us and Grace. He chose the woman he loved. We were the ones who made staying impossible."
Richard looked at her sharply. "I did what I believed was best for the family."
"And I let you," she replied. "I sat at that Thanksgiving table and stared at my plate because I was afraid of upsetting you. I told myself I was keeping the peace. But there was no peace. Our son walked out, and I stayed sitting there."
She took a breath, fighting the tears rising again. "For twelve years I've told myself that he would call when he was ready. I've let that excuse grow into something comfortable. But all I had to do was pick up a phone, write a letter, or drive across the city. I could have tried."
Richard stared at his wife. He was not accustomed to hearing her describe herself as responsible for anything he regarded as a settled family decision. It would have been easier if she had yelled. Her quiet certainty left him with fewer places to direct his anger.
Walter Finch sat on the aisle, doing a word search with deliberate concentration. After several minutes he cleared his throat and spoke without looking up. "The little one in blue counted every light in the back of the cabin while the other one tried to convince her everything would be all right. I think she was trying not to cry."
Richard turned toward him. "I beg your pardon?"