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  “Okay,” Fran agrees. “I’ll attend an emotional support group for infertility.”

  At Fran’s first meeting, it becomes clear that the director, Maddy Shea, is a proponent of journaling. Maddy is fond of saying, “Writing your way to the heart of a matter is therapeutic.” At the end of the session, she welcomes Fran, hands her a leather-bound journal with lined pages and says, “Write anything and everything that comes to mind.”

  A few months later, Fran shares her writing with Maddy. She’s nervous about how Maddy might respond. Fran smiles when she remembers the conversation. When she handed the journal back to Fran, Maddy smiled and said, “This journal is full of helpful insights. It would make a wonderful book. So many women could benefit from it. I’d like to put you in touch with my friend, Libby MacCullough. She and her husband own Pines & Quill, a writing retreat in Washington state.”

  Fran is filled with nervous excitement because today she’s catching a nonstop flight from Boston to Seattle. She doesn’t enjoy flying, but she tolerates it. Travel is part of her job. Because it’s a five hour and thirty-eight-minute flight, Fran is taking her laptop on the plane to focus on her manuscript, Mother in Waiting: The Stigma of Childlessness. If she’s lucky, she might even make a bit of headway.

  After zipping her suitcase shut, Fran thinks, I’m giving myself this month away to scrape up the courage to remove the wedding band from my finger.

  EMMA

  A year ago, I didn’t know if a trip like I’m packing for right now would ever be possible again, Emma Benton muses, remembering what it was like to wake up one morning, paralyzed from the waist down.

  She wanted to be a clay artist ever since she was a little girl watching her mother at her potter’s wheel. When she grew up, she earned a Master of Fine Arts degree in Ceramics at Penn State School of Visual Arts, and then moved back to southern California to be closer to her family and open a small studio shop.

  Last year I was delighted to be one of the artists invited to show my work at Gallery in the Garden—Celebrating Art in Nature, a two day, outdoor event. My best friend, Sally, helped me pack all of the materials in and back out again. It was hard work; pottery is heavy. But I felt that the opportunity for a wider brushstroke of visibility was well worth it. Sally agreed. The morning after the show, I woke up paralyzed from the waist down.

  At the hospital, they run batteries of tests. “Have you recently been out of the country or had any vaccinations?” Dr. Christianson asks. Another member of the medical team, Dr. Davidson, thinks it might be the West Nile virus. “Have you recently been bitten by a mosquito or suffered any physical trauma?” After ruling these out, they test her for multiple sclerosis and Legionnaire’s disease, but everything comes up negative.

  By the second day, the symptoms Emma presents indicate that she has transverse myelitis, a neurological disorder caused by inflammation of the spinal cord. It can develop in a matter of hours or take several weeks. Emma’s happened overnight.

  It can occur in the setting of another illness, or in isolation. Emma’s is isolated. When it happens like hers did, without an apparent underlying cause, it’s referred to as ‘idiopathic’ and is assumed to be a result of abnormal activation of the immune system against the spinal cord.

  Emma has been in a wheelchair since that time. Her medical team remains baffled. They tell her, “Your recovery may be absent, partial, or complete. At thirty-five, you’re still considered young, and other than transverse myelitis, you’re healthy. More importantly, you have a positive outlook.”

  “My friend, Sally, says that I’m ‘unabashedly optimistic,’” Emma says, smiling.

  At first, Emma stayed at her parent’s home. It helps that she’s from a family of creatives. They speak the same language and value the same things that she does. They understand that creativity is in her blood. Because of this experiential knowledge, they’re supportive. Her dad and her brothers modified her home, art studio, and potter’s wheel so that she can live independently and continue to throw pottery.

  After adding the final items to her suitcase, Emma smiles, thinking about her family. Mom’s worried. Dad says he’s not, but I can tell that he is. And my brothers are happy for me.

  In addition to physical therapy, part of the recovery work she’s doing is writing a memoir, Moving Violations: A Sassy Look at Life from a Wheelchair. That’s why she’s excited to catch a flight today from San Diego to Seattle. She’s looking forward to being a writer in residence at Pines & Quill. One of their cottages is designed for people in wheelchairs.

  So far Emma’s recovery’s been partial. I’ve regained some feeling in my hips, and I’m able to stand long enough, without collapsing, to transfer myself into a car, chair, or bed. One of my goals this month is to be able to stand at the bathroom sink long enough to brush my teeth. Who knows, maybe I’ll even take a step.

  CHAPTER 1

  “You take people, you put them on a journey, you give them peril, you find out who they really are.”

  —JOSS WHEDON

  McPherson arrives at the baggage claim area with time to spare. He moves slow, weighed down by private burdens—the everyday struggle with profound loss. With regret. With guilt.

  His piercing green eyes absorb the details of his surroundings, a habit he picked up on the force, one that kept him alive. His partner, Sam, hadn’t been so fortunate. If the day’s coin flip had come up tails, he would have been the driver. Not Sam. He would have been killed. Not Sam.

  Mick has been “retired” from the SFPD five years now—if that’s what you call being forced to quit because of line of duty injuries. He spent the first two years following dead-end leads trying to find his partner’s killer. The last three years, he’s worked with his sister and brother-in-law at Pines & Quill.

  Libby was a freshman in high school when he was born. Always a sparkle in her eyes, Mick’s mother calls him her “iontas iontach,” Gaelic for delightful surprise.

  Swallowed by the unending tasks of groundskeeper and all-around handyman, Mick soon discovers that the Zen-like energy of the wooded acres works on him like a soothing balm, breathing life back into his weary soul.

  He begins each morning with the same mantra, Just make it through today.

  A monthly trek, the familiar Arrivals & Departures Board at Sea-Tac, the term locals use for the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, indicates that the plane for the first guest, Emma Benton, will arrive in a moment from San Diego. The flights for the other three guests are staggered to arrive over the next hour.

  Mick finds it interesting getting to know the guests who carve out three weeks of time from their schedules to write in near seclusion. Each one has a unique process for transferring ideas from their head to the page. They arrive on the first day of each month and depart on the twenty-first. This offers them a significant amount of protected time to work on their manuscripts.

  The fourth week of every month—guest free—provides Niall, Libby, and Mick with time to relax and prepare for the next group of writers. It also affords the opportunity for the siblings to take turns visiting their parents in San Francisco; a two-hour nonstop flight.

  Each month when Libby hands Mick the name-boards for their guest authors, she also shares a brief summary of what she imagines their personalities to be like based on the phone conversation or email correspondence she has with them. Mick enjoys indulging his sister because her predictions are darned close, if not dead on accurate.

  “Let’s see now. Emma Benton is arriving from San Diego. She’s single, in her mid-thirties, and falls somewhere in the middle of several brothers, so I suspect she has a good sense of humor. Well-educated and artistic, she’s our wheelchair guest this month.”

  “Do you know why, or how long she’s been in a wheelchair?” Mick asks.

  “She didn’t say, but I don’t get the feeling that it’s been long-term.”

  “There you go with your feeeelings again,” he drags the word out while rolling his eyes. �
�I know. I know. You’ve told me time and time again that ‘dogs experience life through their noses, and humans experience life through their feeeelings,’ and that I should tune into mine more often,” he ends with a cocky smile.

  “If you’d listen to your big sister . . .” Libby trails off, shaking a finger at him. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, Cynthia Winters is arriving from Tucson. She’s single, has refined taste, is eclectic, and cordial. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she’s . . . hmm, let’s just say ‘seasoned.’”

  “What do you mean ‘eclectic?’” he asks.

  “I get the feeeeling,” she raises an eyebrow in teasing emphasis, “that she’s well-traveled, which lends itself to a wide variety of interests.”

  Brows knit, Libby continues, “Jason Hughes is arriving from Cleveland. I wasn’t able to get much of a handle on him.” With a perfect imitation of Niall’s Scottish brogue, she says, “He’s tight as a camel’s arse in a sandstorm!” Trilling the “r,” she nails the burr in “arse.” Both of them laughing, she continues, “That’s what I get for being married to a Scotsman for thirty-two years.” Libby composes herself. “That may not be a fair assessment of Mr. Hughes. He may just be shy, reserved, or private.”

  “Not everyone pours their heart out to a stranger,” Mick retorts in mock severity.

  Not stung in the least, Libby feigns aloofness, sticks her nose in the air and goes on. “Fran Davies is arriving from Boston. When we spoke on the phone, I didn’t detect an accent, so my guess is she’s a transplant.” With a “So there!” look, Libby continues, ticking attributes off her fingers. “She’s proper, organized, thorough, and no-nonsense, while at the same time, polite.”

  Brow lifted, eyes narrowed, “What do you mean by proper?” Mick enunciates the word.

  “Maybe ‘stiff’ would be a better descriptor. And I sense that she’s sad,” Libby ends with a perplexed tone in her voice.

  Amid a busy hub of travel activity, Mick’s thoughts return to his surroundings, his gaze sweeps the space, taking everything in like a dry sponge soaks up water. He’d learned at the beginning of his police training that, “It’s all in the details.”

  Ever vigilant, he mentally notes people’s hair color, facial expressions, body language, tattoos, jewelry, clothing, footwear, and baggage details.

  His nostrils catch the smell of jet exhaust, fast food, and the heady mixture of perfumes and colognes that hang like an invisible cloud over the throng of bustling people. Who among you is a killer? he wonders.

  Mick read in this morning’s paper that Sea-Tac served over thirty-two million people last year alone. As each plane lands, passengers pour from the terminals, like human lava, into the baggage claim area.

  He turns at the rapid slap of heels against linoleum and sees a woman running full speed from the baggage carousel area with a brief bag slung over her shoulder, bouncing against her back, and a carry-on biting her heels. She hangs a left. He continues watching as she gallops up the escalator, just missing people who also have luggage draped over their bodies, and wheeled carry-ons following disobediently behind. Mick shakes his head. I’m glad I’m not part of that rat race.

  He returns to the task at hand, raising the name-board for “E. Benton” so it can be seen from a distance. Mick scans the crowd and spots Emma first. She’s wearing a vibrant green, short-sleeved top, jeans, and ballet flats. Mick’s surprised and impressed that she isn’t using a motorized wheelchair. Instead, a manual wheelchair powered by her own suntanned arms. Libby neglected to tell him that she’s beautiful.

  Emma rolls to a stop in front of Mick. The delicate curve of her throat is revealed when she tips her head back to look up at him.

  Something inside him flips.

  Mick takes in dark auburn hair, reminiscent of deep Bordeaux wine, that frames moss-green eyes sparkling with devilish mischief, and an infectious smile. She extends her right hand and says, “I’m Emma Benton. You must be Mr. McPherson.”

  “I’m Sean McPherson, but please call me Mick, everyone else does,” he says, noting the firm, self-confident grip of her handshake.

  “If you give me your claim tickets, I’ll get your bags from the carousel.”

  “I’ll come with you and point them out. It’ll be easier to spot them that way.”

  If she notices his limp as they make their way to the ever-circling conveyor belt, she gives no indication.

  “When will the others arrive?” she asks, tucking thick, shoulder-length hair behind her ears.

  “We’re waiting for three more within the hour,” he replies, noticing impudent freckles marching across the bridge of her tanned nose.

  “There’s one of my bags now,” she points to a large suitcase.

  He turns back to her with laughter in his eyes. “I don’t think I could have missed that.” He gives a pretend groan as he hefts the large, brushed aluminum case off the belt. “It’s bright orange.”

  She looks up at him with an impish grin. “Pumpkin Spice,” she counters. “The other two look the same, just a little smaller.”

  And he watches, heart beating a little faster, as a smile is born on her lips. Pumpkin Spice, he thinks to himself, well I’ll be damned.

  After collecting the other two suitcases and putting them on the baggage trolley, Mick checks his watch. “The next guest is about to land. Would you like to wait in the lounge while I gather the others?”

  “That’s a great idea. It’ll give me a chance to check my voicemail and email. Should I meet you back here in about twenty minutes?”

  “That’ll be fine,” he nods, tucking his hands in the back pockets of his denim jeans. And with that, she tilts her chair back, does a saucy little turn, and maneuvers toward the lounge.

  Pumpkin Spice, he thinks again, smiling as he holds up the hand-calligraphed name-board for “C. Winters.”

  As passengers from the Tucson flight pour into the baggage area, a tall, slender woman with short white hair cropped close to her head like an elf cap, makes eye contact with Mick. Her liquid brown eyes have a faint slant and glimmer when she smiles. She’s never known airports to be quiet. In her entire life, traveling is a buzzing, busy, energetic experience with a hive of people scurrying everywhere. And she loves it.

  As she walks toward Mick, the gauzy fabric of her skirt swirls around her ankles, and metallic highlights wink from the folds of bright purple floral and striped panels. A jumble of silver bangles on each wrist—some thick, some thin—clank in unison with the rhythmic cadence of each purposeful step she takes on the buffed linoleum floor in strappy, Greek-inspired sandals.

  “I’m Cynthia Winters,” she says. Her easy smile, white against olive-toned skin, creases her eyes as she she extends well-manicured hands, bejeweled with chunky turquoise rings, to clasp one of his in both of hers. “You must be Mr. McPherson,” she says while turning his palm up with practiced ease. As her hands hold his, she lets impressions of him come and go, to sort out later. Her intuition tells her that he is a man of integrity, someone you can trust and rely on.

  “Please call me Mick,” he says to the top of her bent head as she peruses his hand. Taken aback, eyebrows flirting with his hairline, he asks, “Are you reading my palm?” while trying to regain possession of his work-worn hand from the bohemian-looking woman.

  “Oh, it’s just a little hobby of mine,” she assures him, hanging on, still gazing with deep interest at his hand.

  With hesitation, he asks, “What do you see?”

  She looks up with deep brown, knowing eyes and answers. “Each line makes a statement, but like words in a sentence, they must be read in context with each other. The shape of the hand, the flexibility of the fingers, the depth and color of the lines, all combine to form a statement about a person’s character.” There’s more than anguish, she thinks to herself. There’s grief and a sense of guilt. For what? she wonders. With a gentle squeeze from her warm hands, she looks with kindness up into his vivid green eyes and smiles before letting go.


  Was that sadness in her eyes? Mick furrows his brow. What did she see?

  As he’s about to ask, Cynthia turns around as if on cue and points a red-tipped fingernail to designer luggage just belched from the fringed-rubber confines of the airport netherworld. And with that she sets sail, heels clicking across the smooth floor, her long, colorful skirt billowing like a wake behind her.

  Not your typical “grandmother,” Mick muses. Curiosity piqued, he scratches his head and follows. How in the world did she know that her luggage just arrived?

  Ten minutes late, the Cleveland flight carrying Jason Hughes lands just ahead of Fran Davies’ flight from Boston. Short, maybe five foot, six inches, but wiry and strong, his complexion is washed out, not just pale, despite the deliberate smudge of a three-day beard. With a crewcut of salt and pepper hair on his head and face, it’s difficult to gauge his age. His nose, hooked and sharp, casts a shadow on thin, unsmiling lips. His ice-gray eyes are bottomless pools of seeming indifference.

  When he shakes Jason’s hand, Mick experiences a strange feeling of distrust, of instant dislike. Maybe it’s because I’m standing next to Cynthia and her hoodoo-voodoo’s rubbing off on me. Nonetheless, he has a disturbing feeling, like a warning, in the pit of his stomach, yet there is nothing to base it on. But if he’s learned anything from his years on the force, it’s to trust his gut instinct, another is to never show his hand.

  “Jason, I’d like to introduce you to Cynthia Winters,” Mick says, smiling. “She’s another writer who’s staying at Pines & Quill this month.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” Cynthia says. When Jason extends his hand, she takes it in both of hers, turns it palm up, and studies it, much in the same way she’d done with Mick’s.