NUMB - Judy Colella (good beach reads txt) 📗

The one hired by the Kinsleys came to a smooth halt and discharged its two passengers into the flexible tunnel that temporarily connected it to Gate 7.

Holding hands, Jett and Atarah hurried into the terminal, radiating happiness despite the rush to escape to their waiting car before the plague-like hordes of reporters discovered the deception and descended upon them. A quick hug from Celia and Bryson for their son and daughter-in-law, a nod toward the small door leading to a back packing area, and they rushed out, silent.

As the car pulled away, the driver glanced into his side mirrors and chuckled. “Looks like the villagers are revolting.”

Celia turned to stare out the window past the snuggling duo in the back seat. In a comic, undignified jumble, reporters and their equipment came pouring around the outside corner of the terminal. Many seemed to be shouting, all of them waving arms, microphones, camera equipment, and running. The woman snorted and turned back around, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she gave in to voiceless laughter.

Before any of the reporters could get to their own vehicles and give chase, the Kinsleys had been driven into a nearby parking lot to switch cars. Where the one they’d been in was a powder-blue Mercedes, this new one was the color of a metallic pumpkin, and probably cost about a tenth of the other.

“Get down,” Bryson ordered the young couple as he got behind the wheel. The driver slid over and Celia climbed into the back with the kids, still giggling in silence.

He pulled out onto the street behind a bus, driving at a conservative pace. A few minutes later, they were passed by several cars of varying types and sizes, from sports cars to SUVs. What connected all these were the cameras aimed out the windows and the eager faces of the reporters trying to locate the Mercedes. None of them gave the economy-class vehicle a second glance.

Once on the highway headed for home, Bry grinned as Celia informed her son that he could stop doing embarrassing things to his wife and sit back up on the seat with her. Jett complied with a grin, pulling Atarah onto his lap, blocking her father-in-laws view through the rear view mirror.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said his mother. “You’re going to sit side-by-side like civilized adults and put your seatbelts on.”

Bryson’s grin widened when a quick glance in the now unobstructed mirror showed Atarah giving her husband a quick, soft kiss on the cheek as she positioned herself between him and his mother. It was clear to Bry that she, too, was controlling her amusement.

Of course, the respite from fanatical members of the Fourth Estate didn’t last for long. By the time they entered the Kinsley’s neighborhood, the street in front of their house was lined with reporters with more arriving every moment. Bryson drove past, unnoticed, and parked in the driveway of the house directly behind theirs. The owner, a good friend who resented the media’s intrusion nearly as much as the Kinsleys, came outside as the orange car pulled up.

Bryson got out and grasped his friend’s hand. “Can’t thank you enough for this, Warren.”

The other man, whose white hair belied his youthful features, offered a hard smile. “You know I take a lot of pleasure in sticking it to those vultures. Hi, Jett!” He peered over Bryson’s shoulder, his smile softening. “Atarah, you look more ravishing than ever.”

“If either of you say anything with the word ‘ravished’ in it, you get no lunch.” Celia’s mock glare fooled no one. “Warren, you’re a peach. Thanks for the help. Now we just have to get into the house without being spotted, and we may actually manage to have a pleasant day!”

“Will you need me after I drop off the rental?” The driver had finished removing the two garment bags from the trunk that Jett and Atarah had brought with them, handing them over and preparing to get back into the car.

Bryson shook his head. “Nope. In fact, I think you’ve earned the next couple of days off. Great job, Mickey.” He smiled and handed the driver an envelope. “Go have some fun, okay?” He turned back to his neighbor. “Care to come with us? We can celebrate the safe return of our kids, the so-far-successful thwarting of the piranhas, and take it easy for a while. I have a bottle of century-aged Scotch with our names on it.”

Warren chuckled. “You had to trot that one out, did you? Fine. Consider my arm twisted, my interest piqued, my whistle looking to be whetted. Lead on, MacDuff!”

A small gate in the back fence opened onto the Kinsley’s beautiful yard. None of the camera-wielding crowd had intruded yet, in part, Bry knew, because of the four lethal-looking Rottweiler’s lounging around on the grass. The dogs stood when their masters came through, but were too well-trained to start barking their pleasure at seeing them.

“Good work, boys,” Bryson said quietly, making a point of going to each animal and rewarding him with an ear-scratch and a pat on the back. Once inside, he asked the cook to go give the dogs some of the large bones they kept in the refrigerator for rewards.

“Yes, sir,” he said, smiling. “I’m so happy to see everyone back safe. Hope you had a great honeymoon, Jett, Atarah.”

“We did, indeed,” Jett told him, giving his wife a side-ways hug.

At about seven-thirty, the day grew dark enough to require inside lighting. That was when the reporters outside would begin to realize the family was home, that they’d been effectively tricked, and that the only way they’d get any pictures was if they broke down the doors. One or two of them might have actually considered such drastic behavior were it not for the five patrol cars that had pulled into the Kinsley’s long driveway an hour earlier.

Bryson was not stupid. Even without several years’ experience in fending off the media, he would have called for help against the potential onslaught. Normally, the streets in this upscale neighborhood were cleared by ten o’clock of any vehicles parked along the curbs; the current siege might have lasted later than that despite the posted law to vacate, were it not for the officers waiting in the Kinsley’s drive. A quick glance through one edge of the living room curtains shortly after the deadline showed Bry that all traces of the media were gone.

Dinner had been quiet, satisfying, delicious; it had also been free of interruption – the family had turned off their cell phones, the land line put on silent. Warren’s wife, home from work, had joined them, waving her husband’s note as she’d walked in shortly after the Kinsley’s arrival. An altogether pleasant meal with family and good friends – hoped for, not expected, and therefore gratifying in the extreme.

“So where did you two go?” asked Trish, picking up her tea cup as they enjoyed dessert.

“Tuscany.” Atarah smiled, her eyes going distant. “The people were wonderful, and the area absolutely magnificent.”

“What we saw of it,” Jett muttered, blushing.

“True. We, um, didn’t go out too much.”

Celia patted her daughter-in-law’s hand, her smile affectionate. “It was your honeymoon, after all. You can always go back there again and maybe do some serious exploring next time, yes?”

“I think we may go to Florence next time,” Jett said. “Atarah never tires of the art and sculpture there, and quite frankly, neither do I. We’d like to maybe get a small villa in Tuscany, though, after we have a few kids – it would be a great place to go on vacation.”

Now Atarah blushed. “I hope we have lots of kids.”

Jett stared at her for a moment, looking like he was about to burst. “Have I mentioned how totally, deeply, and overwhelmingly I love you, ‘Tarah?”

“You have – and that’s a lot of ‘l-y’ words.” She giggled.

“Not enough.”

Her eyes filling with emotion, she gazed at him for such a long time and with such intensity that the two older couples gave up trying to have a discussion and quietly slipped away from the table. Not long after, the stunning new bride and her strong, beautiful husband made their way upstairs, unable, apparently, to even say good-night to the others as they seemed to melt together in an unbreachable fortress of mutual adoration.

“I’d say they’re going to be married for a long time,” said Trish, standing in the living room and staring though the arched doorway to the hall as she watched the couple disappear into their private universe.

“Can’t argue with you there,” Warren replied. “The ultimate couple, eh?”

“They’ve been like that with each other almost since the day they met,” Celia told them.

“You did mention that they’ve been inseparable since their first date,” said Warren. “Any more of that Scotch available, old neighbor of mine?”

Bryson ducked behind the mahogany bar in the corner, smiling. “For you, always.”

“Gee, I hope the reporters weren’t too disappointed.” Celia went to the window and peeked out through the velvet-lined damask curtain.

“You do?”

“No, Bry. Not even a little.” She let the curtain drop back into place, turned to face her husband and their company, and let out a little triumphant whoop, raising her glass of schnapps.

An altogether lovely day.

*2*

 

 

A bright, vast space with pale blue walls on three sides, a massive bank of floor-to-ceiling arched windows on the fourth, the studio was very much like its owner – beautiful, impressive, the embodiment of classic and modern art. Something about it was also comforting – perhaps the blocks of rosy marble, or the old-fashioned potter’s wheel, or maybe it was the tall, dark shelving that held an eclectic array of items. Whatever it was, Ondine loved going there.

After a month of honeymooning, her dearest friend was back, and had managed to sneak in without being followed by every reporter on the planet. Once there, Atarah had called and invited Ondine to join her in the studio for some lunch. Two or three paparazzi types had obviously been staking out the front of the building, and as soon as Ondine got out of her Mini-Cooper, they zoomed to her side.

“Is Atarah in there?” asked one, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

“Are you crazy?” Ondine shook her head. “Like she’d be stupid enough to come here right now! Besides, if she was, wouldn’t you have seen her arrive?”

“Hardly.” This one, a woman, smirked. “She and her yummy hubby were able to elude us at the airport, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d managed to get in here without being spotted.”

Ondine pretended to give this some thought. “Oh. Huh. Makes sense.” She took a breath through her nose. “Irrelevant, though, since she didn’t.”

“So what are you doing here, then?” asked a third who had stepped between Ondine and the door.

“Waiting for the Ice Cream Man. Want to buy me a cone?”

“Come one, sweetie. Where is she?”

Ondine turned on the woman and glared. “Call me ‘sweetie’ again, and you’ll be picking pieces of camera out of your teeth for weeks.” She pulled out a key. “Since I realize none of you will leave me alone, I will tell you this – she called, yes. And I know she’s back. However, she and Jett are staying out of sight for a while