"I am. I'm good."
"Sweetheart," she started, and he knew very well where that sentence was going to end up. "Don't, Mom. Please."
"But he's your father," she pleaded. "He'd want to—" "You didn't need his help when you were raising me. I don't need it now."
"Okay," she said, backing down. "You're okay?" she asked again.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay. Look, I'm going to drop off the radar for a little while. Don't worry if you don't hear from me for a day or two." From the corner of his eye, he saw a newsstand full of tabloids. "And if you read anything about me," he went on, "don't believe it."
The line was silent for a long time, and Lance wondered if the call had been disconnected. Then he heard his mother say, "This sounds like something—"
"Dad's not a factor in this."
"You'll call if you need anything?" she asked him.
"Of course," he said and told her good-bye.
Julia was in first class; Lance was stuck in coach. Well, not really stuck. She'd put him there under the guise of not wanting to draw attention to themselves by traveling together, and he'd bought it. Or he didn't care. Whatever the case, she stretched out in the leather seat, ate her warm croissant, and got ready to sleep until they had to change planes in Dallas. Without delays, they'd touch down in Tulsa at one and be at her sister's in plenty of time for Cassie's three-o'clock party.
Her heavy eyelids had just begun to drop when she heard, "Excuse me," and opened one eye to see a flight attendant hovering overhead. "I'm sorry to bother you, Miss James. It's just that I'm such a huge fan. The airline usually frowns on this sort of thing," the young woman said as she reached into the pocket of her smock, "but if you could ..." She held a copy of 101 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire and a pen toward Julia.
An autograph, Julia thought, feeling as if the last few days had been a dream and she was just flying out of New York, not fleeing from it. Her book was in her hands; a woman who appreciated her message stood before her. This is who I am, Julia thought. This is what I do. Her confidence soared. Two lines inside the cover. A signature. A smile.
She took the book, opened to the front page, and saw that someone had beaten her to it.
To Marci, All the best, Lance Collins
When the passengers back in coach were finally allowed to deplane, Lance followed the masses through the airport.
Julia was nowhere to be seen. The staff at the Ritz had shipped the bulk of her toy purchases home for her, but she still had suitcases and other bags. Lance knew she might have ditched him, but she wasn't going home without her luggage. He stood on his tiptoes and scanned the baggage-claim area when a noise flew past his ear like a gnat.
"Pssst. Pssst."
Where was that coming from? "Behind the ficus." He started to pivot. "Don't turn around!"
Lance faced forward, away from rustling of fake ferns and plastic trees that came from an exhibit designed to encourage visitors to check out the Tulsa Zoo while they were in town.
Among the stuffed monkeys and rubber snakes, Julia was hiding with her scarf wrapped around her head.
"Exactly what are you doing?" Lance wanted to know.
"I am waiting for you to claim our bags. Then you and I are leaving without anyone knowing we're here."
"Okay," Lance said, placating her, as he realized that not every crazy person in the world lived in Manhattan.
Julia's suitcases tumbled onto the circular belt, followed by his own bag. He claimed them, and once the luggage was in hand, he proceeded directly out the glass doors and into one of the most beautiful spring days he had ever seen. When they'd left New York, it had been dreary and twenty-five degrees. But in Tulsa, the sun was out and the temperature must have been at least sixty-five. He stood, soaking up the vitamin D until Julia emerged from the airport, removing the scarf, freeing her hair to billow in the Oklahoma wind. Strands blew across her face, and he wanted to brush them away, but before he could say or do a thing, he heard a raspy voice behind him.
"He's tall," the woman said. "That's good, Jules. We like tall."
Lance turned to see a woman who was in every way the opposite of her voice: small and feminine, with olive skin and refined features.
"I'm Nina." The tiny, raspy little woman extended her hand. "I'm her best friend." "I'm Lance."
"I know," Nina squealed. "You're her boyfriend!"
Chapter Eight
WAY #54: It's better to be single and happy than married and miserable.