Page 35 of The Making of Marnie Jones

“Not much.”

He flipped off her light. “Rest now, while you have the chance. It's going to be a long night.”

“I’m not tired.” Her tone was mutinous, even as another yawn belied her assertion.

“Well, I’m tired.” Her eyes already drooped, and he took another punch to the gut. In his careful planning, he never considered what she was enduring. Yet again, his concern for Olivia had overridden his normally courteous and considerate nature. Usually he was good at reading people, but for the past ten days his personal stress had been affecting his better judgment.

Fatigue overtook him, and he leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He’d been serious when he’d told her to get some rest. They’d arrive in Toronto in the middle of the night, and it’d still be several hours before she arrived at her hotel. His last thoughts as he drifted off were of Olivia and Marnie.

***

A violent shaking brought him quickly into full alertness, a trick he’d learned in Afghanistan. He caught the last few words of the pilot’s message—something about turbulence, and a rough ride into Toronto. His next conscious thought—his right hand hurt like a son of a bitch. And he could think of no more reassuring feeling in the world. Marnie was touching him. Maybe not voluntarily—but contact had been made nonetheless.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and her face was pinched and as white as a sheet.

“Marnie.”

She didn't appear to hear him.

“Marnie.” He felt the urge to squeeze her hand, but at the same time, he didn't want to draw attention to their entwined appendages, lest she pull away. “Marnie, open your eyes.”

She shook her head. The plane vibrated again, and her eyes flew open, staring into his. “I'm scared.”

The words were so soft, he had to read her lips to be sure he heard her. “A normal response.” He kept his voice soothing. “It’s safe. If it isn't, the pilot will take us to another airport. Trust the flight crew, because they have the same desire to live as you do.”

Her skin was white and translucent.

He had to get her mind on something else while not setting off any land mines. Not an easy task. “Tell me about your house. How long have you been there?”

If looks could kill...

She answered nonetheless. “As you saw, it’s a bungalow with a walkout basement. I bought it four years ago when I moved to Mission City. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s home.”

“So, nothing like the place where you grew up.”

Her eyebrow arched. “If you met Mrs. Grant, you must’ve gone to Derks Mansion. I’m not sure there are two more disparate houses.” She fidgeted, smoothing some unseen crease in her jeans. “Only one of them would I call a home, and based on what you know of me, you can figure it out. You understand, right, the difference between a house and a home?”

He did and indicated as much.

The flight attendant appeared at his side, checking to make sure he had stowed the bags properly, and that their seatbelts were secured. “We’ll be landing shortly.”

Marnie bestowed upon the man a genuine smile. “You've been wonderful.”

He returned her gesture. “It's been my pleasure. Sorry about the turbulence—it’ll be over soon.”

He left and she offered what assurances she could. “At least I didn't use the barf bag.”

Jake laughed, squeezing her hand. “You were a real trooper. I promise the flight home will be smoother.”

She glanced at their entwined hands. She briefly tugged, but then she grasped his hand a little tighter.

“Thank you.” She took in a lungful of air, her voice still a little shaky. “Thank you for comforting me. Thank you for telling me it will be clear skies when I fly home—even if we both know you can’t make that promise. I…I wanted to thank you.”

“I bet that was hard.”

“You'll never know.” No missing the sarcasm in her tone.

“But it's I who should be thanking you. I know what this is costing you.”Or I think I do. “You have a life, and I've asked you to disrupt it.” No matter how many times he expressed his gratitude, it’d never be enough.

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