Page 1 of Scripted for Love and Poison
1
January 2024
“This isnothappening,”Sol said for the tenth time. But even if she was set on denying the facts, they all pointed to one awful, hideous, horrible conclusion: Her checked bag had been lost. It had been carefully packed by her expert self to contain all the essential clothes, cosmetics, shoes, bags, and sundry accessories she’d need for her four-day stay in Los Angeles—and then some in-case-of-emergency or last-minute-invitation-to-a-lavish-party extra stuff. Yet, despite the perfection of its contents and how much Sol Novo really required themall, it was nowhere to be seen.
She and Luke had been at carousel number three of LAX’s international terminal for more than forty minutes. The latest of the London passengers had picked up their checked luggage, yet Sol’s hadn’t been among the delivered suitcases.
“Andiamo al banco bagagli, Sol. I’m starting to see bags from a flight from Roma on the carousel,” Luke told her, butshe wasn’t listening. She hadn’t even cared that her London-born-and-raised lover had talked to her in Italian—even if that always made her melt.
But she would not go to the baggage counter. She knew what happened there: People were always given the same terrible news—their bags were now forever lost.
“This isn’t happening,” she repeated yet again.
She had been stranded by volcanoes. She’d sleepwalked through terminals, waiting for much-delayed connections. She’d napped in uncomfortable airport seats. She’d been inside long-haul airplanes with malfunctioning lavatories and no running water. She’d even had to head back home—on more than one occasion—after spending the whole day at the airport, only for her flight to go from eternally delayed to canceled. But Sol counted herself fortunate because never, in her many decades as a seasoned traveler, had her bags been lost. Not even momentarily misplaced.
Luke was dragging his carry-on bag with one hand and had taken Sol’s hand with the other. He was guiding her to their airline counter at the arrivals area of LAX. Once there, he addressed the sole attendant filling the post.
“Hello. My partner’s bag hasn’t turned up at the carousel, and we were wondering if?—”
“It has to be somewhere!” Sol said, taking both hands to her heated cheeks.
“Ma’am, calm down. Do you have the receipt for the checked bag?” the airline attendant said.
Sol handed over the receipt, sore from having been calledma’am. How old did the airline attendant think she was?
After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only a couple of minutes spent inputting the number of the receiptin a computer—the attendant said laconically, “We’ve found it.”
“You have it!” Sol felt something akin to ecstasy. She wasthatattached to her things. “I thought I was going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe!”
“You may still have to do it,” the attendant continued in their curt style.
“What do you mean?” Sol asked.
“I told you we found it, not that the bag was here.” The attendant shrugged, not looking up from the computer screen.
Sol arched her eyebrows in confusion. “That sounds ominous.”
And it did, but not as ominous as what happened next.
Her editor was calling her. It had to be urgent, because Julie McQueen never had the habit of making a phone call. Not to Sol. Infinite email chains were more her style. But Sol needed to take that phone call because Julie was the one editor who threw well-paid freelance work her way on a regular basis.
Sol left Luke dealing with the airline attendant so that they knew where to deliver her suitcase once it made its way back from its undisclosed location. It wasn’t like her to let someone else handle a lost-luggage situation, but over the past few months together, she’d learned to trust Luke. He’d proven himself constant and dependable. So Sol was sure he’d do everything to get her things back and instill all the required urgency into the airline people dealing with her belongings.
“Julie, hi. Is everything okay?”
“Are you in Los Angeles already?” her editor answered promptly. She was a competent woman who Sol enjoyed immensely as a professional colleague. She was a stanchbeliever in the less-is-more motto, never over-edited, and still had a decent contributor budget. She wasn’t a great conversationalist, but Sol could overlook that.
“Just landed, trying to sort out a luggage thing.”
“They lost your bag,” Julie stated. Not asked, but stated.
Sol paced nervously a few meters away from Luke, her eyes pinned on him while he dealt with her problem. “They did. I’m a bit panicked, to be honest.”
“Don’t be, that’ll hardly serve any purpose. You’ll still have nothing to wear and be panicked on top of it. And, believe me,no onewants to see a panicked woman over forty,” Julie argued. Her editor sounded sadly somewhat reasonable. “But I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“Right,” said Sol. When did Julie ever have the time, or the inclination, for chitchat?
“I assume you’ve read my email.”
