Page 59 of Golden Girl
“He’s got it,” Zach said. And the plane touched down smoothly after all that.
Carson released Zach’s hand. All of her muscles were coiled so tightly that relief couldn’t flow like it should. But then, yes—good energy flooded into her bloodstream and she felt dizzy with it. The tension in her neck eased. She was alive. They were taxiing to their gate. She was going to put her feet on planet Earth; her plans would resume. But make no mistake—Carson was changed. She would never take anything for granted again.
The pilot removed his headset. “Sorry about the bumps,” he said.
“Sorry about thebumps?” Carson whispered to Zach.
When they climbed the stairs to the terminal, Zach said, “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”
“Hell yeah,” Carson said.
“I would suggest walking down to Legal and doing a shot, but it’ll be packed. What time is your class?”
“Starts tomorrow,” Carson said. “I’m free today.”
“Let’s have a drink at my hotel,” Zach said. “My treat.”
Carson thought to decline. She kind of wanted to get to Savannah’s; she could go to any one of dozens of bars in Back Bay by herself. But she remembered her vow to be a contributing citizen and she wasn’t surewhatshe would have done if Zach hadn’t been there to calm her.
“Sounds great,” she said.
They shared an Uber to the Boston Harbor Hotel, which Carson had been to once as a kid. (Vivi spoke at a luncheon, and Savannah brought Carson along to watch. Carson remembered the rotunda, the hushed elegance of the lobby, the huge floral arrangement on a central pedestal table, and the pretty soaps in the ladies’ room. That was the first time Carson realized her mother was famous—a roomful of people had applauded her.)
Zach said he would check in and drop his bags off in his room. He suggested Carson leave her bag at the bell desk then go find them seats in the bar. The Rowes Wharf Bar had a lot of dark polished wood and elaborate crown molding; there was a row of low tables with plush armchairs and cozy, rounded banquettes. The room glowed with golden light and felt like the perfect spot to spend a dreary autumn afternoon. Carson sat at a banquette table in the corner and a waiter in black handed her a menu.
Carson wondered if she would ever be able to work somewhere like this. It felt like a place where thingshappened—business deals, love affairs. The prices on the menu were just south of staggering, but Zach had said he was paying so Carson ordered a glass of Veuve Clicquot.
Just then, Zach appeared. “Make it a bottle,” he said.
Their server brought a selection of bar snacks that looked too pretty to eat as well as the chilled bottle, an ice bucket, and two flutes. Carson watched his elegant movements; he seemed to have four arms. The pop of the champagne cork gave her a shiver. She was alive to appreciate the pleasing sound of a champagne cork popping.
Carson and Zach raised their flutes and touched them ever so gently together.
Zach said, “We made it.”
They drank.
Carson said, “Were you worried?”
“I was worried the pilot would panic and do something that would make him lose control of the plane. I would have taken copilot and gotten us down.”
“You should’ve.”
“I wasn’t needed, except by you.” He poured them each some more champagne and said, “I thought I was going to lose a couple of fingers.”
There were no sexual or romantic feelings for Carson at first, just a sense of camaraderie, and then, as they ordered a second bottle of champagne and a burger to share with double fries, a sense of conspiracy. Carson Quinboro and Zach Bridgeman were hanging out, wasting an afternoon getting drunk in a fancy hotel bar!
Zach was easy to talk to. Carson heard about how he’d graduated from MIT with a degree in aeronautical engineering, then came to Nantucket to work for the summer before doing a master’s at Rensselaer. During that summer, he worked at the Yacht Club and was “targeted” by Pamela Bonham. He was then fast-tracked into the Bonham family and a life on Nantucket.
“By ‘fast-tracked,’ you mean…”
“I got Pamela pregnant.”
“Ah,” Carson said. “You were so young.”
“Yes, my friend, yes, I was. It wasn’t the life I’d planned but I’ve made it work. I enjoy ATC. I like flying myself when I can. I love Nantucket. I’d be a jerk to complain.”
Their server appeared and asked if he could bring them anything else. By that point, Carson was well on her way to being drunk and although she knew the proper thing was for her to thank Zach, collect her bag, and summon an Uber, she noticed something in Zach’s expression, a crack in the friendly, confident facade. Maybe he wanted to be a jerk. Maybe he wanted to complain—and if so, Carson wanted to hear it.
