Halfway to Paradise Read online

  “YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE AGAIN, MAGGIE.

  “You make me feel like there’s a reason to get up every morning and nothing to fear about going to bed every night. Sometimes I dream about you, and sometimes I just feel you there with me.”

  “Scott, I can’t. I haven’t let go of Mark yet.” She held up her left hand and studied her engagement ring and wedding ring. “If you and I, if we . . .” She took a deep breath, then started over. “If we made love, I’d feel like I was betraying him.”

  He let out a ragged breath and hugged her close. “Oh Maggie, what a pair we are. This hasn’t been easy on me either, you know. I find myself torn between the joy of falling in love with you and the guilt of forgetting how I felt about Annie.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. Falling in love. She felt a shaft of panic race up her spine . . .

  Dedication

  To Stobie Piel—a great writer and even better friend. My life is enriched for knowing you.

  To the fathers and mothers; sons and daughters; husbands and wives; sweethearts and friends whose loved ones keep watch over our nation’s freedom. Thank you for your courage.

  And to that mother and daughter whose triumph I witnessed one morning in the Northwest Airlines terminal at Reagan National Airport. I never knew your names, but I never forgot your story. I’m so glad you were able to tell him, “Welcome Home.”

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank U.S. Marine Corporal Jerry Filner of the Public Affairs Office in Quantico, Virginia; Joyce Flaherty for finding a new home for this book; Lucia Macro for loving it as much as I do; Leanne Banks for invaluable and optimistic advice; Chris McElvey for information on the design and bidding procedure for major resort properties; and Spencer Tracy for inspiring Max.

  One

  Maggie had never felt more isolated than she did standing near Gate 19 in the crush of the 7:00 A.M. crowd at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport.

  The terminal had a dense, air-conditioned feel, despite the slight cooling of the normally stifling outdoor temperature. A late-November mist shrouded the airport in a glove of dismal fog. The beginnings of the holiday crowds paced among duffel bags and backpacks. Hundreds of business travelers, made anxious by the weather and ensuing delayed flights and congested traffic, huddled over laptop computers, cellular phones, and morning papers. The unmistakable scent of polystyrene and disinfectant contrasted with the smell of stale cigars and cheap cigarettes.

  She was surrounded by people. And she’d never been so alone.

  Maggie set her briefcase on the concrete floor. She sank down onto one of the padded benches, her gaze drawn, involuntarily, to the drama unfolding at Gate 19.

  A young woman, no more than twenty-four or -five, stood near the gate, clutching the fingers of her small daughter with one hand, and a tiny American flag with the other. It was a familiar scene. Mother and daughter, clad in matching red, white, and blue shirts, and holding American flags and yellow ribbons, could only be waiting for a serviceman, husband and father, returning from assignment. The woman’s tension, and the eager, unsettled movements of her child, suggested that this homecoming probably followed months, perhaps even a year or more, of separation and worry.

  Maggie had witnessed dozens such homecomings dozens of times. She had even participated when her own husband had been among the returning heroes. She knew the tension of the final moments before the plane landed. She knew the rush of joy and relief, accompanied by uninhibited tears. She knew the feel of her husband’s arms, warm, secure, safe, after months of tear-soaked pillows and anxiety-driven fatigue.

  Feelings she would never know again. Maggie felt like a hard, relentless band had clenched around her throat, and tears threatened to flood over the pathetic resistance of her eyelids. She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes from the mother and child. Their excitement was palpable. All around her, Maggie felt passengers begin to abandon their isolated existence, setting aside tempers and frustrations, to step into the growing circle of warmth near Gate 19.

  The young mother paused, only briefly taking her eyes from the closed door at the gate, to adjust a yellow bow in her daughter’s strawberry blond hair. And then the waiting resumed.

  The young woman clutched her child’s hand, while an airline employee spoke in low, calming tones, gently doing his best to hold the two of them behind the white line on the floor. It seemed an eternity before the door finally opened.

  Mother and daughter leaned forward, flags held high, necks straining, their toes as close to the forbidding white line as possible. The child began to fidget. She pulled anxiously on her mother’s hand, and when passengers finally began to stream through the massive door, she let out an excited squeal that immediately summoned the attention of the other passengers in the terminal. No one moved. To Maggie, the events seemed to unfold in slow motion.

  One by one, weary travelers, laden with garment bags and carry-on luggage, streamed through Gate 19. Every eye in the southwest end of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport remained riveted on the door. Seconds became minutes, minutes dragged together, time slugged forward with the alacrity of Southern molasses, and the young woman and her daughter strained against the confining line as they eagerly searched among the disembarking passengers for a glimpse, a first look at their returning hero. Maggie felt the first tear spill over her lower lashes.

  Finally, when it seemed there couldn’t be room on the plane for even one more passenger, when the burgeoning crowd had grown so large, and the wait had dragged on so long, a young Marine, resplendent, handsome, full of life, wearing his dress uniform, stepped through Gate 19. Mother and daughter flew forward, no airline regulation, or white line, or barrier on earth able to restrain them. The young Marine dropped his duffel bag and lifted his daughter in the air, pausing only to wrap his other arm around his crying wife.

  The passengers in the terminal broke into spontaneous applause, peppered with cheers of “welcome home,” and an occasional muffled sniffle.

  Maggie’s focus blurred as tears filled her eyes, and pain filled her heart. Unable to watch any longer, knowing there would never be another scene in another airport with another Marine who held her close and promised all would be well, she grabbed her briefcase and ran for her flight.

  Scott Bishop stretched his long legs as he wiggled his toes inside his worn boots. He leaned his head back against the padded rest of seat 3A. The hard rain that pelted the small window of the aircraft suggested yet another delay. His 5:00 A.M. flight had already been canceled, because of hazardous runway conditions. The only remaining seat on the seven o’clock flight was in first-class. At least, he thought, flexing his shoulders, he wasn’t crammed in a center seat back in coach. With his six-foot, five-inch frame, flying coach was always a challenge. With any luck, the added space and a quiet and uneventful flight to Boston’s Logan Airport would allow him to catch up on his sleep.

  Any thoughts of a few quiet hours were quickly dashed when he caught sight of the young woman making her way down the aisle. At the combination of her tear-filled eyes and an
expression so mournful, so tragic it spoke of volumes of pain and sorrow, Scott felt his insides clench into a hard ball. He had felt the same hopeless anguish he now saw in the young woman’s face. He recognized that particular kind of pain, even from a distance. Even in the face of a stranger.

  As she slipped past the stewardess, her chocolate brown eyes darted briefly across the seat numbers. Scott saw the tiny lines around her full mouth, the telltale crease in her forehead, and had to restrain an irrational impulse to reach out and take her hand, offering comfort.

  She stopped at his row. He had the briefest glimpse of whitened knuckles clutching the handle of a burgundy briefcase, before she mumbled an apology beneath her breath, then slipped past him. She dropped into the window seat. Brushing a long wave of pale blond hair behind her ear, she began searching through her briefcase while tears spilled down her face and dripped onto the burgundy leather. Scott slipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a clean white handkerchief. He extended it to her without comment.

  She glanced up, startled, before her fingers closed on the soft cotton. “Thank you,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes.

  Scott nodded briefly. “My pleasure.”

  She sniffled, pausing to blow her nose. “I must look like an idiot.” She hiccuped once, her breathing still punctuated by an occasional sob.

  Scott felt another twinge of sympathy. “No, you don’t. I’ve felt about that miserable in my life. There’s nothing idiotic about it.”

  She met his gaze again. Scott was struck by the notion that her eyes were the softest brown he’d ever seen. “I . . .” she paused, wiping her cheeks again, “Thank you. For being so kind.”

  Scott hesitated only slightly before summoning the stewardess. There was no point in pretending he wasn’t already involved in this woman’s problem. He couldn’t possibly ignore her distress during the long flight to Boston.

  The stewardess had been watching them, keenly interested in the small scene. At Scott’s gesture, she hastened over to his side. “Is there anything you need, sir?” Her eyes darted to the crying woman in the window seat. “Anything I can do?”

  Scott nodded. “I’d like two aspirin and a glass of water.” He squeezed his seat mate’s elbow. “Unless you’d prefer wine?”

  She shook her head. “No, no. Water is fine.”

  Scott gave the stewardess a brief look. “And aspirin.” She hurried away, to return within minutes with a small packet and a glass of ice water. Scott thanked her as he tore open the packet. He shook the two white tablets onto his hand, and offered them to the young woman at his side. “Here ya’ go. This should help.”

  She accepted the pills and swallowed them with a long sip of water. Leaning her head back against the seat, she gave him a grateful, if tremulous, shadow of a smile. “Thank you. You’re being very kind about this.”

  Scott studied her in the dim, artificial light. When he’d lost Annie, he’d felt the same empty, clawing grief he saw in the velvet brown of this woman’s gaze. The memories were still too fresh for him simply to ignore that kind of hurt in a fellow human being. “Let’s just say I recognize the symptoms.”

  She tipped her head and sniffled. “I’m sure an hysterical seat mate isn’t your idea of an ideal seven A.M. flight.”

  He shrugged. “Is there any such thing as an ideal seven A.M. flight?”

  That won a small, tentative smile. “I guess not.”

  Scott wiped his hands on his thighs. She looked even more vulnerable when she smiled. He felt like his heart had dropped to the bottom of his boots. “My name is Scott Bishop,” he said. “And I’d say you’re a long way from hysterical.”

  She waved the handkerchief at him. “Not so long, I don’t think. Are you always so chivalrous, Mr. Bishop?”

  “Only to ladies on the verge of hysteria.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I find it helps turn the tide in a more favorable direction”—he indicated his shoulder—”and saves me money on dry cleaning bills. Handkerchiefs are less expensive to clean than suits.”

  She sniffed. “This time, you might be right” She held out her slim hand. “My name is Maggie Connell. It’s nice to meet you.”

  He briefly shook the hand she offered. He liked the firm, slender feel of her handshake. “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

  “I’m not usually so emotional, it was just . . .” she trailed off as her voice slightly wavered on a fresh flood of tears.

  Something about the entreaty in her eyes, or perhaps it was the curve of her mouth, a curve he suspected would be more comfortable laughing than it was with the tiny lines of fatigue pulling at the corners, beckoned to him, made him want to talk to this utter, vulnerable stranger about the answering ache in his own heart, the one he’d grown so adept at hiding beneath a ready smile and a quick wit. “You don’t have to explain anything, Maggie Connell,” he said softly.

  The plane had begun to fill more steadily, and Scott shifted closer to Maggie when a passenger brushed past him with a large garment bag. He caught the faintest scent of her light perfume and fought the urge to lift her hair and find its source. “Although,” he said, dragging his thoughts back where they belonged, “I’d be glad to listen if you’d like to talk about it.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Are you willing to risk the very real possibility that I might dissolve into tears all over again?”

  Scott nodded. “I’m a brave man. I feel compelled to warn you, though, that I’ve given you my last handkerchief.”

  Maggie dabbed at her eyes once more. “I . . . it was the scene in the airport, with that young Marine lieutenant. I suppose you didn’t see it?”

  He shook his head. “I boarded early.”

  She swallowed. “His family was meeting him at the plane and I . . .” Scott waited while she fought back a fresh surge of tears. “It triggered a lot of memories for me.”

  His gaze slid to the third finger of her left hand. “Did you lose your husband?”

  Two tears spilled over her spiky lashes as she nodded. “Yes. Mark was a captain in the Marine Corps. He died in a training exercise in Saudi Arabia about a year ago.”

  Scott felt something inside his heart, the heart he thought had turned to stone long ago, tighten into a hard fist. “A year ago?” he asked.

  Maggie nodded. “He was killed December twenty-third.”

  His breath came out in a long whoosh, powered by some spring of longing deep inside his being. “I lost my wife to cancer last year,” he said quietly. “December twenty-first.”

  Maggie reached out and touched his arm in an offer of comfort that seemed compulsive. “I’m so sorry. I— I’m sure you loved her very much.”

  How many times in the months following Annie’s death had he heard trite, if well-meaning, offers of sympathy and advice? How many times had he listened to condolences with a heart too numb, and a spirit too exhausted to do more than shrink back into its own dark corner of sorrow? A hundred? A thousand? Yet no one, not in the days or weeks or months since Annie died, had ever so knowingly put their finger on the source of his pain like this virtual stranger in seat 3B. “I did,” he said.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  Scott felt suddenly drained, like a ship cast adrift by a dying breeze. His memories of Annie rushed in with the force of a great winter wind and consumed every space, every facet of his emotional and mental energy. “Would you like to tell me about your husband?” he asked. He wondered if his voice sounded odd to Maggie.

  She paused. “It’s an ordinary story. It’s only extraordinary to me. He was a pilot, and he died when his helicopter went down over Saudi Arabia.”

  Scott shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to know how he died. I want to know how he lived.”

  Maggie’s gaze registered her surprise. She studied him for a minute. Then a whisper of a smile touched her lips. “I would like very much to tell you that, Mr. Bishop.”

  Scott tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
The sound of her voice was like a warm breeze, and he found comfort in it. “Start at the beginning,” he said.

  The aircraft engines roared to life. The plane began a slow taxi away from the gate. Even through the din, he was sure he heard Maggie’s soft sigh. “The first time I met Mark,” she said, “I was sitting on the porch swing outside my dorm, and he was walking to class, eating an apple.”

  There were times when Mark Connell really hated being a ghost. As he watched his seven-year-old son Ryan prepare for a penalty shot that would be the winning point in his peewee league hockey game, he decided it was definitely one of those times. Across the empty expanse of ice, he met Ryan’s gaze and admitted to himself that only his son’s willing acceptance of his father’s otherworldly existence made the whole thing bearable. He smiled at Ryan, then skated across the ice to join him beside the puck.

  With arms that ached to hold, and hands that ached to touch, Mark skated next to Ryan as he circled the puck. Ryan looked at him with a bright grin. The bruise on his eye was already starting to purple. Mark knew he’d soon be sporting the full effect of the illegal hit that had earned him the penalty shot. Mark winked at him.

  The fact that only Ryan could see or hear him had long since ceased to bother Mark. Instead of agonizing over what he couldn’t seem to change, he’d concentrated his efforts on building a relationship, no matter how strange, no matter how different, with his son. Besides, he thought, glancing at Ryan’s coach where he stood tensely gripping the boards, none of the other dads got to offer on-ice coaching. That was a privilege reserved for fathers of the more invisible variety.

  With a slight smile, Mark leaned forward and braced his hands on his knees. “Are you ready, son?”

  Ryan turned his gaze to the goalie. He gave Mark a brief, no-nonsense nod. “Ready,” he said beneath his breath.

  “Have you been practicing that lift shot?”

  Ryan nodded again.

  On instinct, Mark reached out, wanting to give a reassuring squeeze to Ryan’s shoulder, but his fingers, devoid of substance, met only the cool air of the ice rink. He forced back the disappointment. “All right,” he said. “Give it your best shot, and remember, no matter how it turns out, I’m proud of you, Ryan.”