to get cozy with Jonathan again. âAt any rate,â she said, turning her voice back to that cool diffidence, âwe need to head to Alamagordo, New Mexico.â
âIs that where you grew up?â
âYes.â
âIs the Etch A Sketch still there?â
âNo. My mother made me dig it up and then told my father about it when he returned a few months later. He didnât care. In fact, I seem to recall that he corrected me on my curse and said that the Romans would have never marked such a spot, as it defeated the purpose of the curse.â
âSo he turned it into a lesson?â
âIt isnât a lesson if youâre already aware of the facts.â
âSo you marked it on purpose? Did you want him to find it?â
She had. Sheâd wanted her father to realize how furious and hurt she was that heâd left, and that Mommy spent all day in bed, crying and nursing a bottle of rum. Sheâd had no outlet for her anger, so sheâd carved that symbol angrily into the tree, hoping that her father would return home the next day and ask about the symbol.
Whatâs this, Violet?
And then she could show him.
But he hadnât returned home until months later, and heâd never noticed the tree. It had been her mother, giddy with excitement that her husband was home and paying a bit of attention to her, who had brought up Violetâs curse.
Isnât that precious of our Violet?
That was pretty much how her entire childhood had gone. Her father would leave. Her mother would drink. Violet would rage. Her father would return. Her mother would smother him with affection. Then he would leave again. All through this, Violet built resentment for her brilliant, flawed father.
âViolet?â Jonathan asked in a low voice. âYou okay?â
âAlamagordo,â she said flatly. âI agreed to be your guide, not your entertainment.â
He sighed with resignation, and she felt a bit like an asshole.
THREE
V iolet was rather alarmed to see that the limo didnât head to Detroit Metro Airport, but instead went to a smaller airfield. âWhere are we going?â
He gave her that cocky look that made her nerves grate. âThe airport.â
She gritted her teeth. âWhat airport is this?â
âA private one.â
Clearly. She peered out the window at the small hangar. âWeâre not taking a commercial flight?â Sheâd been hoping for a multitude of passengers and some in-flight magazines to distract her from her company.
âSince weâre just heading to New Mexico, I figured Iâd fly us there.â
Fear made her eyes widen. âWhat? Weâre not going to have a real pilot?â
He turned that intense, cocky look on her. âI
am
a real pilot, Violet. I fly my planes all the time.â
âYes, but . . .â She trailed off. It seemed rather impolite to say
I donât want to leave my life in your hands
. But what choice did she have? She could refuse and turn around and leave . . . and then everyone in the school district would resent her.
Yeah, like that was a choice. Violet sighed. âIf you crash, Iâm going to be furious.â
âIâll take that into consideration.â
She gave him a sharp look to see if he was joking, but . . . he didnât seem to be. With a sigh, she continued to stare out the window and bit back any comments or concerns she had about taking a small plane.
A half hour later, when she saw the actual plane itself, Violet gave a moan of distress. âYouâre kidding me, right? Itâs so small.â
âNot that small. This is one of the bigger in its class,â Jonathan said, staring up at it with what looked like affection. âSocata TBM 850. Turboprop. Weâll have enough fuel to make it to New Mexico without having to stop and refuel.â
Violet stared at it, then at Jonathan. âAnd youâre the
The Rogues of Regent Street