Weekend Agreement by Barbara Wallace

gathered, from the way he sold the farm out from under her.
    Charlotte was fiddling with the strap of her seat belt. The nervousness of her actions made her seem younger, more innocent, and he felt a pang of empathy he didn’t know he had. “I’m not close to my family either,” he remarked.
    “Really?” She looked up and he saw on her face all the feelings he fought to keep at bay. A strange sense of connection seemed to wind itself around them. He felt understood. It couldn’t be real. No one understood him.
    He searched her face, looking for a sign, any sign, that the soulfulness in her eyes was manufactured. But he only saw a pair of brilliant emeralds and soft pink lips. And skin so smooth it begged to be touched.
    Where was the artifice?
    “You want context?” Talking would keep his mind from jumping to wrong conclusions. See? Mind over matter, Professor.
    She nodded. “Close or not, my family is part of me. I need to keep the past alive.”
    Daniel was about to ask her to explain when the plane hit a pocket of turbulence, tossing them up and down like a ball. Crap. Whatever control he’d mastered over his stomach disappeared as it rose straight up his throat.
    “Dammit, Peter!”
    “Sorry, sir.”
    He rolled forward, leaning on his elbows. Head dipped low, he drew in a long loud breath.
    “So much for my stomach being distracted,” he said sucking in a second breath. He could literally taste the bile threatening to spill over.
    “Here, try this.” Charlotte pressed a water cracker into his palm. “Something solid in your stomach will help keep the acid at bay.”
    Daniel stared at the fingers resting on his hand. Against his clammy skin, her touch felt warm and dry. Comforting. He squeezed his hand around them, crushing the wafer. “Professor,” he whispered, leaning toward her.
    He unhooked his seat belt, and rushed straight out of the cabin.

Chapter Four
     
    Charlotte forced herself to stay put at the sounds of retching in the other room. She didn’t think Daniel would want her to bear any more witness to his humiliation than she already had. Instead, she busied herself with the view. They were leaving the Cape behind and crossing Nantucket Sound. Ahead lay Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket Island, the state’s island jewels. She could make out the dots of whitecaps on the ocean’s surface below. The wind must be building if she could see the waves from up here. As if to prove her point, the plane descended slightly, and she realized some of the white dots were sailboats.
    They would be landing soon. Charlotte’s pulse quickened. Like Caesar at the Rubicon, for better or worse, there was no turning back.
    The sound of running water and of a toothbrush being tapped against a basin drew her attention. A few moments later, the drape drew back, and Daniel appeared, his complexion still gray, his body still shaky. She could tell by the way his hand gripped the doorframe. “Not my finest moment,” he muttered.
    “Do you need anything?”
    As he made his way back toward the sofa, he shook his head. “Just to lie down for a moment or two. Do you…?” He motioned for her to move.
    Charlotte obliged, thinking the added physical distance was nothing compared with the distance emanating from him. Whatever bond they’d begun to forge seemed to have vanished along with the contents of Daniel’s stomach.
    She watched as Daniel stretched himself across the cushions. His pale skin and under-eye circles made him look almost fragile. Almost. A man like Daniel could never be truly fragile. Still, as she had at takeoff, she found herself wanting to smooth the hair from his forehead. Silly. Men like Daniel also didn’t want comforting. Needing comfort implied loss of control, and as Daniel said, he was always in control.
    They completed the rest of the flight with minimal conversation, Daniel too intent on either controlling his stomach or keeping her at bay to contribute much more than an occasional yes