‘I’ll have the purser check with the ground crew,’ the flight attendant said. She gently urged Margo back into her seat. ‘Your husband probably thought you would wait for him out in the terminal.’
‘No, he didn’t think that! I’m getting off. Something’s wrong,’ Margo exclaimed.
She stood up again, scrambling to pull her bag out of the overhead locker as the purser approached, smiling.
‘Trench coat?’ he asked.
Margo was faint with relief. ‘Ancient trench coat. He never goes anywhere without it.’
‘He’s on the way down the jet way.’
Margo dropped into her seat and fastened the seatbelt. From where she was sitting all she could see of Jack was his rumpled trench coat as he bounded through the door. The crew hustled him into a seat in the bulkhead just as the door slid closed and the big Airbus pushed back from the gate.
‘We’ll move him back here once we’re airborne,’ the flight attendant said.
‘That’ll give me time to think up a suitable punishment for him.’ Margo smiled, shaky with relief.
Within minutes the plane was rumbling down the runway and lifting up into the lead-coloured Chicago sky. The moment the plane reached its cruising altitude and the seatbelt sign was turned off, Margo got out of her seat and headed toward the front of the plane.
She looked down at Jack, who had the nerve to be cocooned in the airline quilt, sleeping. She put her arms around him and kissed him on the head. ‘Were you trying to give me a heart attack?’ she whispered.
The man’s head emerged from the blanket and Margo froze. This wasn’t Jack. It was a stranger.
Jack was not on the plane.
The purser was doing his best to calm Margo. ‘People miss planes all the time, Mrs McCarthy. I could tell you stories …’
‘Excuse me, but I’m not interested in stories,’ Margo answered firmly. ‘I’m interested in how my husband could disappear without a trace from a public airport.’
‘We have contacted the ground crew. They checked and double-checked. There was no one in the waiting area,’ the purser said, struggling to be patient. ‘The man at the newspaper stand didn’t remember seeing anyone who fit your husband’s description. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. You said yourself that he’s habitually late.’
‘We’re on our way to Mexico to celebrate our first anniversary.’ Margo suddenly found herself on the brink of tears. ‘Do you think he’d be late for that?’
The purser was trying to shepherd her back to her seat. ‘I must insist that you sit down, Mrs McCarthy. The captain has turned the seatbelt sign back on.’
‘And I insist that you return to the airport and let me off this plane so I can find out what happened to my husband,’ Margo cried.
The other passengers were becoming alarmed by the commotion and the purser was growing concerned. ‘If you will not comply with instructions, I have no choice but to notify the pilot,’ he said.
‘Go ahead, notify him. I don’t care. I need to get off this plane.’ Margo stood her ground, looking angry now.
The flight attendant stepped in to try and ease the tension. ‘You don’t want to get the flight deck involved,’ she murmured to Margo conspiratorially, and added, ‘There are all sorts of protocols in place these days. They’ll have to call the police and land at the nearest airport. Then a SWAT team will meet the plane in the middle of nowhere and arrest you. Believe me, you don’t want that kind of hassle. And it won’t help find your husband … What’s his name?’
‘Jack. His name is Jack,’ Margo said, and reluctantly sat down.
‘There’s a flight leaving for Puerto Vallarta in two hours. Your Jack will probably be on that flight. If he’s smart he’ll be bringing a fabulous anniversary present with him.’
Margo was adamant, shaking her head. ‘No, something is very wrong.’ In a whisper, she added, ‘That late arrival in seat 1B? He was wearing Jack’s trench coat.’
The flight attendant nodded. ‘Ma’am, half the men on this flight were wearing trench coats when they boarded. You can’t tell one from the other.’
‘I can,’ Margo insisted. ‘That was Jack’s coat. I’d know it anywhere.’ Without warning she slid out of her seat, moved past the flight attendant and headed for seat 1B. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the startled passenger. ‘May I look at your coat?’
The purser was there immediately. ‘I’m sorry, sir. This lady is in distress. Her husband missed the flight.’ He turned to Margo. ‘If you don’t take your seat …’
The man in 1B smiled. ‘I’d be glad to oblige,’ he drawled in a Texas accent. ‘But the flight attendant’s checked it.’
‘Where did you get that coat?’ Margo’s voice was getting shrill.
‘Well, I don’t rightly know,’ he said, sounding a little embarrassed. ‘My wife buys all my clothes. They just show up and I put ’em on.’
‘I don’t buy that for a minute,’ Margo said. ‘Let’s have the flight attendant get it, so that I can have a look at it.’
The purser was annoyed, businesslike. ‘I have to insist that you take your seat and stay put until we arrive at our destination. Any further outbursts will be considered interference with a flight crew. There are federal penalties for that.’
Margo started to protest but the purser was adamant. ‘This subject is not open for discussion. I’m sure your husband will be on the next plane. In the meantime, you are to keep your seat until we have landed in Puerto Vallarta.’
Margo took a deep breath, understanding she would make no headway here. Finally she did as the purser asked.
‘If she makes a move to leave this seat, I want to be notified,’ the purser instructed the flight attendant.
Margo turned to the flight attendant who was watching her warily. ‘I’m sorry. I just … I’m sorry.’
The woman smiled kindly. ‘I understand, I really do. It’ll be all right, I’m sure of it. Just stay in your seat and try to relax.’
Margo turned toward the window so she could think, and typed out a quick message to Jack on her phone. But there was no signal, and no wifi on the plane. She stared out at the winter sky as though she would find answers in the wisps of clouds floating past. She went over every moment of the morning, every word Jack had uttered. There was nothing. No hint that something like this was about to happen.
But that was Jack’s trench coat. She knew it. She was no seamstress, but she had mended the belt loop herself when he had caught it on a door handle. She didn’t have the right thread colour so she had used what she had. It was a bright orange that had come with a sweater she had never worn. She had planned to have the tailor fix it properly the next day. But Jack refused to have it changed.
‘It tells the world that my wife is not only brilliant and beautiful, but a domestic goddess as well,’ he had remarked at the time.
How they had laughed. Margo was many things, but domestic goddess was not one of them. The tears she had been fighting slid down her cheeks. Where was he? He did not miss this flight of his own free will. That much she knew.
The coat the man in 1B was wearing when he got on the plane had a belt loop sewn with orange thread. It was Jack’s trench coat and nothing would change that.