he stole. Much better to let their lawyer do it. Even though she hadn’t talked about it with Lynette yet, she was pretty sure her grandmother would agree. She’d want to give Frank the benefit of the doubt.
“I’ll get back to you by the end of the week.”
“I appreciate your consideration, Claire. I really do.”
She nodded, sad, and wishing he’d made some smarter choices along the way. But he hadn’t, and they were in a fix. She wondered how much he could really pull out of his house if he’d been using it as an ATM machine all these years. And would it be enough to keep the bank off their backs, at least until she could improve business?
* * *
B ECAUSE SHE FELT such a rush of pleasure when she saw Max striding toward her the next morning, she acted more crisp and businesslike than she would with any other pilot. She couldn’t help herself.
He didn’t seem fazed by her abrupt manner. If anything, he was amused.
He always looked so put-together and neat it was a wonder to her. He could fly for a thousand miles, spend hours cramped in the pilot’s seat of a Beaver and emerge as though he’d somehow stopped en route to have all his clothing dry-cleaned and pressed. Amazing.
She felt creased and disheveled by comparison.
He helped her load and secure the crate headed for the mine.
She went through her before-takeoff checklist. She walked around the plane checking for any dents or problems. Checked her tires. She moved the ailerons up and down, made sure they were working properly. She checked the elevator, the critical piece of equipment at the back of the plane that would keep the aircraft level, for full play up and down. She checked that her emergency locator transmitter, or ELT, was on. Then she ticked off each item, saying it aloud as her grandfather had taught her to do. Since Max was there, she figured it didn’t hurt for him to double-check that she got everything. “Auxiliary fuel pump, off. Flight controls, free and clear. Instruments and radios, checked and set. Altimeter, set. Directional gyro, set.” She checked the fuel gauges and the trim set, checked the props were clear.
She jumped into the pilot seat and Max settled into the copilot seat beside her. They both donned headsets and belted in.
Before she started the engine, she opened her window and yelled, “Clear prop.” She started the engine and while it was warming up she did her run up, bringing up the throttle. Checked her magnetos, right and left, engine idle. Set her flaps to ten degrees. She said, “I’ll take her up and why don’t you fly us home?”
“Happy to oblige, boss.”
She called in to the control center to file her flight plan and then they were ready.
She radioed out: “This is Whiskey Alpha Bravo taking off on runway one-niner from Spruce Bay.”
Once they were in the air and headed north, they flew in companionable silence punctuated by her pointing out features of the landscape and checking in with Lynette now and then via radio.
“I got a call from a tugboat company, they want us to fly out some log loaders, over.”
“When do they need to fly? Over.”
“First thing tomorrow. Can you do it?”
“Roger that.”
Every unexpected flight meant a little more financial breathing room and she welcomed the extra work.
Today’s flight would take them just over two hours, she calculated, with the fair winds at their back. A little longer on the return journey. The terrain they were flying over was intimately familiar to her after so many years, but of course it would all be new to Max so she tried to fill him in as they flew.
He was an interested and engaged companion. He asked her several questions about the history of the company, then suddenly asked, “Have you thought about partnering with some of the fishing lodges to offer packages?”
She imagined this was how it had been for her grandparents when they started Polar Air. The back-and-forth of two people in business together, with the
“I’ll get back to you by the end of the week.”
“I appreciate your consideration, Claire. I really do.”
She nodded, sad, and wishing he’d made some smarter choices along the way. But he hadn’t, and they were in a fix. She wondered how much he could really pull out of his house if he’d been using it as an ATM machine all these years. And would it be enough to keep the bank off their backs, at least until she could improve business?
* * *
B ECAUSE SHE FELT such a rush of pleasure when she saw Max striding toward her the next morning, she acted more crisp and businesslike than she would with any other pilot. She couldn’t help herself.
He didn’t seem fazed by her abrupt manner. If anything, he was amused.
He always looked so put-together and neat it was a wonder to her. He could fly for a thousand miles, spend hours cramped in the pilot’s seat of a Beaver and emerge as though he’d somehow stopped en route to have all his clothing dry-cleaned and pressed. Amazing.
She felt creased and disheveled by comparison.
He helped her load and secure the crate headed for the mine.
She went through her before-takeoff checklist. She walked around the plane checking for any dents or problems. Checked her tires. She moved the ailerons up and down, made sure they were working properly. She checked the elevator, the critical piece of equipment at the back of the plane that would keep the aircraft level, for full play up and down. She checked that her emergency locator transmitter, or ELT, was on. Then she ticked off each item, saying it aloud as her grandfather had taught her to do. Since Max was there, she figured it didn’t hurt for him to double-check that she got everything. “Auxiliary fuel pump, off. Flight controls, free and clear. Instruments and radios, checked and set. Altimeter, set. Directional gyro, set.” She checked the fuel gauges and the trim set, checked the props were clear.
She jumped into the pilot seat and Max settled into the copilot seat beside her. They both donned headsets and belted in.
Before she started the engine, she opened her window and yelled, “Clear prop.” She started the engine and while it was warming up she did her run up, bringing up the throttle. Checked her magnetos, right and left, engine idle. Set her flaps to ten degrees. She said, “I’ll take her up and why don’t you fly us home?”
“Happy to oblige, boss.”
She called in to the control center to file her flight plan and then they were ready.
She radioed out: “This is Whiskey Alpha Bravo taking off on runway one-niner from Spruce Bay.”
Once they were in the air and headed north, they flew in companionable silence punctuated by her pointing out features of the landscape and checking in with Lynette now and then via radio.
“I got a call from a tugboat company, they want us to fly out some log loaders, over.”
“When do they need to fly? Over.”
“First thing tomorrow. Can you do it?”
“Roger that.”
Every unexpected flight meant a little more financial breathing room and she welcomed the extra work.
Today’s flight would take them just over two hours, she calculated, with the fair winds at their back. A little longer on the return journey. The terrain they were flying over was intimately familiar to her after so many years, but of course it would all be new to Max so she tried to fill him in as they flew.
He was an interested and engaged companion. He asked her several questions about the history of the company, then suddenly asked, “Have you thought about partnering with some of the fishing lodges to offer packages?”
She imagined this was how it had been for her grandparents when they started Polar Air. The back-and-forth of two people in business together, with the
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