Chapter 3
Kate
Let me set the scene for you.
We’re in an airplane. A much smaller plane than the one that brought me to California. There are maybe ten seats in the plane. But Reid and I are the only passengers. The plane’s wheels have just lifted off the runway. The momentum is crushing me into my seat.
My heart is pounding.
My stomach is doing flips. And flops.
I’m sweating.
I think I’m going to die.
“This is the worst part,” my calm husband tells me. He takes my hand in his again and grips it tightly. I like when he does that. “It’ll be over soon.”
Afraid my breakfast will come up (and out) if I open my mouth, I nod.
“I’ve flown hundreds of times,” he tells me. “I still hate this part.”
I’m with him. I hate this part too. And the part where we fly across miles and miles of land or water. And the part where we plummet to the ground at the end, and I’m sure we’re going to crash.
The plane jumps and my stomach flies up into my throat. I swallow. Hard.
“You know what works for me?” he asks.
I shake my head. I don’t see how anything could help. Other than getting this little piece of machinery back on the ground before it falls in a fiery blaze.
Eyes locked on mine, he leans close and whispers, “Distraction.”
That almost works. “Like what?”
“I could sing for you.” He clears his throat then warbles, “I belong with you...”
A giggle slips up my throat.
“What?” he asks, tipping his head. “You belong with me!” he bellows.
My husband may be the picture of perfection, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. But…
He.
Can’t.
Sing.
At all.
Fighting not to cringe, I mumble, “Nice lyrics but…well, that’s awful.”
“What do you mean, awful? I’ve been told I’m a great singer.”
I snort. Which is totally embarrassing. I clap my hand over my nose and mouth. “By who? Who told you that?”
“By a lot of people.”
“They lied to you.”
Eyes sparkling, he purses his perfectly-shaped but (really) bad-singing mouth. “I can’t believe you said that.”
I giggle again. This guy is so silly. I like that about him. A lot. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings.”
“It would take a lot worse than that to hurt my feelings.” He searches my eyes. “Tell me, Kate, this is all so strange to you. Why did you audition for the show?”
“My friend talked me into it.”
“Huh. Some friend,” he says, chuckling. “Are you glad you did it or will she be an ex-friend when this is all over?”
“For the most part I’m glad,” I admit.
His brows scrunch and that mouth, that I can’t stop staring at, puckers. “Hmm. ‘Most part’? Not sure how to take that.”
“It’s nothing against you. You’ve been very nice.” I motion to the interior of the small plane. “It’s all…this. It’s so foreign to me.”
“The plane?”
“The plane. And the cameras. And the fancy clothes. And the strange food.”
He chuckles. I realize, as my face warms, that I like that sound, too. I like it a lot. Along with everything else about him. “In other words, everything,” he concludes, accurately.
“Pretty much.”
“What was it really like, growing up Amish?” he asks, looking and sounding interested. With no cameras to play to, I have to believe he is genuinely curious. At least, that’s my rationale. I want to believe he wants to know more about me.
“It was hard,” I admit. “But not always bad. There was always work to do. Caring for animals. Cleaning. Cooking. Amish children aren’t raised like English children.”
“English?”
“That’s what we call people outside our community. English.”
He studies me for a moment, and my heart starts galloping like a frisky colt again. I wonder what he’s thinking. Does he find me strange? “You sound like you didn’t hate being Amish.”
“I didn’t hate it. My parents are good people. I love them. And all my brothers and sisters. Not everyone can say that about their family. There are parts of my childhood I will remember fondly. Forever.”
He tips his head. When he does that, he reminds me of my dog. When he was a puppy. And that makes my heart get all pitter-patter-y, on top of the galloping it’s already doing. “But you left.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to go to school,” I confess. “I want to learn. Amish children stop attending school at the end of eighth grade. After that, there are opportunities to continue schooling. But not in the field I wish to study.”
“Which is?”
“Writing,” I tell him. “I wish to be a writer.”
His brows jump up. “A writer? What kind?”
“The kind who writes stories. About love. And adventure.” All the things I know nothing about, I silently add.
“Fiction.”
“The Amish have no use for fiction. And what they have no use for, they don’t allow.”
“Will you let me read your stories?” he asks, looking hopeful. And handsome. And very, very adorable. “After all, I am your husband now. You’re supposed to share everything with me.”
My heart does another little hop in my chest. Lately, since yesterday, it’s done a lot of weird things. Flips and hops and loop-the-loops. And it’s because this handsome, goofy, kind man is my husband. Husband. I still can’t believe it. “Maybe.” I peer out the window and see nothing but white clouds beneath us. “We’re flying. I don’t feel it anymore.”
“You see? Distraction. It works.” He smiles and my heart does another somersault. It’s a wonder I haven’t fainted from all the gymnastics it’s doing. It isn’t normal. At least not for me.
I’ve never felt these things before I met Reid Carter. These strange sensations. The flip-flopping heart and sweaty palms. I’ll admit it, they’re slightly uncomfortable.
Kind of like the way I felt when I read one of those books.
Those (wicked, tempting) books.
Since leaving home, I’ve done a lot of reading. Ruth, the ex-Amish woman who gave me a place to stay when I was shunned, had lots of books in her house. Little paperback books with photographs of men and women on the covers. And funny titles like The Prince’s Secret Baby and The Sheik’s Virgin Bride.
The first one took me over a week to read. Not because I had a difficult time comprehending it. And not because I didn’t enjoy it. Quite the opposite. I was immediately swept up in the story. I was consumed by the story.
But I stopped reading. Often.
Why? Because. Well…Every time the author wrote about the act of…of what my cousin Miriam had once called “bad”, I got so flushed and uncomfortable I had to stop.
You see, in the books, the women enjoy that activity. Very much.
I was confused by this. And shocked. I would read a page then toss the book aside, telling myself it was evil. But a few hours later, I would go back to it and read more.
By the end of that first book I realized something.
Perhaps the act itself will be bad. I won’t like it. Just as my cousin hadn’t.
But I enjoy the portrayal as it is described in those books. Very much.
Too much.
“Tell me more,” my husband asks, looking even more charming and curious than before. “About what it was like.” He motions to the window. “It’ll make the time go by faster.”
I nod and begin describing my earliest memories. About the games I played with my brothers and sisters. About all the animals on our farm. And about the many happy memories I treasure the most. And the more I share, the more comfortable I become with him. The closer I feel myself trying to get. It’s as if an invisible tether binds us, and that tether cinches tighter and tighter the more we talk, drawing us together like a lace.
Before I realize it, I have completely forgotten where we are. It doesn’t matter anymore that we’re thousands of feet in the air. What matters is him. Reid Carter. I am staring into the world’s most beautiful eyes and having the most thrilling conversation of my life.
Hours fly by. I laugh and listen and share some more. And that bond knits tighter and tighter. He holds my hand as we talk, and odd sensations course through my body, buzzing and zapping. I feel warm all over. And happy. So very happy.
Then the plane literally falls out from under me.
For a split second, I’m suspended in mid-air.
Finally I plunk in my seat.
A little bell chimes.
And then my blood turns to ice.
“It’s all right,” Reid tells me. His face suddenly pale, he snatches the seatbelt, which I had unbuckled, and locks it across my hips. “You really feel the turbulence in these little planes.” He latches his belt.
The plane drops again.
My stomach feels like it’s caught in my throat. I swallow hard. Over and over.
“It’s turbulence,” he tells me, as if that will reassure me. “We aren’t going to crash.”
My heart literally stops when he says that word.
Crash.
Then, as if on cue, the plane takes another dip. A huge dip. And I’m sure this is it. We’re going to crash. We’re going to die.
I clamp onto his arm and suck in some air.
He sets his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Kate. Look at me.”
I look.
Wow, is he handsome.
“I promise, it’s okay.”
I want to believe his words. I really do. Because the alternative (that we’re about to crash into a million pieces) is horrific. But his face, the tension I read around his eyes, is telling me there’s a good chance we won’t be making it to our destination, wherever that is. “How do you know? Have you ever driven a plane?”
“Well, no. But I’ve been a passenger, lots of times. And look, I’m still alive.”
“But did they do this? Did they fall?”
“They did.” He nods. “It’s turbulence.”
God, I want to believe him. “You’re not lying?”
“No. I won’t lie to you. Ever. I promise.”
I look into his eyes.
What do I see? I see honesty. And candidness.
He’s telling the truth.
“I hope you mean that,” I tell him. “Because I’m afraid. All of this scares me. Everything about it.”
“I know.” He reaches up, catches a strand of my hair and smooths it behind my ear. The touch is more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced with another man and I don’t know how to react. My first instinct is to jerk away. After all, he isn’t my true husband. He has no right to touch me. But for some reason I don’t. I sit there and let him. “It’s like you came from another world.” His fingers glide down the side of my face, leaving a tingly path in their wake. “You’re almost too good to be true.”
Me? Too good? The girl who was regularly disciplined for her many, many wrongdoings? The girl who left her home, her family, everything she knows for what her father calls a silly dream?
Reid has it wrong. I’m not too good for anything.
I have been living in the world of the English for about a year now. The Devil’s Playground. Yet I am still confused by these people. Especially this man.
And his strange ways.
And the things he makes me feel.
If I live through this flight (big if), I wonder what confusing, shocking thing he’ll show me next.
Gosh I hope I get a chance to find out.