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  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. I apologize for the rough landing, but we were told to land quickly. We’ve been advised that there is a national emergency in the United States and that American airspace has been closed. We’ll give you more information as we get it. At this time, please remain seated. We’re going to be taxiing for a bit.”

  He clicked off and the passengers were stunned. Erica and Snoring Man exchanged glances.

  “National emergency?” she said after a moment of trying to absorb the pilot’s words.

  “We don’t close American airspace,” he replied with a shake of his balding head. “Ever.”

  As she looked beyond him and out the window, a completely different question took over her attention as she saw the block letters on top of the building they rolled past: GANDER.

  “Okay, so where exactly is Gander?”

  Chapter 2

  “Ladies and gentleman, this is the pilot.” Grumbles of annoyance rolled through the cabin; it had been hours since the pilot had given them anything but more bad news. “We’ve just been informed that we’re next in line for processing, so it shouldn’t be much longer.” The grumbles changed to hesitant cheers. Nobody wanted to get too excited, just in case. “We appreciate your patience. Hang in there, okay?”

  The PA clicked off and Abby Hayes drained the last of her third Diet Coke, not as smart a choice for her body since she didn’t really need the caffeine, especially on a stomach that held only a small bag of chocolate chip cookies and some potato chips. She’d always been good at remaining calm, cool, and collected in any given situation; she was the one people turned to for reassurance in a crisis. But after being stuck on the plane—no, held hostage was closer to what it felt like—for more than five hours while they sat on the tarmac, went nowhere, and did nothing, she was just as antsy and claustrophobic as everybody else.

  “A terrorist act in New York City.” That was the only information they’d been given for why they’d been forced to land in Canada. Newfoundland. Newfoundland, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t even sure where that was. Well, at least she could mark it off as a place she’d never visited before, add it to her list of travels.

  “A terrorist act in New York City.” She was sure a large percentage of the people on board kept coming back to those words. Abby did. She was worried about her mother. She was probably fine; New York is a huge city and the chances of the Metropolitan Museum being the place affected by a terrorist act were pretty slim. Still, she’d like to just call and hear her mom’s voice, but nobody’s cell could get a signal and the sky phones on the plane were useless as well.

  Glancing out the window, she was amazed yet again by the sheer number of planes—and had the feeling there were more that she couldn’t see. The airport was a virtual parking lot for jets. Every airline she could think of was represented. God, she wished she had more information, knew what the hell had happened. Counting nine planes just in her direct line of sight, she thought it had to be bad. Had to be.

  The Bakers, the nice couple sitting behind her, also looked worried. Their kids all lived in New York and, like any parent, they just wanted to make sure everybody was okay. They had no way of knowing.

  Abby stood up to stretch for the nine-hundredth time. The very broken-in jeans that had seemed like such a good decision for flying this morning now felt uncomfortable and constricting. Her feet were hot and tired of being stuffed into hiking shoes, her socks were too heavy, her ponytail was making her head itch, and she hadn’t showered since the previous morning. She was not feeling her best and she was pretty certain she looked even worse. She fingered the peace sign pendant around her neck, sliding it back and forth on its brown leather thong as she scanned the crowd of tired, cranky passengers.

  Most of those around her looked just as lost, anxious, and worn out as she imagined she did. The woman across the aisle who’d been so frightened during the landing had grown quiet, staring out the window over the lap of the younger woman beside her, whose nose was buried in a Stephen King novel. Mrs. Baker was knitting a pair of booties for her daughter, who was expecting next month. Mr. Baker’s eyes were closed, but Abby suspected his thoughts were wide awake and on his children. Even the flight attendants were beginning to look haggard and exhausted, their attempts at servicing the passengers getting slower and more cumbersome. Jeffrey, the handsome FA she’d had such fun with since the airport, had lost the glimmer in his brown eyes. He’d seen the Gay Pride button she had on her backpack, had pointed to it and winked at her, then mentioned that he hadn’t seen his partner in more than a week and was excited to get back home to New York.

  Her gaze stopped at the gorgeous redhead two rows back across the aisle. Abby had seen her in the airport, and had trouble keeping her eyes off the woman. Her charcoal gray suit looked expensive and it fit her perfectly, the jacket caressing her shoulders, tapering in at her waist and following the lines of her body like a lover. The skirt was almost modest in length, hitting just above her knees, and the nylon-clad calves that led to black designer pumps were firm and smooth. Ivory silk was now fully visible, as the jacket was completely unbuttoned, which surprised Abby. Her hair wasn’t exactly red—Abby didn’t have the right word to describe it: sort of a cross between the brassiness of a copper penny and the deep cherry of an ocean sunset. Everybody else on the plane was rumpled and wrinkled, but not this woman. Every hair was still in place in the French twist (Abby wondered how long it actually was) and aside from the unbuttoning of the jacket, she looked like she’d just gotten dressed.

  The only flaw in the design was the way she continually rubbed at her temple, her eyes shut—were they blue?—her manicured fingers working gently, rhythmically as she balanced her elbow on the armrest. They were signs Abby had seen in her mother ever since she could remember and she didn’t stop to think, just reached into the overhead compartment and fished in the outside pocket of her backpack. She grabbed the water bottle from the seat pocket and took four steps, stopping to squat next to seat 33B.

  “Hey, you look like you could use this.” Abby handed over the water. The woman opened her eyes. Yup, blue. Icy and cold and blue. “And these.” She dropped three orange pills into the woman’s hand. “It’s just Motrin, but maybe it’ll take the edge off.” At the lift of the woman’s perfectly tweezed eyebrows, Abby smiled. “My mom gets migraines three or four times a month. Drink the water. It’ll help.” With that, she returned to her seat.

  The redhead didn’t like her, she knew that. Abby had caught her twice in the airport looking at her with thinly veiled annoyance. (Why? What had Abby ever done to her?) Then again on the plane, when Abby’d been talking to the Bakers, that same look. Abby had winked at her just to freak her out a little bit.

  Something else: the redhead had pinged her gaydar in a big way. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was—something about the way she carried herself. She looked fabulous in the suit, but it wasn’t her usual attire, that much was obvious. She had an air of confidence, yet at the same time, she was uncomfortable, and that made Abby speculate on what her favorite surroundings were, where she was the most at ease. She wondered if the redhead knew Abby had pegged her and how much more apparent her dislike would become if she did.

  Abby rolled her lips in and pressed them together, hiding the grin.

  The passengers were not allowed to retrieve the baggage they had checked, and that irritated the lot of them. They were told this as they deplaned and were corralled toward security.

  “But, I’ve got important things in my bag,” one man said to no one in particular.

  An older woman looked worried. “My pills. What about my pills?”

  Abby had traveled often enough to know to put an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush in her carry-on, so though she wished she could get her hands on her suitcase, she knew she’d be all right for a while. Getting through customs hadn’t taken as long as she’d expected and as she followed the line of walking traffic, feeling a bit l
ike a sheep, she caught a glimpse of red hair and a gray suit in front of an enormous map of the world. She walked up next to the woman and followed her gaze to the crude arrow drawn with a red marker. It pointed to Gander, Newfoundland, on the very far eastern side of Canada. The words next to it said, “You are here.”

  The redhead stood quietly for a moment, sighed heavily, and muttered, “Terrific.”

  “This way, please, ladies.” Before Abby had a chance to speak to the redhead, a kind-looking woman was waving them toward her and gesturing to a corridor. They both looked toward her and she smiled. “This way.”

  With a weary nod, the redhead adjusted her computer bag on her shoulder and followed the woman’s directions, Abby just behind her. The airport seemed eerie and quiet and Abby wondered, not for the first time, exactly what time it was. Trying not to enjoy the view ahead of her too much—the redhead’s ass was just as tight as her calves—she started to hear voices ahead. When they turned the corner, they were greeted by a congregation of people dressed in red-and-white vests and red windbreakers.

  “The Red Cross?” the redhead said to nobody.

  Abby stood and looked around. The redhead was right. It was the Red Cross. And if the Red Cross had been mobilized, they were certainly not going to be delayed for a few hours. It’d be a few days, at the very least. She looked around at the faces of bewilderment, wonder, and terror on those around her. Standing next to her, the redhead looked as if she’d come to the same conclusion as Abby and was now asking herself the same question: What the hell had happened in New York?

  “This way, please. To the buses.” A middle-aged man with a thick brown beard was gesturing to them much as the woman had at the entrance of the corridor. “Everybody on the buses.”

  Outside the airport, it had grown dark, but the air was warm and salty, a mischievous breeze rearranging hairstyles and toying with clothing. A fleet of yellow school buses waited for passengers. When one filled up, the next would pull forward. The scope of the operation amazed Abby, and she wondered how big this Gander was to have so many people ready to help.

  “Where are we going?” the redhead asked the driver as they boarded.

  “Your flight is going to the Lions Club, ma’am. It’s not far.” The driver was a man in his fifties, his gray hair thin on top, his blue eyes gentle. “Don’t worry.”

  The redhead moved down the aisle to find a seat and Abby heard her mutter, “Is this Gander or freaking Stepford?”

  Abby snorted a laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  The redhead found a seat and Abby made a move to sit next to her, forcing her to slide toward the window. Once seated, she turned and held out her hand. “Hi. Abby Hayes.”

  The redhead eyed her and Abby could almost hear the internal argument. Manners won out and the redhead shook her hand. “Erica Ryan.”

  “Erica. That’s pretty. It’s nice to meet you, Erica.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention for a minute?” The man who stood up at the front of the bus was in his mid-thirties and vibrant. His dark hair was tousled and his eyes showed kindness and sympathy. Once the passengers focused on him, he continued: “I know you’re confused. I know you’re tired. We’ll be at the Lions Club in a few minutes and you’ll be able to wash up, get something to eat, and rest. You’ll also be able to watch the news on television. Now, I know a lot of you are wondering what’s going on. Here’s what we know: at around nine o’clock this morning, two planes flew into the World Trade Center in New York City.” A rush of gasps ran through the bus like a swarm of hornets. The man held his hands up, asking to continue. “Those two planes had been hijacked in the air by terrorists. There were two other planes that had the same thing happen to them. One flew into the Pentagon. The other crashed in Pennsylvania.” He allowed another moment or two for people to absorb what he was saying. Several people were crying. Erica and Abby sat stunned, as did the rest of the passengers. “The United States government immediately ordered American airspace to be closed, so all planes in the air over the States or en route to the States were ordered to land ASAP. That’s why you’re here.”

  Abby’s stomach twisted painfully. She had friends in New York. She needed to know if her mother was okay. Several seats up on the bus, she saw Mrs. Baker, her shoulders shaking, her husband trying to comfort her.

  “As I said, there will be televisions for you to watch and phones for you to use to call your loved ones and let them know where you are.” He paused and his voice dropped a bit. “When you see the footage, you’ll understand why things were done the way they were.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “If you find yourself in need of anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. We want to make you as comfortable as we can while you’re here. Okay?”

  Abby wasn’t sure how many people were still listening to him at that point. She suspected that most of them felt like she did: numb. Shocked. Confused. She turned her head to look at Erica, any thought of flirting or playing gone. Erica had the same thunderstruck expression on her face as she returned Abby’s gaze. Neither said anything, they simply sat in silence for the remainder of the ride.

  Chapter 3

  The Lions Club reminded Erica of the local American Legion hall in the small Illinois town where she grew up and where her parents still lived. It was a large, rectangular one-story building, simple in its construction, yet housing everything a community might need for any type of fund-raiser or local celebration. She could almost smell the remnants of chicken barbecues and pancake breakfasts past.

  The inside was broken into three large areas, plus a kitchen in the back corner and bathrooms opposite. Their flight had been full to capacity, so Erica estimated that there had to be close to two hundred people flooding the building. Conversation was at a surprising minimum, aside from the dozen or so overtired kids and babies who were making their dissatisfaction loudly known. Luckily, all families with children were ushered to the smaller area to the left. Those without kids were sent to the right. Some people went directly to the table in the lobby area on which sat four telephones. Others just meandered like sheep lost in a too-large pasture.

  How was it possible that doing absolutely nothing for hours on end could make a person so damn tired? Erica wanted nothing more than to lie down in her own bed and sleep for three days. Her feet were killing her and the only reason she still wore her pumps was the fear of never being able to get them back on again. She’d almost sobbed out loud when they were told they couldn’t get their checked baggage. She had a much more comfortable pair of dress shoes in her suitcase, as well as her Reeboks and three pairs of cushy athletic socks, for which her feet were now screaming.

  Erica followed the expanse of people moving to her right, thinking absently that they looked like cattle being herded from one area to another. Okay, this way. Now this way. Down this hall, please. Onto this bus. Everybody too stunned to say much of anything or ask any questions, just doing what they were told. Once the guy on the bus had filled them in, they’d all pretty much been locked inside their own heads with their own thoughts and their own worries and no idea what was to come next.

  The larger side of the Lions Club was obviously made for dinners and presentations. The tables had been pushed to one side in order to make room for the cots and air mattresses that now filled the other side like small boats anchored at a marina, lined up one after another for yards and yards. Her computer bag felt like it had gone from ten pounds to fifty in the course of a couple of hours and she dropped it unceremoniously onto the first empty cot she came to. Pollyanna—er, Abby—took the cot next to hers. Erica had been trying to ignore the fact that she’d been stuck to her like glue since the airport, so she said nothing. Abby had been right about the water and Motrin taking the edge off her headache, however. Erica supposed she ought to be grateful for at least that.

  She was just about to sit when the TVs in the corner of the room caught her eye—two of them, back by the tables, on wheeled carts and tur
ned slightly so as not to disturb the people on the cots. The passengers seemed to forget how exhausted they were, dropping their belongings and, like stray spaceships in the pull of a tractor beam, they moved slowly toward the televisions, toward the news reports showing on both of them.

  The upper third of the World Trade Center’s south tower was an inferno and fire shot from all directions from a plane that had flown directly into the building. People in the room gasped. Several began to cry. Erica barely registered anything the news reporter said. She just stared at the screen in horror and kept thinking, This is some kind of sick and twisted hoax. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life, only in the movies. It’s a hoax. Right? Then the second plane hit and any and all logic fled from her brain. Next to her, Abby grabbed her forearm and made a quiet strangled sound, startling her out of her trance. Erica turned and looked at her, saw unshed tears shimmering in her blue eyes.

  Nobody said a word. The only sounds in the entire main room of the Lions Club were those emanating from the TVs and the mingled gasping and crying of some of the spectators. Everybody else stood stock-still, stunned, held captive by the footage they were being shown—people jumping to their deaths from sickening heights—unable to escape the shock of it all.

  And then the south tower collapsed.

  Exclamations of horror and anguish filled the air as they watched the building cave in on itself, like an aluminum can being squashed from the top down. Abby’s hand flew to her mouth and her grip tightened on Erica’s arm. Erica’s breath stopped in her lungs—just stopped—and she felt a lump in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down.

  “Oh, god, all those people,” Abby whispered aloud. “All those people.”

  Most of those watching were unable to move from the televisions, even though they wanted nothing more than to turn away, to wipe the images from their minds. By the time the second tower went down, nothing in the room could be heard over the combination of crying and swearing in disbelief. But after a few moments, there was a burst of energy, a stampede to get to the table with the phones, Erica and Abby caught up in the flow like leaves dropped into a rushing stream.