Page 18 of Famous for a Living

“I don’t believe we set a rate.”

“Oh, sweetie.” At this she laughs, a honeycombed I-come-from-so-much-money-I’m-currently-doubling-whatever-you’d-ask laugh. “Let’s just get your bags packed. And get you the biggest parka we can find.”

Chapter 3

The Peanuts

Aside from the literal red and white flags waving the small, shaking plane to the runway, metaphorical red flags are everywhere.

The four men in neon uniforms brace their boots against the snow as they stand on either side of the runway, waving the plane in with glowing wands that are hardly visible against the blast of snow and darkened sky. The blinking yellow lights highlight the small airport vehicle as it moves parallel to us, its plow filling rapidly with snow.

A rolling sea of gloomy clouds follows from above, as though racing the plane toward the finish line.

Nails digging into the armrest, I clench my teeth with eyes squeezed shut as we land first with a shudder, then a squeak, and at long last a thud. My legs tremble with the reverberations of the wheels against ground, and I hold my breath—waiting in anticipation—for any signs of slipping against frozen asphalt and the inevitable flip, crash, and plume of fiery smoke as we meet our final end.

“You don’t suppose I could have one more packet of these before we land?”

Incredulously, I open my eyes and look over to the man beside me who has managed to squirrel away nine packages of honey-roasted peanuts in the last two hours. Never eating them, mind you, but stowing them in coat pockets like he knows something about the end of the world waiting on the other side of those airplane doors that the rest of us do not.

Everything in this moment truly screams, “This was a horrible, horrible mistake.”

The flight attendant, whose glossy lipstick and smile wore off nine hours ago, speaks from her strapped-in position across from us. “We’ve landed, sir.”

He looks down at his coat pockets, genuinely affected by the news.

With lessening quakes beneath us, I brave a peek out the window. Visibility is terrible, nothing but sideways snow and a few streaking lights beyond. But it appears the worst is over.

The plane is slowing.

Though it’s hard to tell, I feel us turning toward a small, snow-covered building.

Evidently I will live to see another day.

“Here.” I slide my unopened packet of peanuts over.

The man’s face brightens, just as the pilot’s fuzzy voice comes overhead. “Welcome to Kannery, Montana. The time is 6:32 p.m. mountain standard time. Current temperature is a record two degrees, forecasted to accumulate eight to twelve inches in the next twenty-four hours. Looks like we’re the last ones in before they rerouted planes to alternate airports, so stay warm and be careful out there.”

As if on cue, I hear several jacket zippers around the plane zip up.

I zip up my own jacket as I move into the aisle.

It took several hours of research before Serena and I landed on this coat. It’s a thinner material, a white, knee-length quilting that seems at first glance more suited to strolling through the floral market on a crisp spring day. Deceivingly thin. But when I reach inside the pocket and press the little button, heat instantly begins to flow from my neck to my knees.

I tuck my scarf into my coat, slip on my white leather driving gloves, and reach for my carry-on. I can do this. I’m a hardy New Yorker who has braced more than a few harsh winters in my time.

In heels, in fact.

I’d like to see any of these folks stride down icy crosswalks in stilettos while dodging taxis.

This will be even easier.

I blink at the blizzard out the window.

Absolutely.

No question.

Now, managing to transport six suitcases toward the car rental sign when there was no trolley in sight, that was another matter.