by Helga Gruendler-Schierloh

Freelance architect, Jim Brewster, arrived at New York’s Kennedy Airport just in time to catch his connecting flight to Detroit. He was at once exhausted and elated.

He had spent the past four days in Iceland to win the bid for designing a high-tech building to be constructed in the center of Reykjavik. For almost a year now, he had to content himself with such unchallenging tasks as sketching the outline for a two-story colonial for some executive, advising a matron on the layout of her weekend cottage, and drawing up plans for the renovation of a rural middle school.

Aching to get his hands on a major undertaking, he had worked through many a sleepless night to prepare for his meeting with the Icelandic banker in charge of the final decision on that currently planned industrial complex. After grueling negotiations, Jim’s efforts had finally paid off. He was to start working on the project next month.

Since this conclusive, and ultimately very rewarding, meeting in downtown Reykjavik had lasted beyond the anticipated time, he had missed an earlier scheduled flight back to the United States. Now boarding the plane to Detroit, he glanced at his wristwatch.

It was 6:30 p.m., local time.

Jim sank into his seat, impatiently waiting for take-off—when he suddenly remembered Michelle. And, as so often, he felt utterly uneasy at the thought of his estranged daughter whom he had not seen for sixteen years. She had just turned two when his French wife, Brigitte, had divorced him and returned to her home-country—taking their little girl with her.  

Although Jim had been crazy about his baby daughter, he never made an exerted effort for retaining custody of his child. He was fully aware that his job didn’t allow sufficient time to take care of a toddler. He also acknowledged—albeit reluctantly—that Brigitte was a wonderful mother—even if she had not turned out to be the model wife he expected.

Convincing himself that he could always pay Michelle a visit on his frequent trips to Europe, he simply let things run their course. This turned out to be a huge mistake.

Soon most of his continental contracts were either canceled or not renewed, and gradually a resentful Brigitte foiled his few haphazard attempts to stay in touch.

Although he never received a thank you or even an acknowledgment, Jim kept on sending cards, letters, and gift packages containing toys and books. At first, he even included clothing. However, realizing he was not really up-to-date on his growing daughter’s current size, he gave up on that—and eventually, sad and defeated, he stopped reaching out to her altogether.

Time went on.

Jim got remarried—and when his second wife abruptly left him for someone else, he vowed to remain single.

Then, a few weeks ago, he received an unexpected letter from some British boarding school, where Michelle was supposedly a student. The principal of that institution informed Jim in a rather matter-of-fact, bureaucratic manner of his ex-wife Brigitte’s death. And so, after having settled into a bachelor’s lifestyle, the welfare of a child he hardly knew was now once more his responsibility.  

He had often longed for his daughter, but after so many years of separation he did find it extremely difficult to approach her again. He felt guilty for neglecting their relationship, and he was terribly afraid that she might simply reject him outright.

He also realized that this may be his last chance to make amends. So, after wallowing for hours in a disarray of pent-up emotions, he finally wrote to Michelle.

He put his innermost thoughts and feelings on paper in a desperate attempt to persuade her to come to the United States—at least for a visit. Since then, he had been anxiously waiting for an answer. And now, there was suddenly this telegram his housekeeper, Suzy, had mentioned in a recent phone call. 

Jim glanced at his watch again.

7:35 p.m.—His plane was still sitting on the ground.

Growing increasingly agitated, he tried to peer out the window to see what might cause the continued delay.

That’s when he knocked the paperback from the lap of the young lady occupying the window seat. Her long, blond hair streaming across her shoulders, she instantly bent down to retrieve her book. With Jim doing the same, their heads collided. Emerging, rubbing their skulls, they apologized simultaneously. Then, spotting the embarrassed and pained expression on each other’s faces, both busted out laughing.

Still fingering his aching temple, Jim muttered, “Damn, you’ve got a hard head.”

“And so do you.” The girl giggled. “Besides, a gentleman, particularly one of a certain age, really shouldn’t swear in the presence of a lady.”

Jim grinned. “Even after that lady almost knocked him out?”

She was pretty—and young. Maybe sixteen, seventeen, possibly eighteen…?

He was not very adept in guessing anyone’s age. However, females posed an extra challenge, with so many of them trying to disguise their natural state—teenagers eager to look mature and older ladies anxious to project a more youthful appearance.

After registering that his young seat partner’s face was actually free of make-up, he noticed a colorful designer label prominently displayed on her jean suit. The obviously expensive outfit was slightly stained and rumpled, as if it had been worn for a while.  

Oh well, what did he know? Maybe a disheveled look was currently the going trend.

However, her golden hair most definitely needed washing.

But her eyes… there was something about this young woman’s eyes…

He scanned her appearance again.

She looks like a pixie, Jim thought, a cute little pixie. And if she got cleaned up, she might actually be beautiful.

The girl returned his stare with an impudent smile. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Oh sure.” Jim nodded. “I’m just incredibly overtired. And exhausted people tend to act silly at times. I just want to get home and sleep.”

 “Your wish is being granted,” announced the pixie now, pressing her nose against the fogged-over window pane. “Our plane is scooting down the runway.”

Once they were in the air, Jim indulged in a “Manhattan on the rocks.”

That’s when the girl, cradling a can of soda, pointed at his glass and sighed. “I could really use one of those right now.”

Jim frowned. “Aren’t you a bit too young to drink?”

“Maybe, maybe not, it all depends in which country you do it. But then, that shouldn’t really be of any concern to you anyhow.”

“I guess not,” Jim grumbled.

As he leaned back and closed his eyes, he tried to figure out the girl’s accent. Her speech had a precise clip to it—kind of British with something else mixed in.

Thinking, I guess that’s also none of my business, he dozed off.

A bumping noise jolting him awake, he shifted to get more comfortable. That’s when his feet caught on something. Yawning, he dove to the floor.

“What in the world are you doing, sir?” The girl sounded irritated.

“Retrieving your book. It was still down there.”

Holding it out to her, he glanced at the cover. “An illuminated body on a tombstone?” He chuckled. “Now why in the world would anyone read stuff like this?”

“Because a plane ride can get rather boring, the book selection in airports is pitiful, and it was the cheapest paperback on that stand.”

“Okay, okay,” Jim cajoled. “And it is really none…”

 “…of your business. However, this kind of literature tends to work well in putting someone to sleep. So, feel free to borrow it if you wish to return to dreamland.”

Jim pointed to the front, where the “no smoking, fasten seatbelt” sign lit up.

“Not anymore. I think we are about to land.”

After waiting together to claim their luggage, Jim walked with the girl toward the exit.

“Is someone going to meet you?” he asked.

Her gaze sweeping across the airport lobby, she shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“Which way are you heading?”

“To the Northwestern suburbs.”

“Well, that’s where I live. Want a ride?”

Concern rising in her eyes, the girl shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to take a taxi.” She broke into a mischievous grin. “As they say: Never go with strangers.”

“I understand.” Jim held out his right hand. “I certainly enjoyed your company.”

***

When Jim finally arrived at his house, an apparently very frazzled Suzy intercepted him at the front entrance.  

He gave her a bearhug. “Bad day, huh?”

She gasped. “No, no, no, Mr. Brewster.” She’s coming. She just called. Your daughter is on the way here.”

Jim no longer smiled. He felt as if his legs were caving in. “Good grief, Suzy.” He rushed toward the steps leading upstairs. “What timing—I’d better clean up.”

He was still in the shower when the doorbell rang.

After turning off the water, he listened to Suzy opening the door, asking, “Michelle?” and then shrieking upstairs, “Mister Brewster, your daughter is here.”

“Be there in a second,” Jim shouted.

Just then he heard, “Now let me guess, that father of mine is most likely tall and ruggedly handsome, with a mole near his right brow?”

Jim froze. That voice…

He threw on a bathrobe, darted downstairs, and stopped in his tracks. “YOU?”

Wiping wet strands of hair from her forehead, the rain-drenched young woman in front of him sobbed, “Guess I should have accepted a ride from you, after all, Daddy.” Bolting forward, she threw her arms around Jim’s neck and pressed her nose against his chest.  

He buried his face in her soggy hair. “Hm, so now you’re going to be my business, after all. Welcome home, Sweetheart.”

Michelle grinned through her tears. “I am just so glad it’s you. Just think, my father could have been a stranger.”

She released him. “I desperately need a bath.”

“Yes, you do.” Jim nodded. “You smell atrociously.”

As he led her upstairs, he glimpsed their profiles in the adjacent wall mirror.

Their resemblance was striking. 

She’s even got my eyes, he thought. I wonder why I always expected her to look a lot more like her mother?

Helga Gruendler-Schierloh is a bilingual writer with a degree in journalism and graduate credits in linguistics. Her articles, essays, short stories, and poetry have appeared in the USA, the UK, Canada, and South Africa. Her debut novel, Burying Leo, a MeToo story, won second place in women’s fiction during Pen Craft Awards’ 2018 writing contest.