The Flight

Dear Readers, I am now in the jet, circling over the Jerez Airport , some 8 kilometers outside of Cadiz, on my Odyssey to save Constance from the terroriste kidnappers. We sat on the tarmac at Teterborofor THREE hours. I tried to practice my meditation. The ride has been tolerable. The jet is a Falcon 900EX intercontinental It’s spacious as jets go, but the temperature has been fluctuating wildly. One moment hot, stuffy and stifling, and the next like a meat locker. Helen is not amused.
As we were packing, I had enough presence of mind to have Helen phone Champignon, the caterer over on 7th Avenue. Maximo, the manager there, was kind enough to rush a prepared basket over to Teterboro, and it arrived just before takeoff. He put together a lovely hamper. Mesclun salad, their Pollo Adobo, which is a simple roasted half chicken marinated in lemon, garlic, and herbs, and a walnut brownie for desert. Thank Goodness Helen was clever enough to pack two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, which was such a godsend once we were up in the air. A bit of chilled champagne always steadies my nerves, and it went perfectly with the cold chicken.
Once Helen and I got settled into the jet, I had a chance to more intimately make the acquaintance of my FBI man. His name is Mr. O’Reilly, and he seems like a good sort. He’s from Staten Island, father of three, rather portly, graying, and makes a strange sound sucking in air and smacking his lips at the end of every sentence, which tends to grate on one’s nerves, especially when we’re forced to sit in a confined space for an extended period of time.
I managed to sleep, but had awful nightmares about Constance. In one of my dreams, we were schoolgirls back at Vassar. We were sneaking out of the dormitory, (as we were wont to do back in those halcyon days. We’d tuck the dressmaking form under the sheets and shimmy down the drainpipe, and then hitch a ride into Boston, where we’d meet up with Harvard boys.) In the dream, Constance was wearing the costume of Lady MacBeth, and I understood that she had just come from a rehearsal. She shimmied down the drainpipe as I nervously watched from the window. She landed on the ground and ran for the woods,, her Lady MacBeth skirts flowing behind her. Then I shimmied down and ran for the woods, but Constance was nowhere to be found. I panicked, running into thicker and thicker woods, my white gown catching on burrs and thorns. I woke up in quite a state. Helen and Mr. O’Reilly were both asleep, and what a surreal moment that was! the silence punctuated by Helen's intermittent snoring and Mr. Reily's sucking noises which, I discovered, he even makes in his sleep.
Dear Readers, I truly am terrified for Constance. She really is in the thick of the woods now, and it’s not a dream. It’s far too real.

Comments

[Mister Kreg]

Dear Mrs. Van der Loop,
Know that we are sending prayers. May your mission be a success. You are a generous soul —without seeming to forward I would like to call you— Lydia ! And you are an inspiration to us all!
Yours faithfully,
Mister Kreg

[Danvers]

Oh I do so agree with Mr. Kreg. I've been on the edge of my tuffet all day looking for a post. I do hope nothing bad has happened to you Mrs. V.
I daren't be as forward as Mr. Kreg. Although I applaud his bravura.

"Remember who you are and what you represent" is my personal motto. Taken from my school days, but I never forgot it and it has served me well. I hope it will serve you Mrs. V in your present predicament. You brave brave creature.

as always,
Danvers

[hmmmmmmm]

fake comments.