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Peering out of the side window, he saw the shadow of his plane racing along the ground. It passed over rooftops of houses and horse barns, huge yellow-green pastures, dark masses of trees marking creeks and swamps. The deep blueness of the Gulf loomed above the instrument panel, punctuated with tiny white-capping waves. He wondered if he would ever come back to this area again now that the last soul he knew here was gone.

He tuned the radio to the tower frequency and announced his landing intentions. He went down the checklist and configured the plane for landing. He had done it hundreds of times and he knew he could land it in his sleep; stick and rudder. But he took comfort in the process instituted by the airplane's maker. Two turns were needed to make his heading two-seven and a few minutes later he glided over the runway, gently set the Mooney down and coasted to taxi speed. A few maneuvers and he stopped in front of the hangar and shut it down.

The man at the funeral home told him there would be someone waiting to pick him up. He hoisted his full duffle bag onto his shoulder and made his way down the tarmac. As he rounded the corner of a small block building, he saw her leaning against the Jeep. She wore a khaki baseball cap, brim half-circled and worn, pulled down low, light brown hair in a ponytail pulled through the back, sunglasses dangling on the end of a cord. Her plain white tee-shirt was neatly tucked into a pair of olive-drab shorts, pockets on the sides, wide brown belt. Her long, tan legs were capped with hiking boots, obviously worn through mud and not through the mall. Her toned arms were at her side, elbows resting on the left front fender.

He assumed she was his ride, being the only vehicle at the airport. He made his way toward her, aware of the initiation of attraction. She turned as he was about to speak and immediately made proper presentation of herself, squaring her shoulders to him, right hand outstretched ready to shake. She spoke; "Are you Garrett?"

Her voice was strong, but wholly feminine. Her words seemed written in the air in front of him; he read them over and over. He sobered, "Yes, Garrett Sanders. I'm sorry, but no one told me what your name would be."

"I'm Virginia Norton, Ginny. You spoke to my brother, Bill, who owns the funeral home. It's a pleasure to meet you. Sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. And it's a pleasure to meet you too."

"Why don't you throw your bag in the back and I'll take you to where you'll be staying."

She

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