WomensNorfolk, Virginia Ronda Sandler stepped off the plane at Norfolk International, and John Blakely was waiting to pick her up. She walked up behind him, carrying only a nylon overnight bag and a small purse containing the ten thousand dollar check.
"Paging John Blakely," she said in the best deep voice she could muster. She was a petite, but solid woman with shoulder length brown hair and a bright, welcoming smile. The black belt in Karate, however, combined with an expert marksman certification and an eye on a position in the FBI, made Ronda far from the typical defenseless little woman.
John looked over his shoulder upon the familiar voice from behind and an immediate smile curved his lips at the sight of her. She was perfect in every way in his eyes; he only wished she felt the same way about him. They met in the middle of the airport's huge center atrium. "I'm so glad you're back," he said, then instantly regretted it. It was the wrong thing to say. It was too personal, and Ronda had no intentions of becoming "personal" with him.
She tapped him lightly on the back as he hugged her. "Thanks for picking me up, John. You're a life saver."
He reached for her bag and carried it as they walked toward the escalators. "Why was the flight so late?"
"My connecting flight in Fort Worth was late getting in. That pushed everything back. We had all the time in the world in Fort Worth, but in Atlanta we had to sprint from one end of the airport to the other just to get on the plane."
He stepped aside and let her get on the escalator first.
"But it's good to be home. I like this airport," she said as they descended. She glanced around them; only a few other travelers occupied the airport at such a late hour. "It's easy to get around in."
"Got any luggage to claim?"
"No."
"So, what did you find out? Is this contest legitimate?"
Her face lit with excitement. "You won't believe it, John. Oh, my God," she breathed. "This is totally what I've been looking for."
"So tell me about it. Is it hard?" John asked as they exited the airport and started across the dark parking lot. John's pickup was in the front row, behind a row of trees. The asphalt was wet from a recent rain and reflected the streetlight glow in thousands of iridescent sparkles, making even John's old pickup look shiny and new.
"You eat anything?" John asked a short time later as he turned onto the Military Highway. Dozens of restaurants flanked the thoroughfare.
"Not really. I had breakfast, but with the time difference, my stomach probably thinks my throat's been cut."
"First tell me where you want to eat. It's on me. Then tell me about this game."
