Flight to Paradise Ch. 06

After only a couple minutes he stops holding onto the table as he moves about the room, walking like a man whose foot is asleep. "I think I'm ready for the treadmill," he says, still slowly walking about but steady on his feet. He slips on his pants and slides his right foot into a loafer.

She laughs quietly at his go get 'em attitude and opens the door. "Right this way," she says motioning him through the door. They walk a short distance down the hall, turning into a room with three treadmills in a line, none of which are in use at the moment.

"What are we going to do?" he asks.

"You are going to get on a treadmill and walk," she explains with a smile. "Just start out at a normal walk. As you feel more comfortable keep picking the speed up. Walk, then fast walk, jog then finally a flat-out sprint. Take your time and don't rush it. If you feel any discomfort, anything that doesn't feel right, stop immediately and let's check it out. There are no bonus points for falling and getting skinned up because you pushed too hard. If you need to take a blow, just stop and catch your breath."

"A blow?" he asks as he steps onto the treadmill, his voice full of mischief.

She flushes a bright red. "Maybe take a breather would have been a better choice of words."

"No, having a blow works for me," he says as he starts to walk, chuckling as Abby turns an even deeper shade of red.

Mac starts out at a slow walk, holding onto the handrails of the treadmill, but with every step his new leg feels better, more natural and stronger. He can feel his pants rubbing on his skin, just like on his natural leg. Maybe he'd gotten used to it, but he can't remember feeling that with his old leg. After a few minutes of walking, he releases the hand rails and tries to jog, skipping right over the fast walk. He stumbles, grabbing at the rails, but in moments he turns them loose again and slowly picks up the pace. His new leg feels wonderful! He couldn't run in his old leg, it simply couldn't keep up, a slow jog or fast walk was the best he could do, but he's running! Mac begins to lean into his run, pushing himself harder, his legs pistoning away on the treadmill as he runs! Almost giddy with excitement he stretches, pushing himself as hard as he can, running as if his life depends on it, his breath becoming deep and hard as he races, the machine whining with his sprint. With an explosion of laughter, he begins to slow from his mad sprint, slowing reluctantly back to a walk, his breath coming in ragged bellows like pants intermixed with bouts of laughter.

"What happened to 'don't rush it'?" Abby asks dryly as she looks at the panel on the treadmill. He looked like he was flying, and she wants to see how fast he ran. "Mac! You were running twenty-three miles per hour!"

He steps off the treadmill, still breathing hard, and swoops up her in his arms, spinning her around once in excitement before putting her down. "That was fantastic! I was running! Did you see that?" He takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to get control of his emotions. "Sorry, I got a little carried away."

"It's fine," she says, smiling back at him. In fact, it was more than fine, she rather enjoyed it, and wonders what it would be like to be held in those arms for more than just a second or two. "It makes me feel good when my patients are so excited. Did you hear me say how fast you ran? Twenty-three miles per hour!"

"Is that fast?" he asks, not knowing if that's good or bad. It felt fast but what did he know?

"Is it fast? Mac, that's the fastest I've ever seen and..." she zones out as she accesses the net, "... and the world sprint record is only thirty-one. Yeah, I'd say that's pretty fast."

Mac's face lights up in another huge smile. "I nearly fell on my ass getting there, but it felt so good to run! And the leg, it feels so natural, like it's my own. It's wonderful Abby, just wonderful. I can't thank you enough." He knows he's gushing, but dammit, he doesn't care.

"In that case, you won't mind buying that lunch you promised me?" she asks with a smile.

"No, Abby, I won't. In fact, it'll be my pleasure. Anywhere you like, but can we walk there? I'd love to be able to walk there."

Her smile widens. "Funny, that's just what I was thinking, but first, we have some business to finish. I need to look at the mount and make sure there's no wear. So, follow me, Mercury," she says, turning and beckoning to him over her shoulder by crooking her pointer finger.

Mac follows Abby back into the room where his old leg is still lying on the table. As soon as the door shuts, he begins to slip out of his pants. As he slides his pants down, he notices that the new leg is the same color as his other leg, not the generic pale flesh tone it was when he put it on.

"The leg! It's changed colors!" he exclaims as he looks up at her.

She giggles. "Pretty neat trick, huh? The mount band has a ring of sensors around it. Sixteen in all. Every ten minutes the sensors read the color of your skin where it meets the mount band and adjusts the color of the leg accordingly. So, if you are going to wear shorts, make sure you wear them short enough that you tan above the mount band or you'll be walking around with one tanned leg and one pasty white one."

"Good to know," he says as he sits on the table and pulls the leg off, hiss at the bright flair of pain. The moment the leg comes off he feels a loss like he's never felt before, like there's something missing, like his leg is missing. The new leg is a quantum leap ahead of his old leg in the way it communicates feelings to him, and he smiles as he hands the leg to her.

She takes the leg and looks at the mount band using a small magnifying glass before handing it back. "Looks perfect. I see no indication of wear whatsoever. You ready for lunch?"

He grins as he takes the leg back. "Starving. But I have one more thing to do before we go." He takes a couple of deep breaths and connects the leg, grimacing and grinding his teeth until the flash of pain passes. "Do me a favor, Abby, work on that pain thing, okay?"

She smiles a bit sadly. "We're working on it, Mac. I promise you, we're working on it."

Mac slips his pants back on and then stands. "Shall we?" he asks as he picks up his old leg. As they exit the room, he looks to her as they walk to the front office. "Does LA Prosthesis have a donation program?"

"A donation program? You mean where people donate money to help cover the cost of prosthetics for those that can't afford them? I think so, why?"

"I'd like to make a donation," he says stopping at the payment desk. While Mac transfers the balance on his leg, $250,000, to settle his account, Abby steps away for a moment to get ready for lunch. After his account is paid, he then walks to the front desk, Abby appearing just as he stops. "Good, you're back," he says to her before returning his attention to the receptionist. "I'd like to donate this leg for use by someone at no cost to them. I want Abby here to make the selection of who'll get the leg." He hears her gasp but continues on unabated. "Further I'm donating $25,000 to the cost of refurbishment and fitting, but only on the condition that Abby, and Abby alone, selects the candidate. Are these terms acceptable?"

"Mac!" she hisses. "I'm flattered, but that's a $300,000 leg. Are you sure you want to do this? Most people sell them to recoup some of the expense of the new leg."

The receptionist smiles and reaches for Mac's leg. "We would be honored to agree to your terms Mr. McMillan. Abby is one of our finest techs, and we know she'll see that the leg goes to a deserving person."

Mac smiles and hands the leg over then turns to Abby, who is standing there as if in shock. "Are you ready for lunch?" She nods but doesn't say anything as they walk out of the clinic together.

Mac and Abby stroll, allowing the conversation to go where it wants, before arriving at a small restaurant only a couple of blocks from the clinic. Mac recognizes a couple of faces from the clinic, which probably means the restaurant is a popular place for the clinic's employees. Abby acknowledges them with a smile and a wave but doesn't invite anyone to join them. They have an enjoyable lunch, laughing, flirting, and telling stories. He has her in tears of laughter as he recounts the time his old leg had a control chip failure and he was forced to goose-step out of a crowded mall back to his car. What made the situation even worse is that it just happened to be the middle of winter and he was wearing black, with a long black leather coat, that to his mind made him look like a stereotypical Nazi SS officer prancing around.

Lunch over he pays the bill and they leave, Abby starts to go right, back to the office, until he gently steers her left.

"The office is this way," she says as he gently takes her arm.

"I know, but I'd like to take a different way back to the clinic, if you have the time."

"Uh, sure. This is client relations stuff, so I can take the time."

"It's only a couple of blocks out of our way," he says as he begins to walk. In the middle of the third block he pauses. "Wait here," he says, as he enters a florist, returning in a moment with a single red rose, which he presents to her. "It's not much, but I hope it shows how grateful I am to you for your help."

She stares at him for a moment, and then takes the rose. "Thank you," she says as she struggles to not tear up. "First donating the leg, now this. I don't know what to say."

"You just said it, but it's I that should be thanking you. So, thank you, Abby. Thank you so very much."

"Are you trying to make me cry?" she asks with a sniff and a laugh.

"No," he says with a small smile. "I'd never do that." He sticks his arm out, silently inviting her to slip her arm through the triangle as they slowly walk back to the clinic.

When they arrive at the clinic, he thanks her again before making his goodbyes and turning to stride to his car, the new leg giving him a spring to his step he didn't have when he was wearing his old leg. She brings the rose up, smelling the flower's fragrance, jealous of a woman she doesn't even know, the woman that shares his life.

Mac drops into the driver's seat of the Merc, opening his inbox. He'd silenced his pings while in the clinic, allowing all pings to forward into his inbox. He only had one message, with a timestamp of twelve thirty-one, a ping from Kate. He opens the message, a voice ping, wondering why he was feeling trepidation over her message. So, what if she turned him down and didn't want to go? Why should he care? But for reasons that escape him, he did care.

"Mac, Kate," Kate's voice says, "If you are sure you don't mind bringing me back Monday, I'd love to go with you this weekend. Ping me back and tell me where to meet you and what time." There's a pause then she continues. "And Mac, thanks for asking me. I'm looking forward to it."

He smiles, a sense of relief washing over him. As he backs the big German car out of the parking space, he sends a ping back to Kate.

"Hello, Mac. When I didn't get you, I was a little afraid that I'd missed you."

"No worries. I'd suppressed my pings while I was in my meeting. So, you decided to go, eh? I'm glad."

"Yes, well, I'm glad you asked. I just feel a little guilty about making you fly me home after only three days. I'll... ummm... try to make it worth the trouble."

He can hear the smile in her voice. "Okay. I'll hold you to that. Do you want to meet me at John Wayne, or do you want me to come get you?"

"John Wayne Airport? I'll just meet you there. What time?"

"I'm on my way now, so as soon as you can. The sooner you get there, the sooner we can hop. So, don't be late, or I'll leave without you," he teases.

"Hop?" she asks, confused.

"Sorry. The sooner we can go."

"Okay, I'll see you there.

Forty minutes later, as Mac creeps into the airport, allowing the car to drive itself back to the rental lot, he receives a ping from Kate. "Okay, hot shot. I'm here, standing alone with my bag on the runway where they told me to find you. Where are you?"

He begins to chuckle. "I certainly hope you're not standing on the runway. I'm just arriving at the airport. I'll check the car in and meet you. Are you at transit parking #2?"

She squints at a sign in the distance. "Yes. That's what the sign says."

"Okay. You're in the right place. Just go back into the lounge and have a seat. I should be there in a couple of minutes."

"Okay. But shake a leg. I haven't got all day." If he can tease her about leaving her behind, she can tease him for arriving after her.

He begins to chuckle at her choice of words. "Yes ma'am. Going as fast as I can."

Twenty minutes later he walks into the pilot's lounge, his bag in hand, to find her quietly thumbing through a magazine. There are several other men in the room talking and drinking coffee, more people than he'd expect to find at this hour. The fact that she's sitting there, oozing sex, in shorts and a loose top unbuttoned down two buttons, having nothing to do with the extra people he's sure.

She sees him walk into the room, dressed in khakis and a neatly pressed white shirt. As he approaches, his face breaking into a broad smile, she drops the magazine on the table—she wasn't doing anything but looking at the pictures of airplanes anyway—and rises to meet him, melding her body to his in a warm kiss.

"You ready to go see the Beauty?" he asks as she slowly pulls away.

"Very," she coos, not sure what he's talking about, but not wanting to appear dumb in front of the jocks that have been wandering into the room to discreetly look at her. Before she can pick up her bag Mac takes it, tucking it under the same arm he's using to carry his own bag, before opening the lounge door for her and escorting her out.

John Wayne is primarily a general aviation airport, so there isn't the constant takeoff and landing like there is at a commercial airport, like LAX. She's seen one plane land, and now, a second one taking off, in the thirty minutes or so she's been waiting. She watches the small plane buzz into the sky while she follows Mac as he walks to a group of planes sitting on the tarmac. They seem to be heading to a large white airplane with blue accents and a bottom that looks like a boat. The wings are mounted high up with two large engines driving propellers, one on each wing. The plane looks outdated and a bit ungainly, but it's beautifully painted and kept. On the front of the plane is a painting about two feet tall of voluptuous woman standing in a cheesecake pose, wearing a shower cap, scrubbing her back with a brush while holding a towel too her neck to hide the intimate bits. Beneath the woman, in an old-fashioned looking script, are the words Bathing Beauty. Kate looks the plane over again and must admit that it has a certain charm about it.

"Here we are," he says, sitting the bags on the ground by a door in the side of the plane. "The Bathing Beauty."

"What is it?"

"This is a 1942 Grumman Goose," he says with obvious pride.

"1942 or 2042?" she asks, not sure she wants to get into an airplane that's nearly 150 years old, even one as lovingly cared for as this one.

He chuckles at her obvious discomfort at the thought of flying in such an old airplane. "1942. But don't worry. It's been fully updated and modernized, and it has to pass the same flight safety regulations as a new plane. It's not going to fall apart as soon as we take off."

He waits for her reaction, and then begins to laugh harder at her dubious expression. Still laughing he turns and unlocks the door on the plane, opening it wide before reaching in and pulling a set of steps off the wall and setting them on the ground. "Ladies first," he says motioning her inside the plane.

She climbs the short steps and enters a world of rich brown leather, polished wood, and gleaming brass. "Wow!" she exclaims in surprise and delight as she stands, slightly stooped, in the plane's interior. "It's really beautiful in here." She touches one of the four seats, admiring the softness of the leather, the carpet thick and luxurious under her shoes. The cabin has four of the comfortable looking leather seats, arranged so they face each other, with a cabinet made of wood, polished to an almost mirror gloss, situated between the two rear most seats. She opens the cabinet and looks in to find towels and glasses, the graceful stemware in a fitted wooden holder to keep them from breaking. In the bottom of the cabinet is a box that she discovers is a small refrigerator when she opens it.

She realizes that he isn't in the plane and she sticks her head out of the open door, but he's nowhere to be seen. She looks through the windshield at the front of the plane to see an open hatch, but no Mac. Looking out of the windows on the right side of the plane she sees him standing on a short ladder doing something under the wing. He doesn't have any tools in his hands, so she assumes whatever he's doing isn't the result of something being broken. As she watches he snaps a cover shut and then steps off the ladder and carries it to the front of the plane, only to appear on the left side, placing the ladder under the same location on the left wing.

She pokes her head out of the door. "What are you doing?" she asks as he steps on the ladder and opens a small door under the wing.

"I'm pre-flighting the plane. Making sure it won't fall apart as soon as we take off." He looks over his shoulder at Kate and grins. "Right now, I'm making sure there's no water in the fuel," he says. "Pre-flight is just a quick check to make sure there are no obvious problem with the aircraft before we take off. Better to find a problem on the ground than after we're in the air. This won't take but a few minutes."

As she watches, Mac looks at something inside the hatch before closing it, once again stepping off the ladder. He folds the ladder and moves to the front of the plane where he climbs up on the nose and lowers the ladder into the opening before shutting the hatch. She climbs out of the plane, noticing the bags are missing. "The bags are in the front of the plane?"

"Yep. That's the hold, luggage compartment, whatever," he says as he begins to walk around the plane, touching, moving, wiggling, obviously carefully looking the plane over, explaining to her what he's doing as he moves. After twenty minutes he nods in satisfaction after gently bouncing a hammer on the second of the two tires holding up the front of the plane. "Let's mount up. We're ready to fly."

Kate climbs back into the plane and sits in one of the decadently comfortable seats as Mac stows the steps and locks the door. "You're in the wrong seat," he says as turns from the door, stooping low to avoid bumping his head.

"Oh, sorry," she says standing up. "Where should I sit?"

He says nothing but points to the front of the plane.

"Up front?" she squeaks.

"Up front. Right side. You'll want to wear your sunglasses." She digs in her handbag a moment and plops her stylish sunglasses on top of her head before allowing him to steer her toward the cockpit. She settles into the right-side seat, upholstered in the same material, but not as comfortable, as the seats in the back.

Mac hands her the pair of headphones that were hanging on the back of the seat. "You'll want these so you can talk to me. And buckle up. You're going to have to help fly this crate."

She turns pale at his words, and fumbles with the four-point harness, figuring it out after watching him strap himself in. He puts on his headphones and a pair of sunglasses he retrieves from an overhead compartment. Strapped into the seat, she has a commanding view out the forward and side windows.