“You must be Hunter O’Banyon, the new boss of this outfit.”
At the sound of the female voice behind him, Hunter turned to face a woman he’d judge to be somewhere in her late sixties or early seventies. With curly snow-white hair, a perfectly round face and a pair of narrow reading glasses perched on her nose, she looked as if she could easily play Mrs. Claus in a Christmas pageant.
He smiled as he extended his hand. “That would be me. And you must be Mary Lou Carson.”
“The one and only.” Grinning, she firmly shook his hand. “Come on in the dispatch room and rest a spell. I’ll pour you a cup of the best coffee you’ve ever had, then I’ll show you your quarters.”
Reaching into the bed of the pickup truck, Hunter grabbed his luggage and followed Mary Lou out of the late-August heat and into the air-conditioned office of the hangar. When she led him into the dispatch room, he looked around at the framed military medals hanging on the wall beside the door.
“Did these belong to your husband?” he asked conversationally.
“Some of them.” Mary Lou walked over to a small kitchen area on the opposite side of the room to stir the delicious-smelling contents of a huge pot on the electric range. “The rest are mine.”
When she walked back over to where he stood, she handed him a cup of coffee, then motioned for him to sit in one of several chairs on the opposite side of a scarred wooden desk. “Take a load off, Hunter.”
“What branch of the military were you in?” he asked, sitting down.
“Lester and I were both career Navy.” She walked between the desk and a built-in counter filled with radio equipment, a computer and several telephones to settle herself into an old wooden desk chair that looked as if it might have been around since World War II. “He was an aircraft mechanic and I was a nurse. He died in an accident onboard an aircraft carrier not long before we were supposed to retire.”
“I’m sorry.” Hunter knew all too well what it was like to lose someone unexpectedly.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, surprising him. “Lester died doing what he loved most—working on fighter jets. That’s the best way any of us can hope to go out of this world.” Before he could respond, she shrugged. “That’s why I’m a dispatcher here. After my arthritis forced me to stop working the floor in a hospital, I took this job. When people call with an emergency, I sometimes stay on the line and talk them through whatever medical crisis they have until one of our crews arrives. It’s almost as satisfying as nursing.”
Hunter took a sip of coffee as he considered what Mary Lou said. But as the bitter taste spread over his tongue, he had to force himself to swallow. Quickly setting the cup on the desk, he barely controlled the urge to shudder. What Callie had told him about the coffee being awful had been an understatement. The stuff was as thick as syrup and tasted as though it had been made with quinine.
Coughing, he looked up to see Mary Lou watching him expectantly. He could tell she was waiting for him to tell her how good it was.
“You like your coffee strong, don’t you?” he asked, trying not to grimace.
She shrugged. “I like my coffee to be just the way I like a man—strong and the best I’ve ever had.”
If he’d thought her coffee was enough to send his system into shock, her outspokenness finished the job. He couldn’t have been more dumbfounded if he’d tried. Unable to think of a thing to say, he waited to see what she’d say next. Unless he’d misjudged her, that shouldn’t take very long.
Her knowing smile clued him in on the fact that she’d known her statement would render him speechless. “There’s a few things about me you might as well know up front, Hunt. I don’t mince words. I say exactly what I think because I’m old enough to get away with it and I’ve never been one to beat around the bush.”
“I can respect that.” Hunter had no idea where Mary Lou was going with this, but he could tell she had more on her mind.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, because what I’m going to tell you now might not set real well.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m going to treat you like I treat everyone else around here because I’m not impressed by much of anything anymore. And that includes you being Emerald Larson’s grandson.”
Hunter frowned. He’d specifically asked Emerald not to divulge his relationship to her. For one thing, he didn’t need the added pressure of living up to someone’s expectations. And for another, he still hadn’t fully come to terms with being her grandson.
“How did you learn about—”
“Emerald and I go way back. She hasn’t always been on the top of the heap. When she was a teenager, she worked behind the soda counter in my father’s drugstore.” Mary Lou grinned. “She was like an older sister to me, and we’ve stayed in touch over the years.”
Hunter wasn’t particularly happy about having one of Emerald’s lifelong friends working for him. He didn’t like the idea of not being able to make a move without his manipulative grandmother knowing about it.
“If you’re worried about me running to Emerald to report everything you do, don’t waste your time,” Mary Lou said as though she’d read his mind. “I don’t carry tales. If she wants to know what’s going on with you, she’ll have to ask you herself.”
“That’s good to hear.” Whether he should or not, Hunter believed the woman.
Draining the last of her coffee, Mary Lou placed her cup on the desk and stood up. “Now that we have that out of the way, I’ll show you to your living quarters and let you get settled in while I finish up the beef stew I put on for our supper.” She pointed to his cup. “Would you like that warmed up?”
He quickly shook his head. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.” He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but if he never drank another drop of the bitter brew, it would be all too soon.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people. I’m the only one working here who likes coffee.”
As Hunter grabbed his suitcase and followed her through a doorway and down a hall toward the back of the hangar, he suspected the others’ reluctance to drink Mary Lou’s coffee had everything in the world to do with self-defense and nothing to do with not liking coffee.
“This is your office,” she said, passing a door on the way to the back of the building. Pointing to a door across the hall, she added, “And this is the on-duty crew’s sleeping quarters. We have three crews working rotating twenty-four-hour shifts—two days on duty and four off. Of course, on the outside chance that we get a call while one crew is out, the first two days that a crew is off duty, they’re on call.”