Horns blasted, policemen shouted at drivers and waved at pedestrians to make them walk faster.

Airplanes thundered overhead. How would I ever find my way through this maze of activity? Everyone else looked like he knew where he was going and was going there fast. I felt like I was floating through a dream and could be bumped toward one direction or another.

"Now don't worry," Holly said, seeing the expression on my face. "As soon as we pull up, the skycap will take your bags and give you your baggage receipts. Then he'll tell you what gate to go to for boarding. The directions are posted clearly inside the airport," she assured me. "And if you have any questions, there will be someone from the airlines nearby."

I took a deep breath. I was here; I was actually going. She pulled to the curb and we stepped out. The skycap took my bags and stapled the receipts to my ticket.

"Gate forty-one," he mumbled.

"Gate forty-one?"

I tried to get him to repeat it, but he was already helping someone else. I turned to Holly.

"I can't stay parked here any longer. They just give you enough time to drop someone off. You'll see a television monitor inside with your flight number and gate number, along with the time your plane takes off."

"Thanks for everything, Holly."

"You call and I'll call you," she said. She held my hands and stood looking at me. Then she shook her head. "Your mother must have been some blind woman to leave a daughter like you behind," she said.

She hugged me and I held on to her, held her as if she were a buoy keeping me afloat in this ocean of people and noise and activity.

She turned and got back into her car, flashing a final smile my way. I watched her drive off, waving and looking after her until she was gone. Now I was really all alone, without a friend in the world. Two elderly people brushed past me roughly, neither realizing they had almost knocked me over with their suitcases. I was standing in the wrong place. I clutched my purse and headed inside before someone else trampled me.

It wasn't much different inside. People were rushing by, pulling luggage on wheels, calling to each other. At the desk, a man was arguing vehemently with the attendant while the people behind him all wore looks of annoyance and frustration. How they could all use Billy Maxwell's calming words and meditation, I thought, shaking my head.

"What's so funny?" a young man in a dark gray suit asked. He had curly blonde hair and impish-looking hazel eyes with a dimple in his right cheek that appeared when he pressed his lips together. He carried a black briefcase and an umbrella.

"What? Oh. I was just watching those people and seeing the steam coming out of their ears."

"Steam?" He turned and looked at the line.

"Oh." He smiled pleasantly. "You're a seasoned traveler, huh?"

"Who? Me? No sir. This is my first trip on an airplane, ever!" I exclaimed.

"Really? Well, you don't look it. Where are you going? Wouldn't be Los Angeles by any chance, would it?"

"Yes," I replied. "I've got to go to gate forty-one."

"That's easy. I'm heading that way, too." He nodded to his left. He took a few steps and paused when I didn't follow. "I don't bite," he quipped.

"I didn't think you did." I said nervously, and started after him.

"I'm Jerome Fonsworth," he said.

"Unfortunately, I have to travel a lot so I am a seasoned traveler." He grimaced. "Hotel rooms, taxis and airports, that's my life. What a life," he concluded with a smirk.

"Why do you travel so much?" Like everyone else, he walked at a quick pace. I nearly had to jog to keep up.

"I'm in banking and I have to go from Boston to New York or to Chicago or Denver often. Sometimes I go to Atlanta and sometimes I go to Los Angeles.

Today, it's Los Angeles. Ever hear of that movie, If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium?"

I shook my head.

"Well, anyway, that's me. Busy, busy, busy.

Sometimes, I feel like a bee," he muttered, swinging his briefcase as he walked. He stopped suddenly and turned to me.

"Look at me," he said. "Do I look like a man in his late twenties or a man in his late thirties, early forties? Don't lie."

"I don't lie," I said, "especially to strangers." He laughed.

"I like that." He paused and tilted his head to consider. "You know, that makes sense. You have to know someone to care enough to lie to him. I don't lie much to strangers either." He thought and nodded.

"Well?"

"You don't look like a man in his forties," I said.

"But I look like a man in his thirties?" He waited, his eyes tightening.

"Early or mid-thirties," I admitted.

"That's because my hair's starting to thin out at the top of my forehead and that comes from stress. I'm really only twenty-eight." He started to turn and stopped. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't tell you my name, but it's Melody, Melody Logan."

"Melody? Don't tell me you sing and you're on your way to Los Angeles to become a star," he said disdainfully as he continued walking.

"No, I'm not going there to become a star," I replied, but I didn't think he really heard me.

"Right up here," he said, indicating an escalator. "You've got to check your purse, so if you have a gun in it, you'd better take it out now."

"A gun!"

"Just kidding," he said.

When we reached the entryway, I watched him put his briefcase on the table and realized they were looking at an X-ray screen. I put my purse on the moving table and walked through the metal door. A ringing sound started and the attendant stepped up to me.

"Have any change or keys in your pockets?"

"No, ma'am," I said.

"It's probably that necklace. Put it in the basket," she ordered.

Jerome Fonsworth stood watching and smiled at me. Slowly, I took off the necklace Billy had given me and put it in the basket. Then I walked through the gate again, this time without the ringing sound.

"Okay," she said, offering me the basket to take out my necklace. I did so quickly and put it on. Then I grabbed my purse and joined Jerome.

"I should have told you that would happen. I always have to take off this watch." He checked it as he slipped a shiny gold watch back on his wrist.

"You're going on American, flight one-oh-two also?"

"Yes."

"We have almost an hour. Want a cup of coffee or something?" he said, nodding toward the cafeteria.

"I might have a cup of tea."

"Stomach's woozy?" he kidded.

"As a matter of fact, it is," I said. I didn't see why I should be ashamed of being nervous. I bet he had been nervous the first time he had traveled like this, I thought. He heard the defensive tone in my voice.

"It's all right. The reason mine isn't woozy is because it's turned into a tin can from all the fast food I eat on the road and all the plane food I eat. Come on," he said and led me into the cafeteria. He ordered a coffee and a doughnut and a cup of tea for me.

"Thank you," I said when he insisted on paying for it.

"It's no big deal. I'm a bank executive in my father's bank. Money grows on trees," he said and indicated a table near the front of the cafeteria. We sat and he handed me my tea.

"Do you really hate your job as much as you claim?" I asked.

"Hate it? No, I've gotten so I don't feel anything about it. I go through the paces, do what I have to do, and then go home," he said. He didn't look at me when he spoke. His eyes continually wandered. Like everyone else around me, he seemed to be a bundle of wild energy. I thought he might just go poof and rise to the ceiling in a small cloud.

"Where is home?"

"Boston. I told you that," he said. "You weren't listening, Melody Logan." He waved his long right forefinger at me. "See, I remembered your full name.

Pay attention to everything and everyone when you travel," he advised. He bit into his doughnut and then offered it to me.

"No thank you."

"You'll calm down once you're in the air," he assured me. "Actually, flying's the best way to travel.

You put on earphones, sit back and fall asleep. Most of the time, I've got to work on the plane because I'm behind in my paperwork. I hate paperwork."

"What exactly do you do?"

"I work on commercial loans," he said. "It's not as glamorous as what people do in Hollywood. So why are you going there? Vacation?" He continued to look around after he asked me questions, as if he didn't care what I would answer or he was looking for someone else. "No, I'm going to meet my mother."

"Oh." He turned back. "Your parents divorced and you live with your father?"

"Not exactly," I said.

"You don't have to tell me your private business. I'm just being nosy to pass the time. Your name's Melody, but you don't sing?" he asked. He looked to his right, chewing his doughnut quickly, actually gobbling it.

"I play the fiddle."

"Fiddle?" He turned back to me and laughed.

"Not the violin?"

"It's different. I was brought up in West Virginia where playing the fiddle is very popular."

"Oh. I thought there was something unusual about your accent. Fiddle huh? Well, I suppose that's nice." He swallowed the last morsel of his doughnut and licked his fingers. "I'm hungrier than I thought. I think I'll get another doughnut."

"Oh, let me get it this time. You bought my tea," I offered.

He laughed.

"A woman of independent means. I like that.

Sure. Get me a plain . . . no, make it a chocolate doughnut this time," he said. I reached into my purse, opened my wallet and took out two dollars.

"Is this enough?"

"Yes," he said, shaking his head. "It's more than your tea cost so it's not exactly a fair exchange," he warned.

"That's something a banker would say," I replied and he laughed harder.

"Thanks."

I went to the counter and picked out the doughnut. His eyes were still full of laughter when I returned.

"I'm not used to women buying things for me.

The girls I know belong to the leech society," he said, taking the doughnut. "Come on, share this one with me, okay?"

"All right," I said and took the half he broke off. We ate in silence.

"I was in Los Angeles two months ago for a convention," he said when he'd finished his half.

"Did you like it?"

"Los Angeles? I stayed at the Beverly Hilton.

That's the way to see Los Angeles . . . chauffeurs, the best restaurants. Matter of fact, that's the way to see any place. Where's your mother live?"

I rattled off the address because I had committed it to memory soon after Kenneth Childs had given it to me in Provincetown.

"West Hollywood. Could be nice," he said.

"How come you've never been there before?"

"She hasn't been there that long," I replied. He saw from my face that there was much more to the story, but he didn't look like he wanted to pry anymore. He nodded and then looked around again.

"I just remembered I gotta make a phone call.

Would you watch my briefcase? I'll be right back," he said and jumped up before I could reply. He hurried down the terminal. The way he was burning up energy, he probably would look like forty or fifty soon, I thought.