| OCR Text |
Show 200 one another and weeping. Sean's and Hunt's father's plane, on the monitor, was LANDING . . . LANDING. Hunt remembered himself on the roof at dawn fetching Todd's basketball, recalled the height. He moved over to the concourse glass, tried to spot the United Air jet. There! Taxiing. Hunt held his own luggage, and it seemed curious meeting a plane holding bags of your own. Hunt had not seen Sean since Christmas, his father for a year and a half. He felt young. Or was that just anticipation? Energy? Perhaps it was that he felt self-conscious, carrying baggage. Leah would have been a more gracious person to have met the plane. The first to emerge from the telescope/corridor was Sean. But Hunt's father was right there. "Hey!" Hunt said. And he hugged Sean, while his father said, "Well, well, well!" just behind. "How are_ you?" Hunt asked them both. He tried to hug his father, but his father shook hands. "We've had a grand flight," his father said. "Chicago's still the pits!" Sean said. "Even without snow! Two hours! Where's Mom?" "Is Leah all right?" Hunt's father asked. And behind the glasses, Hunt saw the question: Not something with the marriage again, I hope? "Leah's fine. Mom's fine," Hunt said. "She's in Aspen. She took Todd. Fund-raiser's conference. She's meeting us at the lake tomorrow. Can I take your bags?" "You've got your own," Hunt's father said. |
