“What did he say?” Jack looked toward the snow. “He said, ‘Then do it well.’” “That’s all?”
“That is a sonnet from my father.” Claire smiled. Then Jack reached into his coat pocket and showed her the brass house keychain from the gift shop. “I told him I bought him something stupid.”
“And?” “He said good. He likes stupid gifts.” Claire touched the tiny brass roof with one finger.
“I think you should go home,” she said. “If the seat clears.” “No. I mean after Christmas. Go to Boston.”
Jack looked at her in a way that made the terminal disappear slightly. “You think I should?” “Yes.” “Would you visit?”
The question arrived lightly and landed heavily. Claire could have made a joke. Instead she said, “Probably.” “Probably is where people put difficult truths.”
She smiled. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” “No,” she admitted. “I don’t.”
At eleven-fifty, several stranded travelers gathered around the crooked terminal Christmas tree. A teenage girl produced a small portable radio. Someone found a station broadcasting a Christmas Eve countdown from Times Square. The airport was miles from celebration and yet nobody wanted midnight to pass unnoticed.