Page 59 of Under the Radar
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Mo tossed her suitcases on the bed and started emptying drawers. She hadn’t read any of the books she’d packed. She tried on all the Jimmy Choos Mac had purchased for her and admired them in the full-length mirror. It’ll take a few days to break them in. It would hardly be an inconvenience to endure a few blisters for these beauties. She’d wear them around Mac’s place and soften the leather. Mo placed them in their respective boxes and dropped them into a suitcase.
She opened the safe. Her wallet, most of the cash, and cell phone all remained untouched for the whole week. I really should unplug more often. She connected the phone to the charger and jumped in the shower.Tempting as it was to take off the earrings, she left them on. Mac’s the only one listening. And he probably wasn’t doing that while handling security systems on the ship.
She could hardly wait to see Tia’s honeymoon pictures. Pack first—then phone. She glanced at the time. 12:15. Good. I’ll go back to Mac’s suite at 12:45. She’d try to be a little early. Mac was always early. She glanced at the phone when it chimed. I’m not looking at you until I have everything packed and zipped shut. She checked every drawer, closet, and the bathroom one more time. Satisfied that she had all her stuff, she zipped the suitcases and plopped on the couch with her phone, tucking the charger into an outer pocket on her purse.
Oh, it wasn’t so bad. 273 emails. She scanned the list quickly to see if anything was from work. Just a few procedural emails. Jason had emailed her almost every day. There were dozens of expletives as she scanned his messages. Oh, well—he’d just have to get over himself. She’d look at them later.
Mo switched over to her texts. There were 91 new ones. Her eyes flicked down the list and found Tia’s thread. It opened to selfies of her and Ethan zip-lining in a rainforest in Belize. Aww…they look so happy.
She checked the time. 12:35 I have a few more minutes. Mo scrolled to the top of the texts. There was one from her mother, sent an hour ago.
Maureen darling, your father was rushed to Johns Hopkins late last night. They think he had a heart attack. I’m on the plane now. If you get home before I do, please go to him. Cecil and the limo are waiting for you outside the ship.
Mo screamed and stood up. Oh, dear God, he’s alone. She jumped into her flip flops, threw her suitcases into the hallway, and started running with them trailing behind her. He hates hospitals. How could this happen? I told him he needed to exercise more often. She reached the elevator lobby, but it was jammed with people. Looking around for an exit sign, she spotted the stairs. Swearing and muttering under her breath, Mo took them two by two down a couple levels, her suitcases clattering behind her.
Crap! Swarms of people.All working their way to the lower floors to disembark. She weaved and pushed through the crowd to the elevator door, apologizing profusely. “I have a medical emergency.” Mo slid in the lift the moment the doors opened and stacked her suitcases on top of each other. Someone yelled a vicious curse at her, but she stood her ground as the doors shut.
When she reached the level to exit the ship, the staff directed her toward the winding gangplank that led to customs. Shit! She’d forgotten about clearing customs. What did she have? A sarong in Mac’s suite and the box of cigars she’d purchased for her father. It would be a cold day in hell before she’d give him those cigars. He had a heart attack, and she’d make sure he never smoked again. She’d give them to someone else. No, she’d throw them out.
Mo choked on a sob. The line for customs was long, but moving quickly. Panic rushed through her. Where’s my passport? She emptied her purse on top of a suitcase and found it. Thank heavens. She stuffed it in her bra and dragged the suitcases a few more feet. It might’ve been a better decision to run the luggage to Mac’s suite, but in the heat of the moment, she hadn’t thought of it. Mac! He didn’t know what was happening. She quickly forwarded her mother’s text to him and let him know she’d gone ahead to the hospital.
Wait a minute…Mac said that one of the earrings enabled him to hear her. She started babbling. “I’m almost through customs, Mac. My dad’s had a heart attack. Cecil is picking me up out front. I love you, Commander. Meet me at Hopkins.”
Thirty seconds later, she was face-to-face with a stern customs agent. The woman squinted at her. “Declaration of goods, please.”
Oh, for crying out loud. “I left it in the stateroom and have a medical emergency at home. May I fill out another one? Please?” Mo plastered a smile on her face hoping the agent would give a little. She placed the box of cigars on the counter and filled out the new form, scribbling so fast it was damn near unreadable.
The agent scrutinized her. “You got any Cubans on you?”
“Wha—what? You mean cigars? No, only these.” Mo pointed at the box of Bahamian cigars and tapped her foot like a metronome waiting for the stare-fest to end.
The agent pursed her lips and stamped the passport. “Welcome back to the United States of America, hon. You take care.” She handed Mo the cigars and her passport.
Mo left the cigars on the counter, grabbed the handles to her luggage, and ran. She cleared both warehouse buildings in a couple of minutes. It didn’t hurt that she was screaming at the top of her lungs, “Medical emergency, medical emergency.”
An observant passenger held the door for her as she whooshed through the final doorway into the hot and sickly humid Baltimore air. The dew point hit her like a fist. Mo stood dazed, searching the parking lot for the family limo, shielding her eyes from the sunlight with her hand because she’d left her sunglasses in Mac’s suite. There it is. The limo was always easy to identify because of the blue pom-pom on the antenna.
She dashed toward the vehicle as it pulled out of line and up to the curb. Move faster…run…Dad needs you. Her suitcases bounced and careened over the uneven walkway. The back door to the limo opened from the inside. That’s okay. She’d admonished Cecil many times that if he was suffering a bout of sciatica, she would gladly load herself.
Mo gave one huge heave and the first suitcase flew into the limo. With an unladylike grunt, she tossed in the second piece and yelled, “Cecil—fly like the wind. We’ve got to get there fast.” She ducked her head and slid into the backseat.
Several sets of arms pulled her into the vehicle, slamming the door and covering her face with a rag.
Mo never saw the high-fives they exchanged or heard the hip-hop blaring as the limo turned onto Key Highway.