Annie stared at him for a moment, then reached for the silver button on his jacket.
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
He let her touch it.
“She has excellent taste,” he said.
“She tries to eat paper.”
“No one is perfect.”
The passengers around us began reaching for their bags before the plane had fully stopped.
Across the aisle, the man who had complained about Annie avoided looking in our direction.
Marcus glanced toward the front of the cabin.
“Emily, when the door opens, people may recognize me.”
“They already did.”
“This will be different.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means cameras. Questions. Possibly people trying to get close.”
I looked down at my wrinkled sweater and sleeping child.
“Wonderful. Exactly how I imagined arriving in Chicago.”
His mouth curved slightly.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t invite photographers.”
“No. But I have spent enough years around them to know they rarely need an invitation.”
A flight attendant approached us.
“Mr. Whitmore, airport security is waiting at the gate.”
Several nearby passengers turned.
Marcus stood and reached for my diaper bag.
“I can carry that.”
“You’re holding Annie.”
“I have carried both before.”
“You have also been awake since before sunrise.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know that?”
“You told me.”
I had forgotten.
That was how naturally he listened.
He remembered things most people allowed to pass through them.
I let him take the bag.
