Clayton McClintock pressed his cell phone to his ear. "I'm going to be late," he told his date, as he studied the flight schedule posted in the terminal. All the flights were on time but one. Hers. It figured. Conversation swirled around him as people rushed through the arrival gates and met those waiting for them in the lounge area.
On his phone there was dead silence. He pulled the cell from his ear to study its small screen, but his call hadn't been lost. "Ellen, are you there?" he asked.
"Yes," was the reply, in a tone of long suffering patience, followed by a sigh reminiscent of the dramatic ones his sisters had subjected him to in their teens. "This isn't working, Clayton. You stand me up more often than you see me."
He sighed, too—with frustration. "Things have been crazy with my sister's wedding stuff." Writing checks, that had been his primary duty. And then he'd been pressed into playing chauffeur. Everyone else was busy with the rehearsal this afternoon.
He ...
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