Maddie Comes Home: A Scene from 'Reunion: Coda'

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Maddie Comes Home
Friday, March 10, 2000

John F. Kennedy International Airport, Arrivals Terminal, 2:05 PM EST

I'm at JFK, the arrivals terminal humming with the energy of a city that never sleeps. It's a Friday afternoon, and the place is buzzing like a nightclub, but instead of music and laughter, it's filled with the sounds of greetings and goodbyes. I'm here waiting for Maddie, my heart racing a bit as I glance at the clock. Her flight, British Airways BA-175, was due at 1:45 PM, but it's running 20 minutes late. Headwinds over the Atlantic, they said.

I taught my Intro to WWII class at Columbia this morning at 9:00, and Henry Townsend, bless him, arranged for a TA to cover my afternoon sessions. I rarely drive in Manhattan, but today I made an exception. I pulled my '95 Acura out of the garage, where I shell out more than I'd care to admit each month, and hit the road around 10:30 AM. The traffic was a nightmare, made worse by a fender bender somewhere on FDR Drive, between midtown Manhattan and here.

I've been trying to distract myself with the day's New York Times, but the headlines are just a blur. NASDAQ's record high, a bomb in Sri Lanka killing 18—none of it registers. All I can think about is Maddie, jet lag, and whether she'll be up for watching The English Patient tonight.

To kill time, I wandered into the duty-free and picked up the latest Tom Clancy paperback, The Bear and the Dragon. Now, I'm nursing my third cup of coffee from Starbucks, trying to lose myself in Clancy's world of espionage and military fiction, but it's no use.

Then, out of nowhere, I hear her voice, that British accent cutting through the noise, "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" I look up, and there she is. Maddie, in a red dress cinched with a black belt, knee-high black boots, and that wide-brimmed red hat she loves. She's got a wheeled suitcase and a carry-on slung over her shoulder. She's here, and suddenly, the wait is worth it.

The Clancy novel slips from my fingers, thudding against the Starbucks' tiled floor, but I barely notice. I'm on my feet in an instant, my Indy fedora almost taking flight from the sudden movement. It doesn't, though, and it ends up askew, covering my left eye. Maddie's giggle is a silver bell in the airport's cacophony. I can't help but grin as I adjust the hat, channeling my inner Harrison Ford with a rakish tilt.

Time seems to stand still as we lock eyes. There's so much we could say—mundane pleasantries, polite inquiries—but none of that matters now. We're reading each other's faces, searching for the stories written there since our last goodbye. Maddie's beauty is as striking as ever, her heart-shaped face a canvas of soft contours and delicate lines. Her hazel eyes, vibrant even in her fatigue, are alive with the stories she's yet to tell me. Chestnut waves frame her face, and her lips, oh her lips—they're a perfect bow, the kind that would inspire poets and artists alike.

She looks every bit the English rose I remember, yet there's a hint of weariness around her eyes—a subtle testament to the miles she's crossed to get here. But when our gazes meet, all signs of tiredness seem to vanish, replaced by a spark that's all too familiar.

 

Without a word, we step into each other's arms, and the world around us fades. Our kiss is a revelation, a collision of longing and relief. Maddie surprises me with a French kiss, bold and passionate, and I'm lost in the sensation. It's a kiss that speaks of missed moments and the promise of those to come. Our hats tumble to the ground, forgotten, as we're enveloped in the warmth of our embrace.

A passerby's gruff voice cuts through the moment, "Get a room, why don't you!" But we barely hear it. We're too wrapped up in the rediscovery of each other, in a kiss that feels like coming home.

Our laughter mingles, a shared melody that softens the edges of the bustling terminal. Maddie's playful defiance shines as she sends a cheeky gesture to the retreating New Yorker, her spirit undimmed by his rudeness. Then, she turns back to me, her eyes alight with affection, and our lips meet again. This kiss is gentler, a tender reaffirmation of our connection.

"I missed you, Professor Garraty," she whispers against my lips, her voice a soothing balm to the chaos of my day. I straighten up, balancing the Tom Clancy novel awkwardly under my arm as I gather our fallen hats. With a reverence that feels almost sacred, I place the wide-brimmed red hat atop her head, adjusting it with care.

Maddie's smile is gratitude and love interwoven. "Thanks for coming all the way out here to fetch me," she says, her words wrapping around me like a warm embrace. In this moment, with her standing before me, every mile driven and every minute waited feels utterly worthwhile.

"You're welcome, Sweets," I reply, feeling my words are too plain for a writer, but Maddie doesn't seem to mind. She's ready to leave this place, her voice tinged with the weariness of the long journey from London. "Was the flight alright?" I ask, trying to mask my concern.

She sighs, a small frown creasing her forehead. "It was... eventful. There was this chap, definitely not with the Philharmonic, who had a bit too much to drink. I had some pink Chablis, but this guy…ugh. Kept making awkward passes at me," she rolls her eyes, but I can tell it bothered her more than she lets on.

"And the pink Chablis?" I probe gently, knowing she sometimes likes to indulge in a glass of wine to calm her nerves.

"Just two glasses," she admits with a half-smile, "but they did make me a bit knackered, along with the whole ordeal."

I nod, understanding now the full extent of her fatigue. "Let's get you home then," I say, deciding there and then to take care of her, to put her needs before my own hopes for the evening.

I'm torn. Part of me clings to the plan of watching The English Patient at my Midtown apartment, the evening unfolding with popcorn and Lancers wine. Yet, I can't shake off the concern for her comfort; she's clearly exhausted. It wouldn't be right to ignore the signs of jet lag etched on her face.

"Maddie, I can take you to your place if you prefer," I suggest, the words feeling heavy with unspoken hope and hesitation.

She looks at me, a soft determination in her eyes. "No, I want to go to your apartment. It's been too long, Jim."

"But you're tired, and I don't want to—"

"I know what I want," she interrupts, her voice firm yet affectionate. "And I want to be with you tonight."

The air between us is charged with a mix of concern and longing. I know she's pushing herself, but the heart wants what it wants.

"Okay, but at least let me know where you live, just in case," I say, trying to prepare for any eventuality.

She hesitates, then relents, half-whispering an address in Jamaica Heights, Queens. It's a compromise, a safety net, but as we head out of the terminal, I can't help but feel the night is still ours to claim.