But here I am, north of forty now, and still unmarried with no family.

"Would you care for a beverage?" the flight attendant asked me.

I'm not much of a drinker but I asked for a scotch and soda. Win's drink. I needed something to numb me a little, help me sleep. I closed my eyes again. Back to blocking. Blocking was good.

So where did Terese Collins, the woman I was flying across an ocean to see, fit in?

I never thought of Terese in terms of love. Not like that anyway. I thought about her supple skin and the smell of cocoa butter. I thought about the grief coming off her in waves. I thought about the way we made love on that island, two shipwrecks. When Win finally came via yacht to bring me home, I was stronger from our time together. She was not. We said our good-byes, but that hadn't been the end of us. Terese helped me when I needed it most, eight years ago, and then she vanished back into her hurt.

Now she was back.

For eight years, Terese Collins had been gone not only from me but from public view. In the nineties, she had been a popular TV personality, CNN's top anchorwoman, and then, poof, gone.

The plane landed and taxied to the gate. I grabbed my bag-no need to check luggage when it was for only a couple of nights- and wondered what awaited me. I was the third off the plane, and with my long stride I quickly took the number one spot as we headed for the customs and immigration line. I had hoped to breeze through but three other flights had just landed and there was a logjam.

The line snaked through roped-off areas Disney World-style. It moved fast. The agents were mostly just waving people through, giving each passport little more than a cursory glance. When it was my turn, the female immigration officer looked at my passport, then at my face, then back at the passport, then back at me. Her eyes lingered. I smiled at her, keeping the Bolitar Charm setting on Low. I didn't want the poor woman disrobing right there at customs.