Free Driven by W. G. Griffiths Page B

hate.

13
    K arianne Stordal was still shaken. Her legs felt rubbery as she walked the Long Beach boardwalk. Twenty-nine, she’d been a
     flight attendant for Globe Airlines for the past six years, and only once before had she ever encountered air turbulence as
     bad as today’s.
    After a bad flight, a walk on the boardwalk was usually enough to settle her down. The offshore breeze carrying the salty
     scent of the Atlantic Ocean reminded her of pleasant times with her parents at the beach. Thoughts of her uncomplicated childhood
     were always welcome and usually soothing, but today was different. Today she found herself considering additional help—the
     kind of help she so often ministered to nervous passengers: a drink. Not much. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough
     to help her already pleasant surroundings ease her tension.
    Her thought of leaning on such help was not a simple one. She had not had a drink in over five years. As a recovering alcoholic,
     she’d done great. The fear of sliding backward into a repeat of past years of abuse had always overcome any serious temptation
     to drink… until today. For the first time in five years she felt like she had a good enough reason. Actually, she had earned
     it—deserved it. Any human being that had just spent the last hour in a glorified tin tube fifty thousand feet over the ocean,
     bouncing in and out of five-hundred-foot invisible air pockets and smiling while collecting half-full vomit bags deserved
     a drink.
    The idea of a little liquid comfort had first come just minutesbefore setting foot on real ground and, as usual, had been immediately dismissed—or at least suppressed. But after going home
     to her Long Beach apartment she had still been trembling.
    “It’s over! You’re fine,” she had said to her image in the bedroom mirror as she slid her hairpins out and let her thick blonde
     hair fall to her shoulders. “You just need a hot shower.”
    But when a shower and change of clothing—into her ever-comfortable cut-off shorts and tank top—failed to help, the thought
     had returned. Very uncharacteristically, she now allowed the thought to linger at arm’s length as she pondered it, trying
     to rationalize everything. Soon, the idea began to take on a logical, even friendly, feel—a sharp contrast to the addiction
     that had chased her for so many years. But that was then. Now she was stronger, more mature.
    Her gait was as casual as a window shopper’s as she passed by the stores and food stands that lined the boardwalk. She strolled
     by the Seahorse Tavern with barely a glance, reinforcing her ability to pass it if she wanted to. After all, she could easily
     have had a drink on the plane, or brought one of those little bottles home with her.
    She leaned on the long pipe railing that protected passersby from falling to the sand six feet below and looked out to the
     ocean, shaking her head at the sight of approaching rain clouds. The weather forecast had mentioned the possibility of a late
     thunderstorm. The last thing she needed was more instability in her atmosphere. She held out her hand to see if she was still
     shaking. She knew she would be, but held it out anyway as if to show her strength to the eyes of another—her conscience. Then
     she looked over her right shoulder at the Seahorse Tavern, its grayish driftwood siding draped with old fishing nets. She
     could probably watch the clouds just as easily from the other side of that picture window…
    She considered passing the tavern by again as she neared the door. Maybe another test was needed to show it was really she
     whowas in control, and not her addiction. But, no. She’d already passed that test. And she could just as easily leave whenever
     she wanted, and would do just that—after one drink.
    The wall of cool air brought immediate relief as she entered. To her left were a dozen tables, all but one empty. Two men
     in suits. They looked at her and smiled. She