|Fall Colors in Cabot Cove
Author: wonamini PM
Jessica Fletcher's long time friend, Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland, flies to Cabot Cove for the first time. His purpose? The outcome? Read more and find out. POV is that of Sutherland not Ms Fletcher for a change.Rated: Fiction K - English - Romance - Words: 684 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 3 - Published: 07-02-07 - id: 3630144
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Note: This is based off of Murder She Wrote – and the books by Donald Bain that has continued the series.
The small, Northeast, twin engine's wheels touched the tarmac. Once. Twice. The third time is a charm. All the wheels were on the ground and the plane was decelerating to the point of a stop.
"Sir," the flight attendant spoke in a candy colored voice. "Sir, are you alright?" She spoke a little louder, but still couldn't crack the sweet candy color of her voice.
"Huh?" Captain George Sutherland had been lost in thought, marveling at the beautiful fall foliage lining the Pacific blue in Cabot Cove, Maine.
"Sir, you can depart from the plane now." The candy color to her voice was quickly fading.
Sutherland had just taken note of the fact that the entire plane had already departed, except one elderly woman needing assistance with a walker. "Jessica, look what you have done to me." A wide grin spread across his face.
"Excuse me, sir? What did you say?" The five hour flight from the NYC hub to Bangor, Maine then the short puddle hop to Cabot Cove was wearing on the flight attendant's patience. "Will you need assistance departing from the plane, sir?"
Clearing the taste of longing from his throat, Sutherland directed his attention towards the quintessential flight attendant, "Oh, no Miss. I'm so sorry. I was lost is a dream." He smiled again but decided not to slip back to his day dreaming. He unbuckled his seat belt and arose from his seat. Gathering his carry on luggage, Sutherland looked down the plane aisle where the slender, tanned and perky flight attendant walked ahead of him. Men his age were supposed to drool at the sight of such young women.
"Jessica," he said out loud again and couldn't help but smile at the thought of his dear friend.
Thank heaven he was on vacation, as his fellow lads at Scotland Yard would harp on him to no end. First, not noticing that the whole flight had departed until five minutes after the fact. Second, his thoughts were not of young buxom blondes, but were rather consumed by his dear friend of many years.
On Jessica Fletcher's last trip across the Great Pond, she and Captain George Sutherland had shared for the first time, aloud, their mutual feelings of respect, friendship and attraction. But, time was short and Sutherland's friend had to leave back to the States.
He had been left with such longing. He filled his days following her departure with murder and mayhem, of course, his normal line of work. Yet, at whatever time he walked in his door at home, his first thought was not of his pillow and rest, rather, he would step inside and spot the blue and white floral scarf his dear friend had left at the last pub they had shared a pint. He would think of where she was, what she was wearing, what she might be doing at that instant, if she ever thought of him. Sutherland would eventually shake off his thoughts as boyish and provincial.
He would then move on to his kitchen and put on the kettle and brew him some hearty tea. His thoughts would once again return to his American friend. Jessica, unlike most people on the other side of the pond, preferred a good cup of tea to a tar like cup of coffee. His friend was bright, intuitive, sensitive to others, outgoing, and despite writing about the kinds of mysterious murders that Sutherland dealt with for a living, Jessica believed in the innate goodness of man and an undeterred hope for a better tomorrow. She was a delight to be around, not to mention she was fit and healthy, had a great dry wit, as well as a wonderful twinkle in her eye. Sutherland could not deny the chemistry that was held between them.
These are the thoughts that would lull him to sleep every night. Perhaps a bit boyish but definitely not provincial.