Holiday Mishaps, Love Found

The suitcase trolley shot sideways the moment Mira Henderson put her handbag on it, taking one wheel, a packet of salted almonds, and the last of her airport dignity toward the automatic doors.

“Sorry,” she told the trolley, although it had shown no signs of regret.

She caught it before it collided with a family of six and a decorative palm tree. The palm survived. The youngest child did not look impressed.

Mira straightened her coat, checked the arrivals board, and inhaled the warm, lemony air of Riverton International Airport. She had landed. She had found the trolley. She had located the exit. In another seven minutes, she would be in a taxi to the Seabreeze Hotel, where a shower, a sea-view balcony, and a bed with nobody else’s alarm set on it awaited her.

That was the plan.

The airport had other plans, judging by the carousel, which had just begun making a noise like a washing machine full of cutlery.

Mira wheeled herself toward Belt Nine. Her luggage tag was tucked safely into her phone case, her hotel confirmation was open on her screen, and the little blue suitcase emoji beside her booking seemed to promise competence. She had even remembered to pack the printed confirmation, because her sister had once told her that phones became useless the moment a person needed them.

The carousel shuddered. A red suitcase emerged, followed by a black one with a yellow ribbon, then a large navy case with a white shell sticker.

Mira’s suitcase was navy. It had a white shell sticker.

“There you are,” she said.

The case trundled toward her. She reached for the handle, pulled it free, and lifted it onto the trolley with the satisfying grunt of a person who had successfully completed the difficult part of travel.

A second navy suitcase arrived. Mira grabbed that one too.

The two cases fitted neatly together, like a pair of obedient bricks. She glanced at the tags. One was hidden beneath the trolley strap. The other had a small white shell, which was exactly what her case had.

Possibly.

Her flight had been delayed, her neck was stiff, and a man behind her was loudly explaining to his mother that airport coffee was “a psychological experiment.” Mira decided that tag inspection belonged to a calmer version of herself, one who had already checked into the hotel and was wearing slippers.

She turned away from the carousel.

The trolley immediately rolled backward.

Mira lunged after it, catching the handle with both hands. The cases wobbled. The red suitcase behind her tipped forward, kissed the floor, and opened just enough for three pairs of men’s socks to slide out.

A child pointed. “That’s not yours.”

“Noted,” Mira said.

A baggage attendant in a fluorescent vest hurried over. “Madam, please keep moving. Other passengers need access.”

“I’m trying to.”

The trolley rolled toward him.

He stepped aside. Mira stepped aside in the opposite direction. The trolley followed her with the stubborn loyalty of a badly trained dog.

At last she dragged it clear and headed for the airport exit, where a row of passengers waited beneath a sign reading PICKUP, MEETINGS, AND OTHER HUMAN CONFUSION.

Her driver was supposed to be holding a card with her name on it. Mira scanned the crowd.

A man held a card reading MIRA HENDERSON.

She felt a small, golden glow of victory.

“Mr. Patel?” she called.

The man looked up. He was short, pink-cheeked, and wearing a knitted hat despite the tropical heat. “Mira?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. I’m Nigel.”

Mira glanced at the luggage. “You’re from the Seabreeze Hotel?”

Nigel’s smile became uncertain. “No. I’m collecting Mira Henderson.”

“That’s me.”

“Yes, but - ”

He looked at the card, then at her, then at the two navy suitcases.

“Are you sure?”

Mira had been asked this question twice in the last ten minutes, and it was beginning to feel personal. “I’ve been sure since the plane landed.”

Nigel’s expression suggested that this was not the reassurance she intended.

A woman in a silver tracksuit pushed between them. “Excuse me, darling, is this the shuttle for the Marina Grand?”

“No,” Nigel said.

“Yes,” said a man behind her.

The woman turned to Mira. “Are you Nigel?”

Mira looked at the knitted hat. “Not today.”

The pickup line tightened around them. Drivers held signs for hotels, villas, conference groups, and one bewildered-looking wedding party. A man carrying twelve identical yellow roses tried to move through the crowd and became trapped beside the airport information desk.

Nigel cleared his throat. “Could I see your booking?”

Mira unlocked her phone. The screen showed the Seabreeze Hotel confirmation, the flight number, and a battery warning at twelve percent.

“There,” she said.

Nigel leaned closer. “That’s not my booking.”

“Why would your booking be on my phone?”

“I meant the transfer booking.”

Mira searched her email. The airport Wi-Fi asked for a surname, a flight number, and a personal opinion about data collection. She entered all three. The page froze.

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