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heading down for breakfast and there it was, a note in a white envelope slipped under the door. I waited a full minute before succumbing, and retrieved the small envelope. Peter Leigh’s masculine, well-formed writing seemed just like him.
     
    Mandy,
     
    I am so sorry to have caused you any distress. That was a thoughtless comment on my part and I hope you can forgive me. Perhaps I’ll run into you in Kruger and somehow make amends, but if not, I wish you only the best on your travels. Be safe.
     
    Peter Leigh
     
    I threw the letter into my carry-on and zipped the lid tightly. So much for a handsome diversion on the trip. Pathetic… that’s what my life was… pathetic. I applied tear-disguising makeup and headed downstairs to take a meal of sunny-side-up eggs, brown bread, and some of the Cape’s famous cheeses. I might as well have dined on cardboard.
    Table Mountain glowed in the distance, rising out of the immaculately-manicured garden surrounding the picturesque hotel. Crane flowers, Egyptian geese, noisy waxbills, and a vivid double-collared sunbird vied for a final photo before I checked out. Peter Leigh didn’t put in an appearance—not that I thought he would—and I resolutely drove the blue BMW to the airport and managed to drop it off without one single mishap. My mother, cousin, and Mr. Leigh for that matter, would have been astounded.
    I relaxed in the sports bar for thirty minutes watching a drag race on the small screen and sipping an odd-flavored, warm drink called rooibos tea. The half-full South African Airlines flight to Johannesburg passed uneventfully and later, after a couple hours of fidgeting anxiously in the beautiful JHS airport, I finally heard the boarding call for my connecting flight to the Phalaborwa Airstrip.
    I spotted the small aircraft outside the airport’s huge windows and was suddenly filled with trepidation. A mere Jetstream—the blasted thing only held twenty-nine seats! Swallowing nervously, I boarded the compact plane and sank tentatively into my gray seat next to an obese black man whose eyes were already shut. No matter how I maneuvered, I couldn’t distance myself from him and ended up sitting rigidly, my personal space cruelly violated as the last remnants of my self-confidence were vanquished.
    The ensuing flight proved a nightmare as the toy plane bounced and groaned. The oblivious flight attendant handed out peanuts and soft drinks, never once spilling a drop during all the turbulence. The deafening throb of the twin propellers made it impossible to hold a conversation, much less think. I pretended to doze in my seat, squirreled away as far as I could manage from my sleeping neighbor, whose mouth now hung open. He snored gustily, though fortunately the din of the airplane motors drowned out the majority of his snorts.
    Nearly two miserable hours later, after dosing myself with three antacid tablets and one of my migraine pills, the plane swung steeply downward. Through the small porthole I noted that the runway seemed far too short and gasped in horror. My seatmate snored on as I mentally measured the airstrip. No more than a thousand meters long or so, the small plane shuddered and lost altitude. Fiendish air currents battered the aircraft as its landing gear noisily descended.
    I whispered a fervent prayer and prepared to die. Stomach in knots, I gripped the armrests until my knuckles turned white. The rotund gentleman next to me gave a loud snort as the plane touched earth and bounced twice.
    “Are we there?” he mumbled groggily.
    I was too frightened to do more than nod as the plane skidded to a stop. The perky flight attendant helped me gather up my things. Still shaky, I disembarked and peered about me.
    The Phalaborwa airfield hosted a small but comfortable terminal and within minutes I’d retrieved my luggage (there were some advantages to small planes) and pondered my next move. My white shirt hopelessly creased and sweaty, I scanned the small line of