“She’s right here in New York,” Peggy whispered, conscious of the surrounding passengers, whose attention was riveted on the strange, dramatic scene. “I’m her friend, and I came to stop you from going to Europe. I’m sorry I caused such a fuss ... but they didn’t want to let me on the plane, and—”
“Wait, please,” Mr. Andrews interrupted in a quiet voice. “This is no place to talk.” He turned to his wife. “Stacy, we’re not taking this plane. Don’t say a word now. We’ll talk where it’s more private.”
Paula’s father instructed the baffled stewardess to see to it that their luggage was removed, then shepherded his wife and Peggy out of the plane, leaving behind a cabin full of puzzled, buzzing passengers.
“Are ... are you sure about this?” Paula’s mother said to her husband.
“No,” he said calmly, “but we can’t leave here until we are sure, one way or the other.”
At the passenger gate, they found Randy—uncomfortably under the guard of two airport policemen. The official who had tried to stop Peggy was sitting on a stool with an angry expression and what looked like the beginning of a classic black eye.
“This is my friend, Randy Brewster,” Peggy said. “He drove me out here, and it looks as if he had to do some fighting to see to it that I got on the plane.”
Randy grinned sheepishly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.”
Mr. Andrews smiled at Randy. To the policemen he said, “Let him come along with us, please.”
“I dunno, Mr. Andrews,” one of the policemen said. “I think Mr. Watkins here wants to hold him on an assault charge.”