Carpe Diem by Autumn Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page B

history of semiconductors until three beers later he mercifully fell asleep.
    I noticed everyone around me was sleeping, so I risked putting on the white face mask. After all, better safe than sorry. Then I blew up a neck pillow, stuck in orange earplugs, set up a portable folding footstool, and took out my laptop.
    Not a day without a line!
    I typed: A Novel by Vassar Spore.

    Then stopped. The Big Secret beckoned me. I typed the words I’d overheard barely two weeks ago:
    Bubble. Birth. Too young. Rubber ball. Dying. Egg.
    All together they added up to something capable of sending Dad for Tums and Mom for Valium.
    But before I could brainstorm any further—I fell asleep.

CHAPTER ONE
    The Malaysian Cowboy
    W here was Bag #8? Bags #1 through #10 were all accounted for, with the sole exception of Bag #8. They stood in a row like soldiers, each black piece affixed with a giant chrome VS. (“Much more efficient once you’re in baggage claim. Saves you at least thirty seconds per bag identification,” Dad had said. He was so right: Not one other passenger had giant chrome monograms.)
    I moved closer to the baggage claim conveyor belt to scrutinize every suitcase chugging by.
    Ahh! There was the tardy Bag #8 finally sliding down the chute, easily identifiable from all the other black suitcases. With the help of two kindly businessmen, I loaded Bags #1 through #10 onto four luggage carts.
    â€œStarting your own import-export business?” asked the heavy one, winking at the thin one as he plopped the last bag on the pile.
    â€œNo, simply prepared,” I said.
    The rest of my flight had been uneventful—except when I lined up for the bathroom forgetting I had my face mask on. Highly embarrassing. Especially when I made a toddler cry.

    I consulted my PTP and scrolled through the To Do List Upon Arrival: #1: Arrive safely, disembark at 3:05 p.m. (don’t forget anything!), and get luggage. (Check!) #2: Meet Grandma Gerd in airport lobby. #3: Drive from Singapore to Melaka, Malaysia (time frame approximately three hours).
    It took a bit of maneuvering to propel all four carts into the lobby—that and help from various middle-aged men who just could not stand by and watch as I inched my way across Singapore International Airport. As I guarded my ten pieces of VS luggage, I searched the milling Asians, twenty-something U.S. and Canadian backpackers, and businessmen and businesswomen. Over in a corner, a pack of international engineers gathered under a royal blue banner that read: MODERN COMPONENT TECHNOLOGIES ANNUAL SEMICONDUCTOR CONFERENCE! They all wore white polos or button-down blue shirts with royal blue MCT logos whether they hailed from America, Africa, or Asia.
    But I saw no one who looked grandmotherly. Not that I was worried. After all, my flight had been early. Grandma Gerd still had exactly nine minutes and twenty-four seconds to meet her granddaughter.
    â€œHey, little lady. You dropped your money belt,” said a husky male voice with a slight twang.
    An Asian guy a couple inches shorter and a couple years older than me pointed at a flesh-colored money belt at my feet. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a button-down Western shirt, jeans, boots—and thick black sideburns shaved to points on either side of his mouth. He sucked on a Chupa
sucker, the white stick shifting side to side. I involuntarily backed away.
    â€œOh, no. Mine’s around my …” But before I could say “waist,” he picked up the money belt, unzipped it, pulled out the passport, flipped it open, and read, “Vassar Spore—what, no middle name? Born 19—”
    I snatched the passport out of his hand and, in doing so, managed to drop my leather briefcase—sending all six travel guides whizzing across the airport floor, narrowly grazing the feet of two passing Thai flight attendants.
    â€œGood aim,” he drawled. “Somebody bowls.”
    I scrambled to retrieve the guides