A few passengers smiled at the joy in his voice. Louis did not.
He pulled one AirPod out. “Could you please control your children? I’m about to start my call. This is not a playground.”
Debbie turned, offered an apologetic smile. “Of course. Kids, let’s keep our voices low, okay?”
And for the next hour, she kept them quietly occupied — puzzle books for Jack, coloring pages for Lily, and a whispered story about a lighthouse for Owen.
Louis barely noticed. He was too busy leaning toward his webcam, talking about “margin forecasts” and “quarterly distribution” as he spread fabric swatches across his tray table — cashmere, silk, tweed, arranged like trophies. He name-dropped Milan and Paris as if they were personal playgrounds.
When his call finally ended, Debbie glanced at the swatches. “Excuse me,” she said politely, “are you in the textile business?”
Louis smirked. “Yeah. Newman Apparel. We just secured an international license deal. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
Debbie nodded slowly. “I run a small boutique in Texas.”
He laughed under his breath. “A boutique? That explains the budget fashion. The designers we hire have runway shows in Milan and Paris. Not weekend markets.”
She kept her voice level. “I liked your navy check pattern. It reminded me of one my husband designed a while back.”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Sure he did. Maybe one day you’ll both make it to the big leagues. Until then, stick to… whatever it is you people do. Garage sales?”
Debbie’s fingers tightened around her armrest, but she said nothing. She just reached for Owen’s hand, then Jack’s, then Lily’s — as if to remind herself what mattered.
