A Flying Affair (12 page)

Two weeks later, Rex Kline moved into the foreman's cottage. By mid-October, three clients from his former place of employment had sent their horses over, saying they'd rather stay with Kline than face uncertainty with the turnover of the West Virginia farm. It was the ebb and flow of the saddlebred industry but a nice windfall for Morning Glory Farms—and breathing room for Mittie as well. Gypsy was put on an off-season training program, maintaining her morning exercise but without the rigid pace of the show season.

Ames and the Patriots took their barnstorming act to Oklahoma, deeming it the most successful venture yet. Every time Ames called, Mittie hoped it was to say he was back in Louisville. The three-minute calls that cost him precious money were never long enough, and she spent hours recalling the taste of his lips, his hands circling her waist, the way the wind ruffled his hair. His latest news was that his air intake invention had been awarded a patent and garnered the interest of a manufacturer in Kansas City.

Mittie's mother left for Alabama to visit Iris, cheerful about the prospect. She invited Mittie to join her, but it was a half-hearted attempt. When Mittie declined, saying she'd rather resume her flying lessons while she still remembered what Bobby taught her, her mother seemed relieved. When she and her dad took her mother to the train, all her mother could talk about was shopping and the social occasions Iris had planned.

Mittie progressed through her training with Bobby and made her first solo flight without a hitch. She was only a few hours short of qualifying for her license when Bobby met her in the canteen one day and handed her a newspaper.

“Something that might interest you.” He pointed to an article near the bottom of the page.

 

Questions snapped through Mittie's head like electricity. “Well, fiddlesticks. That's only a month away, and I'm still short on solo hours. Is it possible for me to qualify in time? And what about a plane? Do you have to own the plane you fly?” She could hardly ask her daddy to buy her one since she still felt indebted to him for Dobbs. She had the trust fund from Grandfather Humphreys—a tidy sum—but she wasn't sure she was ready to part with it just yet.

“Slow down. Let's take this one chunk at a time. I see no reason we can't get the rest of your solo hours in this week. We've covered everything that is likely to be on the knowledge test. There will be an oral exam by the examiner and the air test.”

“But do you think I can pass?”

Bobby gave her a crooked grin. “I have every confidence you will. If not, then I'm in the wrong line of work. I'll check on the plane ownership, but it's not unusual for pilots to borrow planes or secure a sponsor. The question is, do you want to try?”

“Get out! You know this is what I've been waiting for.
If
I'm considered.”

“The competition may be tough—you do understand that, right?”

“Competition I can handle. And I don't even care if I win; it's taking that first step. You know how it is with horses. You train and groom them and set them up for their first outing to see how they do. You don't expect a first or even a second because you're building experience, giving them credibility. You take calculated risks.”

Bobby's expression changed from thoughtful listening to one of amusement as she talked. She stopped and tossed her hair back. “What? Are you laughing at me?”

“Not at all. You remind me of the way I was when I discovered that flying was my passion.”

“Why don't you enter, too? I could learn from you, and we could compare notes.”

He shook his head. “Not my ball of string.”

“I wonder if Ames would consider it.”

Bobby stilled, his eyes narrowing. “He doesn't strike me as the type, either. He's flush with experience, but—”

“The prize would interest him. It doesn't say how much is being offered, but it's got to be better than what he makes barnstorming.”

“Why don't you ask him, then? It does say it's an open competition.” There was a brusqueness in his tone that told her to drop the subject.

Ames breezed into town on Friday, the Oriole slipping from the sky and onto the runway while Mittie was doing her postflight check. Bobby signed off on her flight and told her he'd learned more about the air competition. Because of the high level of interest, there would be a limit to the number of contenders based on when the applications were filed. Lindbergh's campaign to promote aviation was apparently working.

“I talked to my parents. Mother still thinks I'm putting my neck in a noose by flying, but Daddy's come around. Now I just have to qualify with the license so I can send in my application for the women's race.”

“How does next week sound? An examiner will be here on the tenth.”

Mittie blew out a long breath. “Perfect. Where do I sign up?”

“I've already put your name on the list.”

Mittie threw her arms around Bobby's neck and kissed him on the cheek. “You're the berries, Bobby York!”

Behind her, someone cleared his throat. “I thought I was the berries. Guess that'll teach me to stay away so long.”

“Ames! I thought I saw you coming in, and it's high time you got back.” She leaned into him, waiting for a kiss.

Instead, he bumped shoulders with her and held up his hands. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Don't be daft. Bobby has the most wonderful news. Tell him, Bobby.”

“Not sure which news you mean.”

Ames took off his leather helmet and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Looks like this could go either way. Good news for the two of you could mean bad news for me.”

Mittie said, “The news…our news is that I'm so close to qualifying for a license I can taste it. The examiner comes next week.” She took in a deep breath. “And if I pass that means I qualify for a competitive air race in St. Louis in three weeks. Isn't that grand?”

“Really? That is swell news.” He clapped Bobby on the back. “Good work, man.” He kissed the tip of Mittie's nose. “Wanna tag along while I put
Trixie
in the hangar? I need to check a couple of knocks I heard.”

“I'd love to.” She thanked Bobby, who said he'd see her on Monday. His tone was pleasant enough, but Mittie detected a momentary narrowing of his eyes when he told Ames to take it easy. It might have been the sun that caused the squint, but it appeared more like a challenge.

They celebrated Ames' return with a late-afternoon drive along the Ohio River. Ames pulled his runabout off on a patch of dry ground and asked if she'd like to take a walk. Mittie took his arm when he offered it, the grassy slope along the water a carpet beneath their feet. She gazed at his stubbled chin, memorizing the creases around his eyes, letting the gentle slosh of the river pull her into the quixotic moment.

“It's good to have you back. You can't imagine how I've missed you.”

“I wasn't sure when I saw you with York earlier.”

“He's been swell about finding out the details for the rally. Then he caught me by surprise, taking care to get me on the examiner's list so I could qualify. I'd have shown you the same appreciation.”

They stopped and watched as a tugboat chugged along, a foamy brine lapping its edges. Upriver, a steamboat whistled like a sour note on the church organ.

Ames encircled her in his arms, her back to his chest, his breath warm on her neck. “I know you would have, doll. No fella likes to have his thunder stolen.”

She tilted her head back and asked what he meant.

“I just learned about the rally myself a few days ago and was going to surprise you. I stopped in St. Louis yesterday so I could get you an entry form in case you got your license in time.”

Warmth rushed over her as she turned to face Ames and wrapped her arms around his waist. His lips found hers, soft and gentle, then firmer as broad hands splayed across her back pulling her closer. When his mouth released hers, she whispered, “You're the berries, Ames Dewberry.”

They both chuckled at the echo of her words and found the other's lips again.

Mittie was the first to pull back. “You know it would be fun if you entered, too.”

“And who would be your mechanic, making sure everything was tip-top? It's the least I can do for you, doll.” He stopped, a decided pucker in his forehead. “Unless you'd prefer York.”

“Of course not. I even thought Bobby might enter, but he's not keen on the competitive side of aviation. Or the prize money.”

“And I'm the poor sap who could use it. Is that what you're saying?”

“Heavens, no…well, I did think you could, but I also thought it might be something you'd like to do. And why are you so prickly about Bobby?”

“I wouldn't call it prickly. Only keeping track of the competition. You should know that from the horse showing circuit.”

“The competition isn't Bobby. It's not even a person.”

“You lost me with that.”

“It's not something I can really explain, but most of my life I've been waffling about never living up to anyone's expectations—even, quite frankly, my own. Maybe someday I'll find out who I really am.”

“I know you're different from anyone I've ever known. And not just the gorgeous part. You are fierce and talented and drive me mad.”

The whistle of the steamboat sounded, closer this time. Ames grasped her hand in his and lowered himself onto the bluegrass, pulling her with him. She sat with her arms wrapped around bent knees while he reclined on his side, propped up on one elbow. He traced a finger along her arm as she watched the fading light play on the river. Ebb and flow. It was the stuff of life, too, and having Ames beside her filled a spot that had been empty for a while. Maybe her whole life.

She stretched her legs before her and leaned over for another taste of Ames.

The day after Thanksgiving, Mittie and Ames flew to St. Louis. The two-day race—five hundred miles round trip—would take them to Kansas City on day one, where the competitors would spend the night and then fly back to St. Louis the following day. When Weaver had mentioned the competition to the Aero Club, Victor Booth offered his plane, a silver and white Swallow. Mittie's early practice in it had been both exhilarating and humbling as she knew Victor was as proud of it as he was of his Silver Ghost. Although her skin tingled with excitement, Mittie reminded herself that this was just a trial, a way to dip her toes in the world of competition. It would help her gain experience using map navigation and test her endurance abilities under pressure.

They arrived at Lambert Field midafternoon and were directed to the hangar housing the air rally headquarters—a table where a gentleman with a cigar checked her in, told her she was number six.

The man yelled across the dusty hangar. “That's the last of the ladies.” He nodded at Ames. “Next.” Recognition spread across his wide face. “I remember you from the day you picked up an entry form. Which category did you enter?”

“I'm not entered. I'm with Miss Humphreys.”

“So you'll be flying with her. Excellent idea to have a man on board in case the little woman gets into trouble along the way.”

Mittie stepped forward. “He won't be in the plane with me for the race. That wouldn't seem quite kosher for it being the women's category.”

The man blew out a puff of smoke. “I see. You're one of those, are you?”

“One of what?”

“Pretty gal that fancies herself capable.”

“No offense, sir, but I
am
capable. You'll see.”

He laughed. “I reckon you are. As long as you have some mechanical skills and are familiar with the route, you should be okay. Guess this isn't your first rally.”

“Actually, it is, but Lord willing, it won't be my last.”

“Good luck. If you're not taking a mechanic on board, should I alert Kansas City to be on standby in case you need anything?”

“Thanks, but no. My flight instructor, Bobby York, will meet me there.”

Ames had originally told her he'd have Lester meet her in Kansas City at the end of the first day of competition, but Bobby had volunteered the same afternoon. He said he'd been wanting to see a bit more of the country and would make a week of it, taking his Morris Oxford that his father shipped from England to try out the American highways. It was a spiffy little automobile, a brilliant blue a few shades darker than Bobby's eyes. And it fit him. Sporty and solid.

It was a kind offer, and she'd readily accepted. Even Ames agreed—he didn't want her stranded without help if she needed it.

The man at the table made a note of Bobby's name and called for “next” again.

Pilots and mechanics greeted one another like they were at a fraternity party. Contentment rode along Mittie's bones as she breathed in the scent of engine grease and hangar dust and cigar smoke.

Above the chatter, a female voice rang out. “Ames Dewberry. As I live and breathe, I didn't expect to see you here.”

A willowy woman in a slim skirt and chiffon blouse that ruffled at the neck swept across the floor and threw her arms around Ames' neck.

“Peach.” A husky whisper escaped from Ames' throat as he returned her embrace, and with one arm still around her narrow shoulders, he said, “What's so unexpected? The last time I checked, this was an airfield, and I am a pilot of some note.”

“You've got that right, Ames darlin'.”

Ames turned to Mittie. “This is Calista Gilson, better known as Peach on the stunt circuit.” In a grand gesture, he presented Mittie as “the new girl in town who's going to turn the aviation world on its end.”

“Hey, that's my line.” Calista offered her hand to Mittie. “Ames knows I'm kidding, at least halfway. I'm tickled pink to meet you.” She was tall, like Mittie, but fine boned with high cheekbones accented by bobbed hair the color of sunlit honey.

Mittie shook her hand. “Likewise.”

Calista had an air of femininity about her that made Mittie, still in her flight clothes, look like a galumphing twit. “Are you here with someone in the competition?”

“Oh, no, I'm flying in the competition. Just here by my lonesome. My mechanic couldn't make it, so one of the boys back there said he'd check
Peaches
over for me and swing the prop for me tomorrow.”

“Peaches?”

“My little Curtiss. The one I'm flying in the race.”

Mittie did a double take. “I guess I didn't understand that part. So that's where your nickname comes from—your plane.”

“No, flip it the other way. Fellas call me Peach, so my wings are my namesake.”

“Your skirt…is that what you fly in?”

Calista laughed. “It's a little trick I learned from one of the other gals on the circuit. I did a quick change in the cockpit before I hopped out. Girlish charm and all that.” She had that by the bushel.

“You look like you stepped from the page of a magazine, not out of an airplane, and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways.” Mittie looked from Calista to Ames. “So how do you two know each other?”

Ames rocked back on his heels. “Peach was flying with a group in Kansas when the Patriots were there. Picture, if you will, an angel in a flowing white dress balancing on the wing of an airplane.”

It wasn't difficult at all to imagine. Calista was winsome and ethereal, her cheeks rosy beneath gray eyes as pale as water. “I can see that. You're a wing walker, then. I thought maybe you two knew each other from Iowa.”

Calista nudged Ames. “I didn't know you were from Iowa. I thought you said Louisville.” She had a way of drawing out the syllables like someone from the Deep South. Definitely not Iowa. When the corners of her mouth tilted up, her face glowed.

Ames stepped back and held up both hands, palms out. “I don't recall you ever asking.” To Mittie he said, “We need to get going while there's still daylight and do that engine check.”

“Good to meet you, Calista. Guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Lord willing. Y'all take care now.” She backed up and gave a little wave, then turned and slipped through the crowd. If her moves in the sky were as smooth as her hip movements, Mittie was in for a stiff competition.

The day of the rally dawned with overcast skies that were expected to clear by midmorning. Victor Booth and Weaver had driven over the day before, both to cheer Mittie on and meet with the aeronautic club members in Kansas City to discuss new ideas in aviation—hobnobbing, her daddy would call it.

As the clouds thinned and the skies opened up, the planes with the women pilots were instructed to line up. Ames did a final engine check and told Mittie he'd hang around the airfield until the reports of the first day came in.

Weaver said, “Stick with the roads if you can, although that might be tricky if you're over a forested area. Remember the Missouri River will be to your south all the way to Columbia but to your north after that.”

Victor agreed and told her to keep her altitude high enough to avoid brushing the tops of the trees. “Two hundred feet would be best, but whatever feels right for the air current.”

Ames joined them just as the announcer told the contestants to board their planes. He pulled Mittie into his arms and kissed her softly. “That's to remember me by until tomorrow.”

“As if I could forget.” She took a deep breath and wiped damp palms on her wool jodhpurs that would keep her warm in the nippy air. She pulled on leather gloves and hopped on the wing, then slid into the cockpit. Chin strap snapped, she slid the goggles resting atop her head into place. Although the preflight check had already been done when she'd pulled the plane into the sixth position—her number in the race—she checked the gauges again and put her hands on the wheel.

Calista Gilson was in fifth position, and when Mittie looked her way, she gave a friendly wave. Her pale orange Curtiss had “Peaches” in a broad script on the side, a bi-wing that oozed the same charm as its owner. Adrenaline pulsed in Mittie's neck and temples as Calista moved forward at the signal and taxied toward the open field. When the flagman waved at Mittie, she followed, everything she'd learned up until this point doing laps inside her head.

 And then the sky was hers. She climbed higher and higher, her hours of training taking over. A short five months ago, this had been only a dream, and now she soared, banking to the left and finding the ribbon of highway that snaked across Missouri, taking her toward Columbia, the halfway mark, on wings of silver.

Her eyes burned even with goggles, the rush of air cold on her cheeks, but she'd never felt more glorious. She kept one eye on the compass and altimeter, the other on the landscape below. Feet on the rudder, hands on the wheel, she tended Victor's Swallow with the same precision as she did when training Gypsy. The wind whistled by, catching her at times in its currents, giving her heart a momentary start until she leveled out and checked her position. Below her, the highway was the hand that guided her. Obscured from view for minutes at a time, the road wound through hilly terrain, then straightened and beckoned her to follow. An hour, then almost two, and she passed a small lake that blinded her with its reflection of the sun and mounds created by Indians centuries before. The splendor of creation and the work of man converged in wonderment beneath her. Mittie sent a prayer of gratitude heavenward and moments later saw the sprawl of Columbia on a plateau above the Ozarks. She corrected her direction and circled to the north and the plains where the airfield waited.

An official of the race met her at the end of the runway, stopwatch in hand.

She jumped from the wing, eager to know how she'd done and to stretch her legs while the ground crew added fuel. When the timekeeper didn't offer the information, she asked if the others had touched down yet.

“You're the fourth one to check in. Any trouble?”

“None at all.”

“Good luck, then.”

She slipped back into the cockpit, took a swig of water from a canteen, and prepared for the next 125 miles. Ten minutes later, she crossed the Missouri River and made a decision to follow it rather than the highway. It took her a bit off course to the north, but she could fly at a higher altitude and go faster.

Fourth place. It wasn't bad. Maybe she could advance her position before Kansas City. Mittie opened the throttle and stayed the course. When she arrived at Kansas City's Sweeney Airport, the first person she saw after the official was Calista. She stood, flight helmet in hand, the hem of her skirt riffling in the breeze with a man on either side. One looked an awful lot like Bobby. Mittie wasn't sure why, but irritation bubbled up.

Mittie taxied to the area where the official pointed, cut the engine, and crawled out. Bobby stepped away from Calista and came to greet her, his smile wide, arms open.

“I made it.” Her muscles trembled when she hugged him back.

“Never doubted you for a minute. Three of you so far. And record times, from what I hear.”

“Get out. How did you find out?”

“One of the contestants sweet-talked the timekeeper.”

“Girl with a Southern accent?”

“Could be. All you Yankees talk funny to me, but if you're talking about the comely blonde over there, then yes.”

“So you've met Calista.”

“We weren't formally introduced. One of the chaps called her Peach.”

“That's the one. Sweet girl, and from the looks of it, quite a competitor.”

“As are you. How was the flight?”

Mittie closed her eyes, the feel of the wind still on her cheeks. “More than I ever imagined. You know, there was this moment when it felt as if I were suspended in time, that the only things around me were the heavens and the breath of God. I was almost sorry when the airfield came into view.”

Bobby wiped a strand of hair away from her cheek. “It's what I call divine affirmation—that feeling that comes from the soul.” His eyes, when they peered into hers, were as deep as the ocean—​m
ysteriou
s, as if more dwelt beneath the surface of Bobby York than he was willing to share.

The roar of an approaching plane broke the trance. Another entrant had made it.

Dinner for all of the contenders and their teams was in the hotel dining room that evening. After changing in her room, Mittie went to the lobby to wait for Bobby. Calista waved her over to join her and two of the other girls from the race and made introductions all around. Her enthusiasm was contagious with a constant string of
darlin'
this and
bless your heart
that peppering her conversation. When the other girls drifted off to meet their companions, she asked Mittie about the handsome devil that had driven her from the airfield.

“You mean Bobby? He's my flight instructor.”

“Lucky you. A fella in every port.”

“I wouldn't say that. I'm just fortunate that Bobby wanted to see more of the country. He's not been in the States that long, so it worked out for him to drive over and meet me here.”

“He's British, isn't he?” When Mittie nodded, she said, “He seems more your type than Ames.”

“I wasn't aware that I had a type. I've barely even met you, and you're sizing me up?”

“Trust me—I know these things.”

“And how, pray tell, have you come to this conclusion?”

“I've been around, seen things. That flight jacket you had on cost more than Ames makes in an entire weekend.”

What nerve.
She wanted to ask what, if anything, she'd seen about Bobby while she'd
been around
, but Bobby sauntered up at just that moment.