A Flying Affair (3 page)

Mittie dreamed she was flying. Clouds above, rolling hills below. Soaring on an air thermal with the wind eating at her cheeks, her right hand numb from gripping the stick. Above her, a clap of thunder shook the bi-winged plane followed by a funny feeling in her stomach as, one with the machine, she nose-dived. The verdant meadows below rose faster and faster, the horses in the paddock just specks a moment before, now so close she could see their nostrils flaring. The pace of her heart inched upward, her breath trapped in her chest. A cramp clenched the calf muscle of her right leg as she kept her feet steady on the rudder bar, trying to decide whether the impact would be greater if she stayed level or tipped the wings right or left. Where was the lever for the flaps?
Pull back. Pull back on the stick!

A flash of blue blinded her, and Mittie startled from her sleep. Had she crashed? Another flash followed and with it a boom that shook the windowpanes of her upstairs bedroom. A torrent beat the glass behind lace curtains, and somewhere in the distance, a banging noise beat a steady rhythm. A shutter on a window in the servants' wing? The rusty-hinged door to the garden shed? She shook the foggy sleep from her head, her muscles still taut from maneuvering the Canuck in her dreams.

The horses
. They would be spooked and that furious wind might've damaged the pens. She leaned over to switch on the lamp, but the storm had knocked out the electricity. She stumbled in the dark to the chifforobe and fished around until she came up with jodhpurs and a riding shirt. She dressed quickly and retrieved a kerosene lantern and matches, then felt her way to the banister of the staircase.

“Mittie? Is that you?” Her mother's voice drifted from the end of the hall.

“Yes, Mother. I'm going to the barns. Tell Daddy not to worry.”

“He's already got himself worked up. Hasn't had a wink of sleep all night and now this.” Her mother had made her way to Mittie's side, blackness between them as the rain beat the roof over their heads. “You can't do anything in the rain. Let Ogilvie take care of the horses. That's what we pay him a king's ransom to do.”

“It's my responsibility, Mother—you know that. Besides, Daddy will want a full report. Was it his back bothering him all night or did the storm keep him awake?”

“Muscle spasms. I just gave him that new miracle powder the doctor gave him. Maybe it will help.” It had been three years since her daddy's accident, the broken back that had kept him bedfast for two years and left her to shoulder the operation of Morning Glory Farms. He'd made great strides, and only in the past few months had Mittie dared to hope that one day she'd be free to sort out her own dreams for the future.

At the base of the stairs, the grandfather clock chimed. Mittie waited to hear the hour. Five o'clock. “It will be light as soon as the storm passes. Tell Daddy to rest, and I'll be in later to give him any news.”

Mittie didn't wait for an argument from her mother and took the lantern to the mudroom behind the servants' kitchen where she wriggled into riding boots and a slicker. She removed the globe from the lamp, adjusted the wick, and lit it. Then, clutching its wire handle, she braced against the wind and made her way to the stables.

Mittie found Parker Ogilvie, their stable foreman, in the big barn where six stalls flanked each side of the center promenade. As she suspected, the horses were in a tizzy, neighing, pawing the sawdust and straw mix over the earthen floor. Like worker bees in a hive, the half dozen grooms who lived in the bunkhouse worked by lantern light, cooing to the horses, tethering a couple that were more high-strung, bringing in pitchforks of fresh straw. And in the midst, Ogilvie sat in a straight chair in the center of the promenade barking orders, whittling on a stick.

His head jerked up when Mittie called his name. “Morning, Miss Humphreys. Anything I can do for you?”

“I came to check on the horses, see if there was any damage from the storm.”

“None that I can see. Got us a few frisky ones, but the boys'll get 'em right in no time.”

“And the other barn? The one with the broodmares? Are they all right as well?”

“I woulda heard by now if they weren't.”

“You didn't go and check yourself?”

“Not yet.” He leaned back and stretched out long legs, crossing his boots at the ankle. “First rule of management—hire reliable help. Surely your old man taught you that when he was schooling you in the finer points of not sticking your nose in where it don't belong.”

Mittie's face flamed as she bit back a retort to the cutting r
emar
k—​the one meant to put her in her place. It wasn't the first time he questioned her authority. Cheekiness was one of his not-so-endearing qualities. As a matter of fact, Parker Ogilvie wasn't her choice for foreman when Whitey Munce, their beloved and longtime overseer, dropped dead of a heart attack. Ogilvie had good credentials, but she was afraid Daddy's laudanum for his back pain had fuzzed his brain when he hired him on the spot eight months before.

“What about the paddock? Was there any damage?”

“Like I said, it don't concern you. Matter of fact, you coming in here with a hitch in your fancy pants don't set all that well with me. I take my orders from Mr. Humphreys, not some female who don't know her behind from a porcupine.” He went back to whittling.

“I expect a report in an hour. I don't need to remind you that we have valuable stock that we can't afford to have injured if they come in contact with broken rails.” A hush had fallen except for soft snorts from the horse bays as the grooms needled her with bug-eyed looks.
The second rule of management: Don't chastise an employee in front of his underlings.
Mittie shuddered. Her daddy would have been more tactful.

Ogilvie sneered and yelled at the nearest groom. “You heard the dame. Get your fat, lazy butts out there and check the fences.” He smirked at Mittie. “Happy?”

“I'll be waiting on your report.” She spun on the heels of her riding boots and went to check on Gypsy herself.

The airfield canteen was empty when Mittie arrived, the attendant having put a Return in Ten Minutes sign on the counter. Mittie sat on the round barstool, hooked her boot heels over the lower rung, and drummed her fingers, berating herself for giving in to the temptation to take Ames up on his offer to meet. She didn't need another interruption in her life, but the tingle under her skin when she thought about Ames—and flying—told her it might be just the distraction she needed from the nettled encounter with Parker Ogilvie.

An hour after their heated exchange, Ogilvie had knocked on her daddy's office door and told her the damage to the paddock was minimal and assured her that repairs were already underway. While not repentant, Ogilvie was cordial and they parted with a handshake.

She caught her reflection in the Coca-Cola-etched mirror above the soda fountain that sported such flavors as chocolate, wild cherry, and sarsaparilla labeled on silver levers. Mittie moistened her lips and patted her hair, then flipped up the collar of the short-waisted flight jacket she'd worn in case Ames had flying on his agenda. She sighed. He might already be in the air or have decided to skip the canteen altogether. A brilliant blue sky followed the morning rain, and Mittie felt it a shame to waste a perfectly fine day waiting indoors. She gave her hair a toss and took a final glance in the mirror. Maybe Weaver was around and could take her up in his Canuck.

“Hey, doll! Do you always spend that much time primping in front of the mirror?”

She whirled around, almost eye to eye with Ames, his hair tousled without the aviator helmet, his body so close she could smell fresh soap and feel the warmth he radiated.

“A lady always presents herself in the most favorable light. How long have you been watching me?”

“Just breezed in for a cup of joe before taking my sweet girl up for a spin. How about a hug for your old friend?”

Mittie extended her hand and offered a half grin. “Nice try, but since this is only the third time we've met, I hardly qualify as an old friend. Or as your sweet girl.”

His shake was firm, his hand warm in hers as he sandwiched it with both of his. “Sorry. The sweet girl I was referring to was my little Curtiss Oriole parked on the other side of those hangars, and it was presumptuous of me about the friend remark. Thing is, seeing you yesterday did my lonely heart good. I'm glad you were able to stop by.”

Mittie couldn't help but laugh. “My apologies, too. Is this your first time in Louisville?”

“First time in a coon's age.”

“That doesn't sound like something a fella from back East would say.”

His laugh was throaty as he turned to greet a plump woman with a hairnet who'd taken her station behind the bar and asked what they'd like.

“Coffee. Black,” Mittie and Ames said at the same time. He tossed a few coins on the counter, and they took steaming hot cups to a table by a window with a view of the hangars.

“I just had my first look around yesterday. Some nice aircraft here, and it seems progressive. How about you? Have your own little plane out there?”

“I wish. I've only flown in Weaver's Canuck.”

He eyed her aviator jacket, his brows inching up a fraction. “Natty dresser, I'll give you that. Maybe you can show me the ropes. Give me a tour of the countryside?” His voice was warm, inviting.

“I'd be honored, and I'd love to see your plane, but the tour will have to wait until after my sister's wedding. You might remember her from Mrs. Benchley's party.”

“Mrs. Who?”

“Mrs. Benchley—the one with the summer home on Long Island.”

“Oh, right. I'd forgotten her name. May not have ever known it—I was acquainted with some of the sports who were there. Last-minute invite and all that.”

“Sort of like Iris and me. Serendipity that day was meeting you and falling in love with flying all in one afternoon.”

He grinned and gave her a sidelong look. “So this Weaver—is he someone you're sweet on?”

“No, he's the airfield manager. He's taught me a few basics and takes me up once in a while. What I'm really hoping for is a flight instructor when the time is right.”

“You're a dabbler then.”

It did sound pathetic. “I've been otherwise engaged.”

“College?”

“A semester, right after I met you. But it's more of a family situation.”

“Don't tell me you've gotten yourself into a hopeless marriage.” He looked at her hand. “No ring. Something that didn't work out?”

She laughed. “Do you always jump to conclusions like that? First Weaver, now some stranger you've invented. It's actually much less scandalous than all that.”

“Now I'm intrigued.”

“My family has a horse farm, and I've been filling in for Daddy. Three years ago he took a nasty fall from a frisky stallion and broke his back.”

“Ah, the doting, responsible daughter.”

“I suppose. Things are on the upswing, though. And I hope to be flying more, like I said.”

He rose and offered his arm. “Have time for a test ride? My rigging's not new, but with the proper care and modification, I have swell plans for
Trixie
.”

“You named your plane
Trixie
?”

“Just wait and you'll see why.” They walked outside toward the hangars and a line of bi-wings shimmering in the summer sun. “Here she is.”

Trixie
was cherry red with narrow white stripes along the sides and on the struts separating the wings, her name painted near the tail.

“She's beautiful.” Mittie ran a hand near the nose, stroking it like she did Gypsy. “I'd love to see what she can do.”

Ames jumped on a wing and leaned into the cockpit. He pulled out two leather helmets and goggles, handing her one of each. “Unless you have your own.”

“These will be fine. Nice paint. I'm guessing the shorter wingspan gives you more flexibility with stunts.” She twisted her hair in the back and tucked it in the helmet, anticipation rushing through her blood vessels.

“Among other things.” He nodded and told her the lower wings had undergone modifications. “Less drag on the struts and wires in case I need more speed. An engine upgrade has also helped with that.” He waved at another fellow dressed in flight gear, then offered her a hand up on the wing. Ames showed her the controls, one arm around her waist holding her steady, then said, “Let's give it a whirl.”

It was an easy step into the front passenger seat, and the next thing Mittie knew, they were soaring two hundred feet, three hundred, four—higher and higher as the plane curved gently away from the airfield and the town of Louisville toward open country. Below them were creeks like ribbons, black tobacco barns like postage stamps, patchwork farms like a velvet crazy quilt. And Mittie felt just as crazy as she had the first time she'd flown with Ames. Giddy and reverent at the same time, she sat tall in the seat and inhaled deep in her lungs. If paradise had a scent, this was it.

The wind caressed her cheeks as she got her bearings and realized they were right over Morning Glory Farms. She pointed to the rolling green beneath them, the toy-sized horses in their paddock honeycomb.

Ames nodded and banked sharply to the left, apparently unaware that she was pointing out her home. He nosed up and put the engine in a stall. Mittie's stomach lurched upward one minute and plummeted to her toes the next with the sensation of free fall. It was the same feeling as her dream, but with adrenaline sending starburst pulses of joy through her. Ames prolonged the stall, then opened the throttle and in one smooth motion rolled the Oriole in a complete revolution. Laughter bubbled in Mittie's throat as Ames spiraled again and again, then eased the plane upward to a safe altitude and onto an even keel. She turned to nod her approval. Ames pointed to her and mimicked steering navigation, his eyes wide as if inquiring whether she wanted to fly. She nodded and checked the gauges. She wouldn't do anything fancy—she didn't even think she could if she knew how—but with her feet steady on the rudder and hands gripping the wheel, she flew over trees and farms, past limestone cliffs and sorghum fields, over lush valleys lined with bluegrass.