A Flying Affair (9 page)

On Sunday morning, a fine mist rose from the lush green of the paddock, a thin veil of sweetness that would burn off before it was time for church. Mittie stopped first in Ogilvie's office and found him reviewing feed orders.

After exchanging pleasantries about their return from West Virginia, Mittie asked about April Showers.

“Happy as a tick on a coonhound.”

“About her performance yesterday—did you notice anything unusual about her?”

“Nary a thing. It happens, you know. An off day here and there.”

“Still, I wonder if we should give a call to the veterinary service and see if they can send someone out.”

“I've already arranged for them to come this afternoon.”

“Excellent. And thank you.”

The look he gave her was smug. “Now, beg your pardon, but I have work to do.” He tapped a pencil on the form before him, and Mittie left to check the barns. She couldn't help it—Ogilvie still annoyed her. She believed he only told her what she wanted to hear. And yet, April Showers showed no signs of illness or sluggishness when Mittie checked her box, which was confirmed by Toby as well.

After church, she spent the rest of the day studying aviation manuals in preparation for her first flight with Bobby on Monday, and going over newspaper articles she'd been saving about the splash Lindbergh was making across America. When she rode Gypsy after dinner that night, she practiced what she would say to him.
How did you know you wanted to be an aviator? What was the most difficult part of the flight to Paris? What advice would you give to fellow aviators?

The katydids in the gingko trees around the house had begun their evensong by the time they returned to the stables, and since Toby was busy, she unsaddled Gypsy and grabbed the sweat blade, running it in long strokes over Gypsy's dark coat. A lantern hung outside the stall, illuminating Gypsy's space when the top of the Dutch door was left open, but Mittie didn't need the light. She knew every inch of Gypsy as well as she knew herself. When the excess moisture had been removed, Mittie looped her hand in the strap on the back of the grooming brush and, with rhythmic motion, rubbed until Gypsy's coat shone. As she ran the brush over her withers, Gypsy responded with a low grunt of a contented sigh.

Chunky shadows cast by the lantern played scenes on the heavy beams and slatted walls of the stall, and Mittie was transported to the icy April morning when Gypsy made her entrance into the world. She was to be Mittie's birthday gift, the first foal born at MG Farms that was wholly hers. Their foreman, Whitey Munce, had been alive then and kept a careful eye on Rosella, the one whose belly had grown pendulous with the foal she carried. On the final round of the barns the evening before, Whitey said it was time to move Rosella to the loafing shed, her udder tight, the teats waxing tiny beads of colostrum that would nourish the foal. A groom was assigned watch for the night, but Mittie had been as restless as Rosella, crawling from bed and going to the barn to check her every hour.

In the inky part of the night just before dawn, she found the groom and Whitey in the shed, their frosted breaths like puffs of smoke from her daddy's pipe. Rosella lay on her side, her neck slick with the damp sheen of labor.

Whitey nodded when Mittie entered. “Won't be long now.” As he said it, Rosella grunted and writhed, hoisting herself to her feet. She pawed the straw and nipped at her flanks as if trying to rid her body of the source of pain. Her coat lathered from her efforts, glistening in the lantern light.

Mittie had witnessed other foalings, but this one was different. It would be hers from the moment it drew breath. That the foal came from champion bloodlines was of no consequence—Mittie knew she would cherish it no matter what the pedigree said.

They gave Rosella space, and presently, she lowered back onto the straw, extending her extremities, her nostrils flaring with effort.

The foal's forelegs came first as they were meant to do, the head tucked between them. The coat was dark without any visible white, slimy with the amniotic fluid and the lubricant of the birth passage. The shoulders and hips followed quickly, the foal squirming on the stable floor. Rosella stood and nuzzled her offspring, her tongue washing over the dark, wet coat. The foal responded, rising on wobbly legs before nosing back down. Rosella's head prodded, and the newborn gave a soft snort and tried again. This time, the stilt-like legs trembled and held. A quick jerking movement severed the umbilical cord.

“A fine filly! And a frisky one at that.” Whitey moved to Rosella's rear to watch for the afterbirth, but Mittie's eyes were locked with the shiny orbs of the foal, who stretched her neck and pranced, awkward for sure but vigorous and independent, promising to live up to her heritage. She would be a champion.

Mittie named her Gypsy for the wild black mane that was luxurious from birth. Five months later, Gypsy was feistier than ever and had weaned herself from her mother's milk. Rosella, though, was sold to pay for new leg braces for Dobbs Lamberson. Mittie's hand gripped the brush, her strokes now short and hard. Gypsy craned her neck and nudged Mittie's arm, the unspoken affection between them thick. Mittie rubbed the soft muzzle and let her hand linger on the jawline. “You were born for great things, dear Gypsy. Just you wait.” Even as she spoke, Mittie wasn't certain if the words were for Gypsy or herself. She could hardly wait for morning to arrive, and with it, her first lesson in the cockpit with Bobby York.

“Remember your checklist?”

Mittie nodded and surveyed the instrument panel. While Weaver and Ames had pointed them out to her and she'd asked questions, her knowledge had been shallow, not built on mechanical understanding. The classroom sessions with Bobby had opened up an entire new universe to her.

“Controls, check. Instruments, check. Gas, sufficient for flight. Attitude”—she noted the aileron and rudder positions—“check.” She did a run-up for the engine check and, above the roar, shouted, “All set! Just need the flight instructor to take his seat and get strapped in. We are headed for blue skies.”

It was comforting to know that Bobby could override any mistakes she made from his position behind her, but Mittie wanted to get everything right the first time. She bumped the plane across the grass, her neck tense, the muscles in her arms quivering from gripping the control wheel. Bump. Bump.
Nose up. Steady on the rudder. More throttle. Easy.
She braced for another bump, but it didn't come—just air between the earth and the wheels. Adrenaline swept through her. Her first takeoff! The exhilaration that pulsed through her equaled that of standing atop the Oriole's wing.

Time lost all meaning as she climbed higher and led with the rudder to bank. And when she nosed up, the wind was like a kiss on her cheeks. She kept an eye on the instruments as she went through the maneuvers she and Bobby had discussed. Unexpected pressure on the right rudder and an adverse yaw sent a momentary ripple of uncertainty through her. Either the ailerons or air currents around the tail were the cause, if she remembered correctly. She centered the rudder, and the plane leveled as wind played the wires leading from the struts. To Mittie, it sounded like a harp, the music of angels an arm's length away. She banked right and left, the biplane cutting through the sky with the ease of an eagle in flight. This—this!—was what she dreamed of…riding the wind currents, feasting on atmospheric manna. Bobby tapped her on the shoulder, the signal for descent and landing. She wasn't nearly ready but ticked off the landing checklist in her head and began the descent, her eyes peeled for the runway. When she found it and checked her bearing along with her speed and altitude, she said a prayer and approached the earth.

It came up faster than she expected, with the first contact a bounce that would have ejected her if she hadn't been strapped in. A few more bounces while she cut the fuel mixture and kept the rudder centered. When the tail skid touched down, the plane slowed, thrusting her forward, and she nearly choked the engine. Poor Bobby. She'd no doubt rearranged his insides by now.

They rolled to a stop, and she puffed out her cheeks, releasing the breath she'd been holding. She closed her eyes and leaned back.

“Jolly good for the first go.” Bobby's voice was inches from her ear. “Cut the engine and come down to talk about it.”

They strode shoulder to shoulder, Bobby in his natty black leather flight jacket and her with collar turned up, helmet and goggles in hand—two aviators coming in from a day's work. She wasn't sure if her feet ever touched the ground.

In the classroom, Bobby commended her on handling the takeoff and adverse yaw caused by airflow on the tail. “You reacted with good instincts, but your landing is in need of some practice.”

“You sure you're not bruised from that bumpy ending?”

“I've encountered worse. I could have taken over and smoothed it out, but since the only danger you posed was the possible loss of my breakfast, I let you ride it out.” He went over the approach to landing—recommending elevation and speed—and fuel mixtures again. He consulted a black memo book he pulled from his pocket. “How about every Monday and Friday for the next few weeks, if you're free?”

“I'm free. What I'm worried about is whether you'll have time to recover by Friday.”

When he smiled, the blue in his eyes was deeper than she remembered. “I have nerves of steel, which is fortuitous since I have three more students today.”

That evening, her dad asked about her flying lesson at the dinner table.

“In a word, spectacular—all except the landing, which Bobby assured me would improve with time.”

Her mother raised her eyebrows. “You know I'm still worried about your flying—”

“Which you never fail to remind me of, Mother.”

“You didn't let me finish. What I wanted to say is that I hoped you were getting along well with Bobby. He's such a nice young man and from an upstanding family. Any romantic sparks between you?”

“You know I'm not interested in that sort of thing. He's polite and professional. And part genius, I think.” Admitting that she found him attractive would only encourage her mother, and Mittie's priority was flying, not walking down the church aisle.

“Perhaps you should invite him to dinner again. He's surely lonely being new here and not yet acquainted.”

“Honestly, Mother. I don't need a matchmaker. Or a match. I do, however, need a couple of dresses for the Lindbergh visit—one for the greeting reception and a gown for the dinner at the Crystal Ballroom.”

“Our invitation just came in Saturday's post, so I'll need something, too.”

Her dad cleared his throat. “Before you go clearing out the bank account on a shopping spree, there's something I should mention. And before I do, I want you to know, sugar, that I'm not placing blame on you.”

Buck Lamberson.
Her fists curled into knots as she waited for her daddy to give her the latest blow.

“Jake Ford paid me a visit this afternoon. He's taking April Showers and Gingersnap to another trainer.”

Relief and horror swirled into a cocktail of emotions. “No! Did he give a reason?”

“Apparently he wasn't keen on Saturday's performance. I assured him we're looking at every angle, but he was quite determined.”

“Have you talked with Toby and Ogilvie? What do they say about April Showers?”

“I have, and I'm completely satisfied with their answers. The veterinarian gave a clean bill of health. Ford will send someone with a horse box to transfer the mares.”

“I'm dumbfounded. Mr. Ford was upset at the show, but I thought he would cool down. It seems sudden and rather mean to me.”

“I know what you are saying, but I've been in this business long enough to learn that owners of show ponies have big egos and pocketbooks to match. Winning is the only thing that matters to them.”

Mittie wanted to ask how he could be in such a business, but she already knew the answer. He liked winning as well. And in her gut, Mittie knew she did, too.

Her dad smiled. “Not that you two shouldn't have new dresses, but we may have to watch the finances more closely for a while.”

“Daddy, I have scads of things in my closet. I'll make do.”

Her mother let out a soft sigh. “I suppose I will, too.”

“That's it, then.” The driver latched the trailer when April Showers and Gingersnap were loaded. Mittie was disappointed that Mr. Ford hadn't come himself so she could have one last chance to persuade him to change his mind.

Regret lolled in her gut. Losing one client wasn't the end of the world, but it felt like she'd let her daddy down somehow. “Yes, that's it. If you don't mind my asking, who will the new trainer be?”

“Reckon that's none of your concern. My business is with Ford.” He stepped around her and up into the cab of the truck.

All right, then. It wasn't like she wouldn't find out. The trainer was always listed in the show programs. She stalked off and nearly bumped into Toby.

“Sorry. I didn't see you. Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, ma'am, I was. Just checking to see if you wanted to watch Gypsy in the ring today.”

“Nothing I'd like better.”

“I'm sorry about Mr. Ford's horses.”

“No need to be. You did a good job. Now let's see what a real champion looks like.”

While Toby took Gypsy through the paces, Mittie offered encouragement and asked to see the slow gait again. Like the faster-paced rack, where no two hooves touched the ground at the same time, the slow gait was a beautiful four-beat rhythm to watch, mesmerizing in its effect. Adoration welled up in Mittie's chest. The hard work and patience had paid off. Gypsy yielded well to the commands yet was showy when she needed to be. Refining her underlying talents and practice—worlds of practice—had paid off.

The same things Mittie needed if she was going to succeed as an aviatrix.

She called Weaver at Bowman Field when she returned to the house and asked if he could take her up in his plane.

“I'm on a tight schedule today, but there was a fella asking about you earlier. The one with the stunt show.”

“Ames Dewberry? Is he still there?”

“That's the one. Hang on; I'll check and see if his plane is still here.”

When he returned and confirmed that the Oriole was indeed there, she asked him to send a message to Ames that she'd be right out.

Half an hour later, she found Ames, Lester, and Shorty in a hangar playing poker.

“Hey, Mittie. Give me a kiss and I'll deal you in.”

“You'd be sorry. I'm wicked with a deck of cards. Never met a barnstormer I couldn't beat. What are you betting?”

“High stakes. Ante up for a nickel.”

“Go ahead with your game, fellas. I wouldn't want to take all your money. You might not take me up in
Trixie
if I did that.”

Shorty looked at his cards and folded. “Smart girl. These bums cheat.”

Ames tossed a nickel out and told Lester he called. “Shorty, I don't cheat. The problem, as I see it, is that you don't know a straight from a rattlesnake.”

“I know I got a hole gnawed in my stomach from starvation. I'm going to find something to eat.” He disappeared through the wide doors of the hangar, swallowed by the sunlight.

Lester laid down his cards. “A pair of aces.”

Ames smiled. “You're beat, sport. Two pair. Queens over deuces.” He raked in the pile of nickels and turned to Mittie. “I'm glad you showed up. We're making a run over by Fort Knox next weekend for some barnstorming. Think you're ready for your debut on the wings?”

Her heart stopped. Was she ready? How would she know if she didn't try? But it was the weekend before Lindy's visit. Her questions must've shown by the challenging look Ames gave her—so much for the poker face.

She jutted her chin up and smiled. “Gotcha. You thought I was going to say no, didn't you? When do we leave?”

She had a lesson with Bobby scheduled for Friday, the day the Patriots would leave to “rattle the bushes” and get people enthused about the show on Saturday. “Is it all right if I meet you on Friday evening? I have a flying lesson that morning.”

Ames gave her a curious look.

“You remember; I told you about Bobby York, the flight instructor here—”

“Guess it slipped my mind. Think you can get out of it?”

“Probably, but I need the flight hours to get my license. If it's a problem…”

“No, no problem.” He winked at her. “This time.”

Mittie sidled up to him. “I'm ready when y'all are.”

Mittie woke with sore muscles the next day. Her arms and legs were achy from hoisting herself onto the top wing of the Oriole a dozen times, but every time she stepped out onto the wing and looked up, the breath of heaven kissed her. A warm buzz carried her through the days that followed as she made phone calls for the Lindbergh publicity committee and updated the newspaper on the details of Lindbergh's visit—all of which Mittie worked in between her morning duties at MG Farms, flying sessions with Bobby, and wing-walking practice with the Patriots.

She was almost grateful that she and her mother hadn't scheduled a shopping trip for a new gown for the Lindbergh dinner. On the Tuesday before Lindy was due in Louisville, her mother asked if she'd decided what to wear.

“I was hoping you could rummage through the wardrobe with me—you always have good instincts.”

The scent of cedar wafted in the air when her mother opened the wardrobe doors and started riffling through the dresses. She pulled out one Mittie had worn to a friend's wedding the summer before.

Her mother handed it to her. “I don't remember this, but it must be yours. No one else wears red quite the way you do.”

She reminded her mother of the occasion and held it against her as she looked in the cheval mirror. It was still stylish with a drop waist and rhinestone band that circled her hips. The tiered skirt was made for dancing and would be perfect for the dinner at the Crystal Ballroom.

She slipped out of her clothes and wriggled into the dress. “Maybe I'll entice Mr. Lindbergh onto the dance floor.”

Her mother fanned her fingers before her face. “He would be quite the catch, but let's not get our hopes up. There's quite the competition for landing him, you know.”

“I'm only hoping for a single dance, not a marriage proposal. And it's flying I want to discuss if I get the chance.” She took another look in the mirror. “This will work fine. Maybe Nell has a headpiece that will go with it.”

“Speaking of flying, have you perchance thought to invite Bobby to dinner like we talked about? We've hardly entertained at all since the wedding.”

“I don't think he needs us to help him out socially. He seems quite capable of that.”

“We owe it to his parents to extend our hospitality. You seem to have lost that sense of propriety since you've been running with those circus performers.”

Mittie burst out laughing. “And before you know it, I'm going to be the painted lady who parades around with a live boa constrictor around my neck.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know what. You bristle at every suggestion I have and then taunt me.”

“I was only teasing you. I sought your opinion for what to wear to the dinner, didn't I? And you've gotten the wrong impression about the Flying Patriots. An air circus is not like the Ringling Brothers, although the atmosphere is quite festive. No animals. No freak show. Just good all-American fun.”

“Dangerous fun. I read the newspapers.”

“Yes, there is some danger involved. I won't pretend that there's not. But there was a time when people scoffed at motor cars and the dangers with them. In a few years, you'll be able to ride an airplane to New York City and be there in half the time the train takes. I find it exciting and exhilarating to be a part of aviation history.”

“If only you would pour that passion into something more suitable, I would rest better at night.”

“Maybe it would be a good idea to invite Bobby over. Perhaps he can put your mind at rest.”

“This Sunday would be lovely, dear. We'll have Delores and George Porter and Evangeline and Granville. That would be a lively mix. Perhaps Nell and Quentin, too.”

She groaned inwardly. A quiet dinner had grown into a full-fledged party, and it was the evening before Lindbergh flew in. Mittie would be a mass of nerves, but the pleading look on her mother's face told her it was more than just having Bobby to dinner. Her mother missed Iris, whose letters were filled with news of the home Hayden was having built for her and her whirling social calendar.

“Bobby's giving me an extra lesson tomorrow. I'll see if he's free Sunday evening.”

After her flight with Bobby the following day, Mittie said, “I believe I owe you a cup of tea. Would you care to join me in the canteen?”

“As luck would have it, I do have some time. The mechanic needs to do some routine checks on the plane and would probably appreciate if I didn't peer over his shoulder.”

In the canteen, Bobby nodded toward one of the Lindbergh flyers on the wall. “Quite the excitement for Louisville. You'll be there, I would imagine.”

“Actually I'm on the welcoming committee and will be presenting him with roses that represent our fair city. Are you coming?”

He nodded. “Weaver gave me a ticket to the dinner and said he would give me an introduction. Lindbergh's a very humble man, I hear. One of few words.”

“I'm hoping to get an audience with him, too.” She laughed. “Sounds like we're talking about the Pope, doesn't it?”

Bobby sipped his tea, then leaned in and said, “I've been meaning to call your parents. My father's asked if I'd done my duty and paid them a visit.”

“Funny you should say that. Mother's been after me to ask you to come to dinner. She specifically asked about this Sunday. Are you free?”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Your mother's idea, is it?”

“And mine, of course. I didn't mean to imply—”

“Of course not; I was giving you a bit of a tease.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, then, can we count on you for dinner? Mother is asking a few others as well and thinks it will be a lively evening.”

“I'd be delighted.”

“Mother will be, too.” She rose and Bobby followed suit. “Sunday, then, around seven?”

He nodded. “May I walk you to your motor car?”

“Thanks, but I need to ask Ames a question about the barnstorming on Saturday. You should come and watch; it's my first attempt at wing walking,” she said as they walked to the door.

“There's nothing I'd like more, but I have plans on Saturday.” Bobby held the door for her. Once outside he said, “I did a little wing walking myself when I was at Brooklands in Surrey.”

“Really? How did you like it?”

“It's quite the sport, but it upset the girl I was with at the time, so I gave it up. Sort of wish I'd kept at it.”

“This girl—someone special?”

“She was.” And with that he strode toward the parking area. Mittie would have loved to know more, but something told her she'd learned all she was going to from Bobby York.