Until yesterday. She imagined him on the mound, firing knuckleballs and sliders, fastballs and curves, his body strong and sharp, his reflexes tight as he threw men out at first or stared them down over the plate. Baseball is all about strategy. You gotta outthink the guy at the plate. You can’t let him get in your head. That first year, he’d taught her everything he knew about the game, and she learned how to be a ballplayer’s wife. How to sort out myth from superstition, how to ignore the bad press, the bimbos, and the scandal. She knew which players cheated on the road, and which stayed true. And, she knew that she had married a man of honor.
It took her a while to recognize.
Even longer to trust.
But Guthrie never came home with anything but the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, dust, and sweat on his clothes and an honest game on his tanned face.
And they had a perfect life ahead of them. She set her empty cake plate on the table and patted her stomach as she rocked the baby inside to sleep. A perfect life.
If Guthrie won his allotted thirty games, he’d land that ten-thousanddollar bonus and maybe they could buy a little house outside the city. Sheila and Joe had a house like that, something with a patch of grass out back where Joe could teach his son how to catch.
She could already see Guthrie lining up behind little—Claude, or maybe Phillip—circling his arms around him, helping him hold the bat. “You’re going to have his eyes, aren’t you, little one?” She heard more shouting from the yard. Getting up, she went to the bedroom and sat in the darkness on the side of the bed, watching the boys scramble around their makeshift bases in the twilight.
Guthrie liked the name Charlie.
Sliding back on the bed, she drew up her knees, curled her hand over her tummy.
“She belongs to me. Isn’t that right, doll?”
Sometimes when Cesar slid into her thoughts, her dreams, she could shake herself awake, remind herself that he couldn’t find her.
Tonight he had an unexpected hold on her, his hot breath in her face, smelling of whiskey, his hands on her throat, squeezing.
No. No—
I swear if you ever come back to New York, I’ll kill you dead!
“No!”
“Rosie—wake up! Shh, you’re having a nightmare.”
Guthrie’s voice rocked her out of the moment where she stood at the window of the train, Cesar’s eyes burning into her, his voice twisting her breath dry inside her.
Guthrie. Handsome in a pin-striped suit and tie, still smelling like cologne despite the long train ride. He flicked on the light and pushed her damp hair back from her sweaty face. “Sorry I’m late. I—I had to meet with Coach.”
“I missed you.” She pushed herself up, into his arms, held him around the neck, probably too tight, but Cesar’s voice could still strip her bare.
“I missed you too, baby.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. She leaned away and ran her hand down his face, five-o’clock stubble scratching her palm. Then she kissed him.
Guthrie had insisted on separate cars until they reached Chicago. Then, he’d found them the first justice of the peace he could find and checked them into the Palmer House hotel.
She hadn’t realized just what it might be like to be married— she expected the vulnerability, but not the satisfaction it gave her to know how he needed her. How she held the world for him in her response to his affection. He drank in everything she gave him.
Now, he leaned her back into the pillows, caressed her face with his hand, rubbing his thumb down her cheekbone as he lingered, kissing her like he had in their newlywed days. She relished his touch more every day, the sunshine embedded in his skin, the curl of his hair in her fingers, the way he tasted sweet, like bubblegum, his chew of choice.
He leaned away, found her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt the baby.”
She cupped his face in her hands. “I don’t think he’ll mind.”
“He? What if it’s a she?” He stood up and shucked off his jacket, tucking it over a chair. Then he pulled free his suspenders and toed off his loafers.
She leaned up on her elbows. “Then we can’t name her Charlie.”
He crawled onto the coverlet beside her, and she turned into his arms. He ran his hand over her belly, warming her clear through. “Why not? Charlie is a swell name for a little girl. Maybe she’ll have a pitching arm too.”
She looked up at him, shaking her head, and he kissed her on the nose. Then he nudged her chin up and found her mouth.
So much for his supper in the icebox, the cake. Apparently he wasn’t hungry.
The sun had disappeared, night pressing through the windows, when she nestled back in his arms.
“I can’t believe we’re having a baby,” she said as he ran his hand over her skin.
“I still can’t believe you married me, Red,” Guthrie said. “I took one look at you and saw a woman so far out of my league I wasn’t sure if I could get up the nerve to talk to her. I was this country boy from Kansas talking to this classy lady, someone who by all rights shouldn’t have given me a second look.”
“You didn’t seem to have any problem charming me right out of Cesar’s palace and into your arms.”
“It wasn’t quite that fast,” he said. He leaned up, found a lock of her hair, twirled it between his fingers. His expression turned solemn. “Truth is, Red, every day that I wake up beside you I can’t believe how lucky I am. I’m afraid that one of these days you’re going to figure out how far below yourself you married and send me packing.”
“I am never going to send you packing, Guthrie Storme.” She kissed him, and it seemed that he breathed her in.
Then, he pushed himself away from her. “I need a shower.” He got up and stood in the threshold of the bathroom door, his gaze roaming over her. “And then we have to talk, Rosie.”
Something in his eyes—she pulled the sheet over her. “What is it?”
He seemed to debate for a moment then came back and sat on the side of the bed, his back to her. Then he scrubbed his face with his hands.
“You’re scaring me, Guthrie.”
He turned to her then, the lamplight turning his hair to gold, his eyes soft. “I’m being traded, Red. That’s why I was late. The coach wanted to see me.”
“Traded? But the season just started.”
“They need cash, and apparently, I’m the hottest ticket they have.”
She ran her hand down his arm, sinewed with muscle. “I’m not surprised. You’re only getting stronger. And I suppose this comes with a bonus?”
“A nice one. I might even be able to buy you a real ring, one with a big diamond.”
She didn’t need a big, fancy diamond. The slim gold band with the dot of glitter fit her perfectly. “Where are we going? St. Louis? Cleveland? Detroit?”
He caught her hand, and then his face twisted. She knew it before he said it, tasted it in the back of her throat, felt it in the clench of her chest.
No.
“We’re going to New York City. I’ve been traded to the Giants.”
Chapter 14
If she wanted to forget Truman, Lilly had come to the right place. The moment she stepped off the plane, the memories shone in her mind, like jewels she’d tucked away, afraid to retrieve lest they lose their luster.
She instructed her footman to put her bags in the room where she’d sat at the windowsill, watching Sarah Bernhardt’s funeral so many years ago on the Champs-Élysées, reading her Zane Grey book and longing for the wide spaces of Montana. She lunched at the Café a la Paix then strode down the avenue to the gardens of the Palais Royal, remembering how the statues had enchanted her.
The entire city had enchanted her, perhaps, the peonies and climbing roses fragranced the boulevards, the smell of café au lait from the bistros, and everywhere she walked, men in suits and derbies, reminding her of Rennie.
She found herself looking for him, searching for his dark-chocolate eyes, the tweed jacket, the derby that he wore
at a rakish angle. She stood across the street from the Café a la Paix, watching traffic, hearing him in her past.
“Rennie Dupree, flyer and lifesaver at large.”
“Lilly…Hoyt. Daredevil.”
If he only knew. She bought a copy of the Chronicle in English and walked the length of the boulevard, over the bridge and into the gardens of Luxembourg, along the pathways brushed by eager willows, inhaling the cherry blossoms. She sat at the lake, watching children float sailboats into the glistening waters, the sun turning the water molten until the rays slipped behind the regal skyline of Paris.
She took a cab then to Montparnasse and stood outside Le Select nightclub, her gaze upon the zinc bar, imagining Hem and Presley queuing up for drinks. The jazz threaded out into the night air, tugging at her, hot and chocolatey like she remembered.
You make me better, Lilly. Make me the person I should be.
Rennie sidled up beside her in her thoughts, and she put her hand to her mouth, his lips suddenly against hers, sending heat through her.
She’d been so young, so fleeced by his charm.
Flyers. She should have realized then the magic they had over her. Truman had only been a younger, brasher version of Rennie, poised to steal her heart.
And probably, this Charles Lindbergh was exactly the same sort. Arrogant and flashy, driven by fame and the pull of the heavens.
Not to mention foolish.
She’d done the calculations herself: thirty hours over the Atlantic, perhaps with five hundred gallons of gas. He must have had to empty out everything but his skivvies to get the plane off the ground. She’d flown over lakes, sometimes fifteen or twenty feet above water, knew the dangers of the air currents that could snag a wing, pull the wheels into the sea.
And last night, as he’d departed, they’d predicted fog off the coast of Ireland.
She hailed a cab and climbed into the backseat. “Five Eighteen Avenue des Champs-Élysées, s’il vous plaît.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
His English surprised her. “Where are you from, sir?”
“Ireland. Was shot down in France and stayed.” He glanced back at her, smiling. “Fell in love with my nurse.”
“Of course you did,” she said. He motored her over the Rue du Bac bridge and then down the Champs-Élysées. Across the river, the Eiffel Tower arched over the city, shiny and bright.
A lighthouse.
“Any news on Lindbergh?” she asked, leaning forward. All of France buzzed about the attempt; some said he had even left early in hopes of beating the weather.
“Aye, they spotted him off the Emerald Coast a few hours ago.”
She let the words sink in.
“Can you take me to Le Bourget, instead?”
“Oh, ma’am, there’s a hundred thousand people there—you won’t see a thing—”
“Please, sir. I made a promise to my father to watch Lindbergh land.” The words just slipped out. Her father.
He gave her a smile. “Ah, that I might be so fortunate someday to have my daughter think so much of me.”
Like eyes, the windows along the boulevard watched her, bright and unblinking, their reflection glistening upon the cobbled street.
“I can’t believe this Lindbergh has the spine to fly all the way over the Atlantic. Not with two Frenchmen that went down only last month. Daft.”
She made a noise that sounded like agreement.
“Or maybe dedicated,” he said as they eased out of the city. “There’s power in commitment. It turns you into the man you hope to be. The man you can live with. Maybe even a hero.”
She glanced at him, noticing now that only one hand gripped the steering wheel, the other absent, his sleeve folded up into itself.
Le Bourget had turned the night sky to daylight with the beacons streaming to the heavens. Cars clogged the roadway, so the driver let her off to walk. “Do you need me to wait?” he asked.
She shook her head and paid him. Her position at the Chronicle had purchased a spot for her in one of the hangars and an interview with the aviator when—or perhaps if—he showed. She wheedled her way around the cars—Peugeots and Benzes, along with Citroens and not a few horse-drawn carts and buggies, driven from nearby farms. Adventure showed no social prejudice.
As she drew nearer, the light betrayed the crowd, an immensity of people pressed up against the iron gates that surrounded the field. A row of hangars beyond showed more people—probably the flyers who worked out of the field, along with mechanics, and not a few men in tuxedos—probably local dignitaries.
An explosion downfield startled the crowd and a rocket flared into the sky. Search beacons for Lindbergh. People holding onto the faint hope that he might actually keep his word.
She pushed her way along the back, saw people hanging from the iron staircases that roped up the side of the hangars. She tried to edge her way to the front.
French epitaphs landed behind her, and she gave thanks for her too-rusty French. Still, the crowd seemed to work in unison and closed around her.
So much for her interview. Oh, why had she allowed the nostalgia of the city to woo her away from the field? The one thing Oliver asked of her and she couldn’t manage it. Who knew that Lindbergh might prove to be the hero he set out to be?
And then she heard it, the distinct rumble of a motor. The crowd roared in reply until the noise grew above it, thunderous.
Then the silver bird dropped from the night and into the stream of light, gliding. No one moved, no one breathed, and in that moment, Lilly felt it.
The magic. The ethereal sense of being able to rise above the clouds, to see the world as a thumbprint. The power of climbing out of an airplane to stand on the wing, press her hands to the wind, gulp it in.
As if she only need close her eyes and lift her arms and she’d be flying.
She heard him then, as if he’d never left, as if he’d chased her all the way to Paris. “I guess the only question left is…what are we going to call your act?”
“Lola,” she said softly as Lindbergh’s plane drifted down onto the swath of light in the middle of the runway. “The Flying Angel.”
Lindbergh’s plane bumped along the ground, the prop still whirring, but the crowd caught its breath and surged forward, a mass of people climbing the six-foot fence.
“Stop! Wait!”
But the iron fence collapsed as they churned forward, running toward Lindbergh’s triumph. She heard choruses of Vive! but only tuned her ears to Lindbergh’s prop chopping the air.
“Wait!” How many times had Truman told her to stay clear—she’d heard too many stories of wing walkers and ground crew walking into a churning propeller. “Stop!” She tripped over a mangled, deserted bicycle and went down on her hands and knees.
She looked up just as the plane turned and charged toward the crowd. Lilly screamed as the mob turned, scattering. Lindbergh’s plane rambled toward them.
Cut the engine! Cut—but even afterward, the prop would continue to skewer the air—
She found her legs just as the machine ground to a halt, rocking back as if exhausted. The propeller died with a splutter.
Thirty-three hours in the air.
The crowd went berserk as Lindbergh opened the hatch of his plane. They pulled him from the plane, carrying him across the tarmac. She caught a glimpse of him—towheaded, tall, and lean. Probably handsome. Most flyers were, if you added in the twinkle of danger in their eyes.
In that moment, she could almost see Truman, waving, his grin broad and white in this moment of triumph.
Souvenir hunters cut pieces of fabric from the plane—the Spirit of St. Louis. The police rescued Lindbergh and delivered him to the dignitaries in the hangar downfield. She followed and tried to move in to hear the loudspeakers, but after an hour, she gave up trying to get closer to hear. She’d hunt him down in the morning, perhaps use Oliver’s connections.
Meanwhile, the exhausted Spirit sat tended by a handful of gendarmes, the s
ouvenir hunters having been chased away. She wandered toward it and informed one of the guards of her credentials. He allowed her passage to the airplane, and she climbed up on the wing—she should have worn trousers—and hauled herself into the cockpit.
She lowered herself into the wicker chair of the cockpit, still feeling the heat of it, the weight of Lindbergh’s body on the fibers. An empty canteen of water lay on the floor near the pedals. Under the seat, a crumpled paper bag rustled against her foot. She took it out and opened it.
Two uneaten sandwiches.
Uneaten, after thirty-three hours. She closed the bag then gripped the yoke, the cool polish of it fitting into her hands. She imagined herself over the ocean, fighting the wind shears, leaning into the currents.
What had her driver said about commitment? It turned regular men into heroes.
And women?
She leaned back into the seat, closed her eyes, listening to the wind through the trees at the far side of the field.
Be who you’re looking for. Don’t spend your life looking for what you want to be, or you’ll never stop searching. She wasn’t sure why Moseby’s voice, a haunting from the past, found her, but she settled into it. You are who you commit to be, doing what you commit to doing.
Oh, how she loved to fly. In fact, maybe one of the local pilots would let her borrow a plane, take it up over Paris.
She climbed out and headed to the flight office. A congregation of French flyers, some of them drinking hot coffee, others talking about Lindbergh’s trip, looked up as she came in and found her way to the counter. Behind them, maps of the French, English, and Austrian countrysides, along with a huge expanse of ocean and the eastern American seaboard, papered the walls, with a red thread marking Lindbergh’s route.
“Bonjour,” she said, resurrecting her French. “I…I’m looking to hire a plane for the day tomorrow.”
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