Hazel was quiet.
“All you’d have to do is work with us. We don’t have to be friends.”
“She’s never gonna to be your friend.” Birdie whirled and June was standing there, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, the shorter pieces falling around her face. “Some half-baked apology isn’t gonna cut it.” She looked adorably disheveled. Milosh had said she was staying here, she was probably staying with Ruth—Birdie’s stomach turned over.
“I was just telling Hazel, I’ve got a plan to make things up to you—”
“Not possible. I don’t care what you got.”
What a jerk. She wouldn’t even let her talk. “I see you let Ruth make up for whatever she did.”
A muscle in June’s jaw twitched. “This ain’t about me and Ruth, it’s about you and Oscar.” June raised her brows at Hazel. “Sounds like she’s mixed up about what the problem here is.”
“It’s me, just me. I’m the problem,” Birdie said. “There’s no me and Oscar. There never was, I promise.”
Hazel shrugged, but pain flared in her eyes. June stepped between Hazel and Birdie, arms crossed. “Hazel’s worked hard for everything she’s got. You can’t just waltz up here and think one ‘I’m sorry’ is going to fix things. Life ain’t as easy for some people as it is for you.”
“You don’t know what it’s like for me,” Birdie insisted, but she remembered how June had said, I sure did want to, and how she had thrown that back in her face. Birdie swallowed. “Listen, I—I need to apologize to you, too.”
Hazel bit her lip and watched June.
“What for?” June said carelessly, but her eyes flicked away.
Hazel sighed. Birdie felt herself wobbling off course. She couldn’t risk being shot down right now. She turned to Hazel, trying to hold back tears. “I’m going to talk to Sinclair tomorrow. If it’s a go—would you do the show?”
“Who’s Sinclair?” asked June. “Another boyfriend?”
“Go talk to him,” said Hazel. “Let me know what he says, and we’ll see.”
“Fine.” Birdie glanced at June.
June turned back toward Ruth and the others without responding.
Birdie managed to hold it together until she got back to the Duesenberg and drove out of sight. Then she pulled over on the shoulder of the road, her hands shaking too much to drive. She curled up on the seat and went over her plan, over what she would say and do, over and over everything, trying to stay calm even though she was alone and they were all on that bright porch, laughing and making plans together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BIRDIE PULLED UP OUTSIDE OF THE STANDARD CLUB MIDMORNING THE next day and staked it out. She hadn’t slept well, curled up in the back seat of her car on a street near the boarding house, but hopefully Mr. Stevens wouldn’t notice the shadows under her eyes. She’d found the hotel easily by asking for directions to Union Station, then retracing her steps. She’d cleaned herself up in one of the station bathrooms and put on one of the best outfits she’d brought from home—a silk scarf tied around her neck, a chevron-patterned light cardigan, a pleated skirt, lipstick, a string of pearls.
She bought herself a coffee from a café and sipped it for over an hour, watching cars and limousines pull up outside the Standard Club, well turned-out families and men in suits coming and going, the doorman holding doors and taking luggage. Finally a black limousine pulled up, the doorman opened the door, and Sinclair Stevens got out.
She fumbled her door open and hurried across the street. “Mr. Stevens!” She waved her hand gaily, trying to look excited, not frantic. “Hello, Mr. Stevens! May I have a word?”
He turned and looked at her, face stern, and when he recognized her his frown deepened. “You may not,” he said firmly.
She stepped onto the curb, breathless. “It’s Birdie Williams. Remember?”
The doorman watched closely.
“Most definitely not.” Sinclair strode through the front door. Birdie tried to follow him, but the doorman firmly blocked her way. She watched, heart sinking, as Sinclair approached the front desk and leaned over it, saying something terse to the woman at the front desk. She handed him a package and then, thank God, he came back out.
She smiled self-assuredly. “Mr. Stevens, I just need a moment of your time!”
He ignored her, mumbling something under his breath and checking his watch as his driver got out and took the package from him.
Might as well jump into it. “I’d like to talk to you about—”
“Look,” he interrupted. “I was zozzled. You looked, I swear to God, ten years older at that club. And nothing happened between us. Jesus. Nothing happened, right?” He looked at her hard, and she nodded nervously. “That’s what I thought.” He watched impatiently as the driver carefully placed the package in the trunk of the car.
She clasped her hands and said urgently, “Sir, I wanted to talk to you about your movie.”
Anger flared in his eyes. “I’m not going to talk about the damned movie,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I have to talk to you about it. You see, I’m part of this air show, I work with some wonderful pilots and I’m a wingwalker myself, and we would just be so honored if you would come see our show. It’s happening—” When could they get the show together? The driver opened the limousine door for Sinclair. Birdie rushed: “—this Saturday, at three p.m.—”
He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m leaving town Saturday.”
“Friday, then!”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going to your show, miss.”
“You have to come see it, because we’re just who you need for your next movie, and if you like our show we could come to Hollywood and audition for the stunts, and—”
Sinclair laughed bitterly, but instead of getting in the limo, he turned to her, rubbing his forehead. “Listen, kid. There is no movie.”
“I—what?” Birdie froze. “But you said—you’re the Mr. Stevens, aren’t you?”
“I am. Talked your ear off about it the other night, did I? God, I had the whole thing lined up, but guess what I found out at the meeting last night: every one of my investors pulled out. The numbers are looking real bad for my latest flick.” He paused and stared off for a moment, then slammed a hand down on the roof of the limo as the driver waited impassively.
“Oh. I—I’m so sorry, Mr. Stevens,” She whispered, deflating. Milosh was right. It wasn’t just Dad, it wasn’t just the circus. Things weren’t working out for lots of people right now.
“It’s not my fault that that damned upstart put his war movie out a month before mine! How was I supposed to know people wouldn’t have the kind of money they had last year, and they’d only go and see one? No matter that it was pure trash!” He hit the car roof again and swore.
“Sorry to waste your time,” she said quietly.
Sinclair shook his head. “Look, I’m sure your show is real nice.”
It would have been. “It’s Peter Pan, only with airplanes. It’s got Wendy and Tiger Lily and the crocodile and everything.”
“A kid’s story, huh.” He looked pensive. “That’s different. Kids eat that kinda stuff up, don’t they?” He drummed his fingers on the limo’s roof. “Friday, you said?”
Hope surged through Birdie. “Three p.m. I could leave a flyer at the front desk for you. And maybe if you come and see it—maybe we could inspire you to consider a new script—”
“It’s not up to me, kid. It’s the investors. If there’s no money, there’s no movie.” Sinclair turned and ducked into the limo. The driver tried to shut the door, but Sinclair stopped him. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I could invite some of them, work your show into a pitch, and see if they go for it.”
Birdie’s heart started to pound. “Sounds like they might, sir!”
“It’s a long shot. But if it worked out, I could definitely be convinced that I owe you a favor, if you know what I’m saying.”
Birdie smiled so h
ard it hurt. “If you bring them, our show will sell it! I promise!”
He laughed shortly. “You got some pluck, you know that? Leave the flyer at the front desk. They’ll make sure I get it. But no promises.” Sinclair settled into his seat and the driver shut the door.
Birdie couldn’t help waving enthusiastically as the car pulled away.
Holy moly. There was still hope!
Friday, 3 p.m. They were all going to kill her when she told them that, but they could make it work.
A strange plane was parked in the field when Birdie pulled up to Henrieta’s house. It was painted cream, with TRAVEL AIR stenciled on the tail, which rang a bell somewhere in Birdie’s mind. Henrieta’s Ford was there as well, and the Studebaker, so Merriwether and Bennie and the twins were probably inside. She wondered if anyone else would be there, or if she’d have to go to the boarding house to track down Hazel and June, and call around to find Oscar.
Birdie’s stomach buzzed with nerves as she got out of the car. She’d felt elated leaving the Standard Club, but during the drive she’d had a lot of time to think the plan over. Sinclair Stevens might not show up. He might decide it was too long a shot. And if he did come, there was no actual movie anymore, which had been a key part of her plan. Could she really convince everyone to put on the show when there was no film to audition for? Hazel might refuse to work with Oscar. June might reject Birdie’s mess of a plan.
A wave of nausea rolled over Birdie as she got close enough to recognize the voices coming through the screen door. She opened it and walked down the hallway to find everyone sitting at the big oak table. Merriwether and the boys, Bennie, Colette, and Milosh, all in their little constellations, Henrieta orbiting the table, pouring coffee into cups. June and Hazel sat together, and Oscar stood by the woodstove, hands in his pockets, looking anxious.
They were all there, falling quiet as they looked up at her expectantly.
June stood. “Hazel told me about Mr. Stevens,” she said. “That’s some plan you got.”
Birdie couldn’t tell if June was still angry. She looked tense, and breathtakingly beautiful, arms crossed like she only half believed Birdie was serious.
“Did you talk to him?” asked Hazel intently.
Birdie tore her eyes from June. Oscar’s hopeful smile. Colette and Milosh’s clasped hands, inked stars on their knuckles colliding. Henry and John fidgeting anxiously. Henrieta making herself busy by the stove. Bennie’s and Merriwether’s steady gazes. Hazel’s eyes huge in her pale face.
Birdie nodded mutely.
“What did he say?” asked June.
“He said—” Birdie’s voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “Sinclair Stevens said he would come to our show,” she said slowly.
John and Henry cheered, and Oscar whooped and cuffed Milosh on the shoulder. Hazel smiled and reached up to squeeze June’s elbow.
“Hollywood’s a town I could see myself taking a shine to.” Bennie grinned at her.
“But?” said Merriwether. “I can tell there’s a but coming.”
Everyone looked back at Birdie.
“The movie,” she said.
“Oh no,” said June.
“They’ve got the stunt pilots they need already,” guessed Colette.
“They don’t want women pilots after all?” Hazel sounded slightly hysterical.
“No,” said Birdie. “None of that. The budget—it’s fallen through. He still wants to make a movie, but—”
“He still wants to make a movie!” exclaimed John. “He’s coming to our show!”
“Yes, but he doesn’t have the money to make it,” said Birdie impatiently. “His investors pulled out.”
“A man like that can get the money,” said June. “If he wants it bad enough.”
“Not these days,” said Bennie. “Not like they used to, anyway.”
Birdie blew out a breath. “Yeah, so he said that he might come, and if he did, he would bring his investors and try to pitch another movie to them. But it sounds like it’s kind of a long shot.” The best she had to offer didn’t sound so good. It was quiet for a moment. Maybe she should turn tail and run, before they let her know she’d let them down again.
“I don’t care,” said Hazel suddenly. “You see that Travel Air out there? I went out to the airfield and convinced them that they should loan me their brand-new model so I can show it off in front of Sinclair Stevens, and dammit I’m going to fly it in the show in front of Sinclair Stevens and get a spot in his damned movie. We’re doing this, and we’re gonna give it all we got.”
Birdie’s mouth fell open. Hazel had gone ahead and traded in her Waco for a new plane. Last night she’d been so guarded. Birdie hadn’t known she’d get so invested.
“It might not work out.” She hated to crush Hazel’s enthusiasm.
“We will make it,” said Hazel determinedly.
Birdie felt her spirits lift. Maybe Sinclair Stevens wouldn’t show up. Maybe the movie wouldn’t get made. But they would put on a show, and the circus would be back together. She would have a few days to get Hazel to forgive Oscar—and maybe June would warm up to her, too. “We have a new car, and a new plane, and I’m damned well going to jump off the wing of that plane,” she vowed. “We’re gonna put on one hell of a show.”
Colette smiled ethereally as she rubbed Milosh’s back. “See, sweetheart? All that worry for nothing.”
“Oh, I told him the show was this Friday,” said Birdie. “Three p.m.”
“You trying to kill us?” cried Bennie, as everyone howled.
“He’s leaving Chicago on Saturday.” Birdie raised her voice. “I had to tell him that!”
“This is great.” June thumped the table. “Three whole days. Print flyers, paper the town, get the show together. We’re Merriwether’s Flying Circus of the Air! We’ve done shows on shorter notice!”
“Hooray!” said John.
“We’re going to be in a movie!” said Henry.
Birdie grinned at June. She hadn’t been sure if June thought the whole idea was crazy nonsense. June sounded like she was all in, but she melted Birdie’s smile with a hard look. “This is Hazel’s dream we’re talking about,” June said seriously. Birdie’s stomach flopped as she read into June’s stern expression. This better work out, or else.
“It’s been our dream for a while,” said Oscar, but Hazel didn’t look at him.
“I’m sure Sinclair Stevens will be there, and I’m sure that our show will be perfect this time,” said Birdie, as confidently as she could. But she wasn’t. It wasn’t a sure thing at all.
There was nothing else to do but hope, again, impossibly, that things would all work out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BIRDIE PAUSED IN THE DOORWAY OF THE FARMHOUSE. COLETTE SAT JUST in front of her on the porch edge, bent over a bright-green strand of sequins and a dark-green leotard. Milosh sat next to her, soaking rags in kerosene. In the field Bennie hunched next to the propeller of the Moth, tinkering with something. Merriwether had allowed the twins to fly a Jenny over the outskirts of Chicago to drop flyers in the suburbs, in an attempt to get them out of everyone’s hair. Oscar was somewhere in the sky as well, out of sight, practicing the Peter Pan choreography. Birdie could hear the distant buzz of the engine grow louder, then fade. Once he landed and refueled, she’d go up with him and begin practicing.
Hazel stood out in the field, her sun-burnished hair in glowing braids down her back. She rubbed her temples next to the new Travel Air as Merriwether gesticulated, and Birdie wondered if the headache Hazel had mentioned at the kitchen table yesterday had come back. Hazel had been up in the air as much as possible that morning, getting the feel of her new plane. June stood by the pirate-ship plane a few yards away. She’d painted stripes to mimic boards of a ship in the brown paint, and now she ran her finger along the body, tapped the white wings, then looked at her fingers to see if the paint was dry. A tricorn hat that Colette had finished gluing together a few minutes ago was perched
on her head.
Birdie swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. She’d been avoiding June. What had happened between the two of them was messy, something she didn’t have words for. She didn’t know what to say beyond sorry, and she knew sorry wasn’t enough.
And she’d seen June and Ruth together at the boarding house. She knew something still smoldered between them.
June looked up, right at her, and Birdie’s stomach turned anxiously. June jumped onto the wing and struck a pirate pose, hanging from a strut and stabbing the air with an imaginary cutlass. “Ahoy there!”
June’s face was shaded by the brim of her hat, but her voice sounded playful. “Ahoy yourself,” Birdie called back timidly.
June gestured her closer.
Birdie walked across the field, remembering the first moment she saw June. Hey there, that arresting drawl. The smell of cotton candy and funnel cakes in the air, the Coney Island sunset shading June’s eyes so dark. “Hey,” Birdie said as she approached, kicking the grass.
June hopped off the wing, her expression serious, and Birdie’s stomach tightened. June rubbed her fingers across her mouth, then stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Listen, Birdie. How I—the other night—I was kinda hard on you.”
Birdie’s mouth twisted. “Can’t say I didn’t deserve it.”
June cracked a smile. “I mean, you did deserve it.” She nudged Birdie’s shoulder with her own. “But I can tell that you’re trying hard to make it up. I’d have a hard time being that brave, if I was you.”
“Thanks.” She’d hoped coming back and trying hard would magically make everything better, but she could see how naïve that was. “I wish it was enough.”
“What do you mean?”
She turned and looked over the field. On the surface the show was back together, but underneath, everything was still wrong. “So what if I’m sorry? I broke up Oscar and Hazel. I ruined the audition. There’s a good chance nothing’s going to come of this. After Friday we’ll still be in the same fix we were in before: no performance at the NAR, nothing in Hollywood for us. Hazel and Oscar still split up.”
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