Christie could not speak, for she was shocked at herself. She was shocked that she’d let him kiss her—and even more alarmed at the pleasure that had come with his caress. It frightened her, and she dropped her gaze to the ground. “I think we’d better go, Mario,” she said quietly.
“All right.”
The two walked through the slanting lines of white, and finally Mario stopped and drew her around. “Look, I don’t know how to act with you. Are you angry with me?”
“No, I’m not angry—but I think we shouldn’t see each other for awhile.”
“You’re wrong,” he said, and then he took her hands again. “I’m not used to a woman like you—but don’t shut me out, Christie.” He was utterly serious, and his eyes were intent. “These times with you—well, they’ve come to be important to me. I don’t want to lose them.”
“They . . . they’re important to me, too, Mario,” Christie said. But there was a tremulous note in her voice as she met his eyes honestly. “I can’t let myself like you too much. We’re too far apart.”
“Sure—but we can be friends?”
“Y-yes, I think so.”
“Good! I’d hate to lose my best snowman-making helper!” He was happy that the crisis had passed. Later he would try to understand why it was that the thought of not seeing this woman again was something that alarmed him greatly. “Come on, let’s go to the street meeting. Lenora’s been trying to get me to one of those for weeks.”
The anxiety left her, and a droll thought came to her. “I’m going to play the trumpet with the band. But we need more than that. Can you play an instrument?”
“Why—as a matter of fact I play sax with a little band—just for kicks. But I can’t . . .”
“Oh, Mario! You’re an answer to prayer! Come on, we’ve got to hurry.”
Mario protested, but when they got to where the service was to be held, he found himself standing between Christie and Major Hastings, feeling like an utter fool. He didn’t know any of the songs, but he was very good, and after hearing a song only once, could stumble along.
As he played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” he thought suddenly what it would be like if one of his clients—or Nick—came by and saw him. The thought amused him, and when Major Hastings asked him what was funny, he said, “Just thinking how I’ve never played with a better band, Major.”
Lenora was in front of them, the snow making her dark cap white. She heard the remark and turned to look at the three. She caught the eye of Major Hastings and winked, then when the song was over, she lifted her voice, saying, “Now, let me tell you about Jesus—God’s Christmas present to the world!”
SNOWBOUND
Although Jerry left Nick’s office firmly determined to go right to his aunt and find out what was going on with Mario Castellano, by the time he had driven a few blocks, he began to have second thoughts. Dodging a horse-drawn wagon skillfully—and ignoring the shaken fist of the driver—he began to hum a few bars of “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” It was the only song he knew all the words to, and he drove people crazy singing it years after everyone else had forgotten it.
Speaking aloud, he said, “I can’t go read the riot act to Aunt Christie. She’s my aunt, for crying out loud! And who am I to be giving advice to anyone? After the mess I’ve made of my own life, nobody’s going to listen to me.”
He drove aimlessly around the Loop, then finally thought, I’ll have to go to one of Aunt Christie’s brothers. Uncle Owen and Dad know how dangerous it is to get close to the Castellano family. They can tell her.
But Owen was in California, and Amos was in bed with the flu. Well, that leaves Uncle Gavin, Jerry thought, and at once went to his uncle’s apartment. He found Heather, who said, “He’s out at the airport, Jerry.” She seemed to be discouraged but smiled and said, “Go see him. You two need to spend more time together.”
“Sure, I’ll do that, Aunt Heather.”
Jerry drove to the airport, and when he found Gavin, he knew at once that something was wrong. Gavin was talking with a tall, portly man, and as Jerry waited until he finished, he noted that his uncle’s face was drawn. Gavin had been serious, but he was not gloomy, and when he turned and walked away from the big man, Jerry stepped forward. “Hello, Uncle Gavin.”
“Hello, Jerry. What are you doing out here?”
The words were terse, and Jerry’s first thought was, He’s still sore at me for messing up with the show. But then Gavin managed a grin that made his eyes crinkle. “Didn’t mean to bite your head off, Jerry. Come on, let’s get some coffee.”
The two of them made their way to the Dew Drop Inn and soon were sipping blistering hot black coffee. Gavin had been silent, and finally Jerry asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Is it that obvious?” Gavin asked with surprise. “Well, I guess I won’t ever make a good poker player.” He took a swig of the coffee, blinked at the bite of it, then lowered the cup. “I just sold the show, Jerry.” He saw the surprise in the young man’s eyes and said, “I’ve seen it coming for a long time. The public’s gotten tired of air shows. They were great after the war, but now it takes more than an outside loop in a Jenny to get the people out.”
“I didn’t know you were in trouble. Guess having clods like me working for you didn’t help any.”
“Don’t give yourself any credit for this, Jerry,” Gavin said quickly. “Like I said, I’ve seen it coming a long time. I was lucky to sell out at a good price to McGovern.”
“What will you do now?”
Gavin shot a speculative glance at his nephew. “Going to work for the government.”
“Flying the mail, I’ll bet!”
“That’s right.”
Having forgotten his reason for visiting his uncle, Jerry, young and impulsive, spoke his thought even as it came to his mind. “I’m going with you, Uncle Gavin!” He saw the amused surprise on Gavin’s face and flushed. “I’m sick of my job. Got to get out of it.”
“I think that’s good. Your dad is sick about it, and your mother, too.” Gavin leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, examining the smooth face of his nephew. “Why’d you ever get involved in such a fool thing? You could get killed—or go to jail for a long time.”
Jerry shrugged his shoulders wearily. “Ask me why I did a hundred other stupid things, Uncle Gavin,” he muttered. He sipped the coffee, then nodded. “I don’t blame you for thinking I’m crazy. I think so myself. But I want to fly, and this is about all I can think of.”
“You’re a great pilot, Jerry,” Gavin said. “You have more coordination and better hands than most pilots. But this isn’t like flying with the show. It isn’t like anything else.”
“Why not?”
“I guess because it’s never been done before.” Gavin toyed with his cup, then demanded, “How much do you know about how the airmail service started?”
“Not a lot.”
“Well, it got off to a rough start. On the very first flight, a Washington-New York run, the plane started to take off, then stopped. Someone had forgotten to fill the fuel tank.”
“Sounds like something I’d do,” Jerry grinned. “Did he make it?”
“No, he got lost and landed in Maryland.” Gavin had to smile, then said, “Things are a little better now, but there’s no radio on the planes, and few navigational instruments.” A sober look washed across his face, and he said quietly, “Thirty-one of the first forty pilots to fly the mail from New York to Chicago were killed.”
Jerry stared at Gavin’s grim face and sobered instantly. “And yet you’re going to fly the airmail?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to. It takes all a man’s got, Jerry. Back in February of ’21 a friend of mine, Jack Knight, landed in Omaha after a 248-mile flight from North Platte, Nebraska. It was one leg of the first transcontinental day-and-night delivery. Jack was just about dead for sleep when he landed—and he found out that no pilot was available for the next leg, a four-hundred-mile flight to Chicago.”<
br />
“What happened?”
“Jack knew that Congress would be voting the next day on the mail appropriation, so he climbed back into his plane and made the flight through heavy snow. He was in that open plane for ten hours, Jerry. I’m telling you the truth. You need to cut your ties with Castellano—but I’d hate to see you get killed flying the mail.”
Despite his differences with his uncle, Jerry admired him tremendously. “I guess it’s time to find out if I’m good for anything,” he said. “Will you help me get a job?”
Gavin hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And I’ll kick your tail all over the landing strip if you don’t come through!” Then he smiled and slapped the young flier on the shoulder. “It’s a big thing, nephew—and we’re going to be a part of it!”
Lylah came home from the studio perplexed and weary. She had shot the last scene at two, and now she went into the letdown that always came to her when a play or a movie was finished. The weather was frightful, snow falling and the temperature dropping. She took a long, hot bath, then dressed and got ready to go pick up Adam. She was reaching for her coat when a knock at the door startled her. When she opened it, Jerry grinned at her. “Hello, Aunt Lylah!”
“Jerry! What in the world are you doing in California?” She pulled him inside and at once began to pepper him with questions.
“Hey, not so fast!” Jerry protested. “I’ll answer one question, then we go eat. I’m here to pick up a plane and fly it back to Chicago.”
“For the airmail service?” she asked.
“Sure. Now, I’m starved. Let’s go eat.”
“I’ve got to go across town and pick up Adam.”
“I’ve got a car. Belongs to a fellow who works at the aircraft factory. Let’s go.”
Lylah pulled on her heavy coat, and the two left the house. As Jerry followed her directions, he brought her up to date on the family. When he mentioned Christie, Lylah gave him a direct look. “Is she still seeing Mario Castellano?”
“Yeah, I guess so—but she says they’re just friends. How’d you know about that?”
“Lenora calls me quite often. She’s really worried about Christie—and your parents are worried about you. Do you have to fly, Jerry? It’s so dangerous—even Gavin says so.”
“It’s a piece of cake,” Jerry grinned. “Don’t worry about me, Auntie.” He slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded on the snow, stopping inches short of a black car. “You going to introduce me to Clara Bow while I’m here?”
“You wouldn’t like her. She hasn’t a brain in her head.”
“Not her head I’m interested in, Auntie,” Jerry grinned.
“That’s all this family needs,” Lylah said. “Christie running around with a gangster and you chasing after a Hollywood sex symbol.”
“Is she honestly that?” Jerry demanded. “I really should meet her.”
They joked until finally they arrived at the Hart house. When they got out of the car, Jerry looked up at the dark skies. Snow was falling heavily, some of the flakes as large as quarters. “No flying tonight—and driving a car’s going to be pretty hard.”
When they stepped into the warmth of the big room, Lylah snatched up Adam, who came running to her, flinging himself into her arms. “There’s my boy!” She hugged him, then nodded to Jerry. “This is your cousin Jerry. He flies airplanes.”
“Can I go with you?”
Jerry laughed at the solemn question, then reached out and took the boy in his arms. “Sure you can—if it ever stops snowing.”
“This is my nephew Jerry,” Lylah said. “My brother Amos’s son. Jerry, this is Bonnie Hart—who has saved my life.”
Jerry took in the beauty of the girl who smiled at him, noting the straight black hair and the almond-shaped dark blue eyes. “Always glad to meet a lady who saves the life of my aunt. Did you pull her out of the way of a train?”
Bonnie shook her head. At that moment Jesse Hart came into the room through a side door, carrying a huge load of split wood for the fireplace. “Oh, this is my brother, Jesse, Mr. Stuart.”
“My father is Mr. Stuart—I’m Jerry. Glad to meet you, Jesse.”
Jesse tossed the wood into the woodbox and came to offer his hand. “Hello. How’d you get in through the snow?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy. I thought California was the land of sunshine.”
“Usually it is. The wireless says it’s a freak storm.”
“I’ve got dinner almost ready,” Bonnie said. “As soon as I set the table, we’ll eat.”
“I’m the best table-setter in the conference,” Jerry volunteered. “Just show me the plates and the table.”
Jesse moved forward, saying, “Let me take your coat, Lylah. Go sit down by the fire and thaw out.” He shook the snow from her mink coat, studied it, then shook his head. “You died in a good cause, mink—to keep a lady warm.”
Lylah had gone to spread her hands to the fire that crackled cheerfully in the fireplace. At his words she turned to shake her head at Jesse. “You have the oddest mind, Jesse. I’ve had that coat for two years—and I never once thought of where the fur came from.”
“He hath put all things in subject to man,” Jesse said, coming over to stand by her. “I guess that means minks, too.”
Lylah hesitated, asking, “Is that from the Bible?”
“Yes, Hebrews 1, verse 8.”
“You know the Bible better than anyone I’ve ever known. It seems like you have a verse to fit anything that happens.”
The fire threw a flickering reflection in Jesse’s clear brown eyes. “We had a preacher when I was a boy. He was that way, always quoting Scripture for anything that happened. One Sunday morning when he was preaching, he opened his mouth, and a big black bug flew right in!”
“How awful! What did he do?”
“Well, he had to either spit it out and make a real scene—or swallow it. So he decided just to swallow it.” Jesse’s square face looked bland, but his eyes gleamed with humor. “After the service one of the deacons went to him. He said, ‘Well, preacher, you’ve always got a verse to fit anything that happens. What verse fits that bug?’”
Jesse stopped and picked up a log, tossing it on the fire. He watched the myriads of yellow sparks fly upward, and Lylah asked impertinently, “Well, what did he say?”
“The preacher? Oh, he shot right back, ‘That bug—well, he was a stranger and I took him in!’”
Lylah found this irresistibly funny. She had a good strong laugh, deep and husky. Now she laughed so hard that she fell against Jesse, holding to him. “You made that up!” she gasped. And then she realized that he had put his arms around her.
Looking up, she saw that his eyes were fixed on her in a straight gaze. She’d seen him look at things like that many times, for he was an observing man. Now that she was the object of this gaze, she grew quiet, submitting to his embrace and his searching glance. The fire sputtered, and from the dining room came the sounds of voices and clattering dishes. Lylah was aware of the lean strength of his body, the masculine smell of his clothing. She expected him to kiss her—most men would—and she wondered what it would be like.
But Jesse said, “You’re troubled, Lylah. What’s the matter?”
Lylah was taken by surprise. He was always doing that to her. She had expected him to kiss her; instead he’d come up with one of those uncanny observations of his. She drew back and leaned against the mantel, asking, “What makes you think anything’s wrong?”
“What is it?”
Lylah turned to face him, her face glowing from the heat of the blaze. Her eyes were filled with wonder, and she said, “I’m not much of an actress, am I? Not with you, anyway.” She bit her lip, then shook her head slightly. “I’m at a fork in the road, Jesse. Got to make a decision, and I don’t want to.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Oh, it’s my work. I finished the last picture under my contract, and now I’ve got to decide what to do.”
“
Does DeMille want you to do more pictures?”
“Yes—but I’m not sure I want to.” She moved restlessly, her long hair catching the warm tints of the yellow fire. She still had the figure and grace of a much younger woman, and now as she turned to face him, Jesse admired the strong features of her face. “I’ve got an idea, but it’s so crazy I haven’t had the nerve to tell anyone.”
“Tell me,” Jesse offered. “I’ve heard a crazier one, I’ll bet. Probably I’ve even had one that’s worse.”
Lylah hesitated, then said, “I want to get into the making of movies, Jesse. My days as a leading lady are over. The public wants either ‘little girl’ roles such as Mary Pickford plays, or ‘vamps,’ sex symbols, like Clara Bow. I can’t do either of those. It’ll be character roles from now on.”
“Some pretty good ones around,” Jesse shrugged.
“Oh, yes, and I’ll be acting,” Lylah said quickly. “But I want the best for Adam. I want him to go to the finest schools, to have the best of things.”
Jesse shook his head in a mild reproof. “Not sure about that,” he said quietly. “I see rich kids going to the devil all the time. Money’s not the answer.”
Lylah studied the tall man carefully. He reminded her suddenly of Don Satterfield, the steady minister from Bible school days. The two men looked nothing alike, for Don was plain, and Jesse, while not handsome, was quite attractive to women. No, it was the solid quality Jesse had that reminded her of Satterfield. He’d never change—always be the same, just like Don, Lylah thought.
“You’re right,” Lylah admitted. “But I’ve got to take care of him, and I only know one thing—the theater.”
“I’m surprised you never married.”
Lylah looked up, startled. “I’ve had chances,” she nodded. “Men are drawn to actresses—mostly for the wrong reasons.” She hesitated, then said, “I’m not a good judge of men, I guess. I’ve been a fool more than once.”
“Join the club,” Jesse said wryly. “I’ve made a specialty of throwing myself at the wrong women—well, one woman, actually.”
One Shining Moment Page 17