Ames.
He pointed for her to move to the cockpit, and together, they hauled the unruly cover into place. As Ames knotted the last rope, the first icy rain fell from the sky.
“Let’s go!” he yelled above the roar of the wind. He grabbed her hand, and they raced toward the hangar and slipped inside, just missing the downpour of hail that hammered the roof of the metal hangar.
They leaned over, heaving to catch their breath as people gave them room. Mittie glanced sideways at Ames and said, “Thanks.” It was all she could manage with the strength she had left.
When she straightened, soaked to the bone and wrung out, the first person she saw was Peach, delicate hands on either side of her face, her water-pale eyes as big as twin moons. Next to her stood Bobby York.
By evening, a pilot named Marie still hadn’t returned. Sandwiches from the Lambert Field canteen were passed around with paper cups of bitter coffee that at least chased the chill of the storm away. Bobby congratulated Mittie, who smelled of damp wool and had only run her fingers through the tangles of her hair. She wished she’d grabbed her duffel from the baggage compartment when getting the tarp. It didn’t really matter—she’d been wet before, and it was trivial in comparison to what Marie might be going through.
When seven o’clock arrived, the man with the infernal cigar called for attention.
“In light of the circumstances and knowing some of you may have places you need to be, we’re going ahead with announcing the winners of the women’s race division. Unfortunately, the men’s speed race has been halted in Columbia and won’t resume due to the inclement weather. From a field of six women in the two-day race, five finished. Let’s give these ladies a round of applause.”
It was half-hearted, knowing a sixth woman was still unaccounted for. After an awkward few seconds, the official opened an envelope.
“In spite of it being a rough day in the sky today, two of the women broke previous records for flights of five hundred miles, and the remaining three were close behind. First place, with a prize of four hundred dollars, goes to Calista Gilson of Atlanta, Georgia.”
This time, the applause was hearty, Mittie included. Someone wolf whistled from the back of the hangar and yelled, “Way to go, Peach!”
Peach stepped forward. “It’s been a pure delight to be here and meet all y’all. Thank you for giving women a chance to prove that, while we may not be faster or fly higher than our male counterparts, we can fly. And look pretty at the same time.” More applause. More whistles.
She sashayed back to her spot among a group of her admirers.
Mittie’s heart raced as Ames took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. Bobby stood close by with Victor and Weaver. She had finished. That was what counted. But still, she prayed.
“In second place at fourteen minutes behind—” The single entry door to the hangar creaked, and two figures entered. The air stilled, and then a shout went up.
Marie! She made it, and she was alive. The applause was joyous as a muddy, bedraggled Marie stepped forward while a bushy-bearded man wearing a heavy barn coat trailed behind. Everyone wanted to know what happened, and gradually, between Marie and the farmer who’d rescued her, they heard her story.
She’d hit the line of bad weather and lost control of the rudder. She was able to make a partial recovery, but the engine stalled, and she crash-landed in an open field. Stunned but not injured as near as she could tell, Marie crawled out of the plane that had landed on its side, snapping one of the wings. She walked along a dirt road that led eventually to a farmhouse, where she found a man tending his livestock. She helped him get the animals secure in light of the impending storm.
Her face beamed as she said, “And here we are. I knew everyone would be worried, so this gentleman was kind enough to drive me over.”
Mittie’s eyes stung, her throat scratchy with emotion. She was immeasurably thankful that Marie had survived, but she also knew it could have been her, that the Swallow had lurched in the same wind that sent Marie plummeting to earth. And Mittie’s mother would hear of the story and no doubt deliver one of her lectures about the dangers of flying and how being a teacher or a legal secretary or even the wife of a shady senator was infinitely more suitable. Lost in thought, she didn’t even hear the official announce that she had come in second place—fourteen minutes behind Calista and only five minutes in front of Barb, the one Peach called Venus. Barb was a beauty, but more than that, she was a competitor. Warmth flooded Mittie’s chest as she looked at each woman who’d flown. United they stood in their quest to conquer the skies. A band of sisters.
Mittie stepped forward to receive her envelope. She hadn’t even heard what her prize amount was and had certainly not prepared a statement.
“Thank you all. I’m obviously not one of the ones who can fly and look pretty at the same time like my friend here, yet I’m thrilled to be a part of this group. Someday, dear sisters, we will make aviation history.”
Tears clogged her throat as she placed her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss across the hangar where dust particles hung in the air like glitter.
Chapter 16
The storm had more growl than substance, bringing only a skiff of snow and a spat of cold. Two days later, the skies were an inviting cerulean blue, and Mittie and Ames flew back to Louisville. Mittie exchanged addresses and phone numbers with the girls who’d flown in the race and promised to keep in touch. For most of them, it would most likely be spring before the weather was reliable enough to do any serious flying. Like the squirrels who stored away hickory nuts in the autumn, Mittie and her new sisters would have to rely on tucked-away memories to feed their hunger for the skies.
A reporter came out to the farm to do a story about the air rally. He took a picture of Mittie riding Gypsy and asked her about women in aviation and the impact Charles Lindbergh had made. The headline read Former Horsewoman Trades the Saddle for the Cockpit. He slanted the article so that it sounded as if she’d been a failure with Gypsy and had turned to flying as a consolation.
Her mother thought it was vulgar. “He makes it sound like you’re desperate for a thrill. I’ve no idea what the women in the Louisville Ladies’ Society will think. First you fall from the wing of an airplane, and now this—participating in a sport that’s going to get you killed.”
“Say what you will, Mother. We’ve been down this road so many times that the ruts are full of ruts. I would’ve preferred that he mention that I’d taken up aviation in addition to being a horsewoman, but it still gives credibility to women who fly. And if this thrill, as you say, is forging a new frontier, then I would think your friends would rally around that, if not for themselves, then for their daughters and granddaughters.”
“My friends are genteel women who believe a woman’s place is beside a man, conducting herself in a ladylike manner for noble causes.”
“I admire your passion, Mother, the way you’ve always taken care of our family and worked tirelessly helping the flood victims over in Mississippi, but I see a future where aviators can come to the aid of their fellow man within hours, not days or weeks. And just think: in a year or two, when Iris starts having little ones, we could fly down to Birmingham in two shakes.”
“Victor isn’t going to loan you his plane whenever you get a notion.”
“He won’t have to if I have my own plane.” Just like that it popped out of her mouth. Not that she hadn’t thought of it often enough, but saying it to her mother was bold, even for her.
“Oh, forevermore. That’s absurd. I liked it better when all you wanted to do was ride horses and do your daddy’s books. Before Ames Dewberry waltzed into your life.”
Mittie snapped to attention. “What does Ames have to do with this?”
Her mother sighed. “You don’t know anything about him. His people. Where he’s from.”
“Those things are immaterial to me. We have things in common that I adore—flying, dancing, our hopes for the future.”
Her mother gasped. “You’re surely not planning to marry him.”
“It’s not a subject that’s come up, but I do think I’m in love with him.”
“What kind of future would that be? Skipping around the country flying airplanes is hardly what I would call putting down roots. And the man doesn’t even have a job, for pity’s sake.”
“Not an important position, if that’s what you mean. He has dreams of success with his new patent. I wouldn’t be surprised if he owned his own company one day.”
“And if he fails?”
“He’ll try something else. Grandmother’s told me that her parents thought she was crazy to follow a man who dreamed of owning a horse farm. I guess if I’m crazy for following my dreams, I’ve come by the trait honestly.”
“Humph.”
Mittie waited for the retort. She hated bickering with her mother. She should’ve just let her mother’s opinion of the newspaper article rest and mumbled something like, “At least they spelled my name right.” Now it was too late, and they were both on edge. Her mother’s eyes drifted to a spot behind Mittie. “You and your daddy are so full of purpose…”
It slammed Mittie in the depths. This wasn’t about flying or Ames or the newspaper article but about the simple fact that, after years of drifting along, Mittie had latched onto a smoldering passion. The only purpose her mother had was directing the lives of others. Her committees. Her daughters. Her husband, whose need for her had grown thin now that he was stronger.
A tear trickled down her mother’s face.
Mittie’s gut wrenched. How could she have not seen it? Her mother talked about knowing the right people, being an upstanding citizen, a woman who was involved in worthy causes, but it was all a façade. In reality, she was sinking into a sea of extinction, a world where she was no longer needed. If Mittie’s relationship with Ames did become serious, it would be the last blow to her mother’s ability to control the world around her. It was a burden that Mittie couldn’t bear. Wouldn’t bear. Her mother was right—Mittie did have purpose, and whether it was a noble cause or not, the desire to fly was etched in her bones. And she couldn’t let her mother’s emotional state thwart her. Not now that she’d made such strides.
Deep inside, the shell of determination that encased her heart hardened.
The mother-daughter dance they knew so well carried them through December. When Ames had come for dinner, her mother had been pleasant, at times charming, in spite of trying to elicit information about his family.
“Your parents? They’re still in Ohio?”
“Iowa. And no, ma’am. They passed when my sister and I were in grammar school. My grandparents raised us.”
“Oh, you dear boy. How unfortunate for you.”
He shrugged. “They kept clothes on our back and food in our stomachs. Granny saw to our religious training and…sadly, both she and Pawpaw have passed.”
“But your sister? You’re still close?”
“Like peas in a pod. Fern fusses over me every chance I get back to visit.”
“That’s lovely. You’ll be going there for Christmas, I would guess.”
Mittie shot her mother a look that said she was stepping over the line. Like the accommodating soul that he was, Mittie’s daddy had stayed quiet, calmly eating his roast beef, nodding at the right times. Mittie would do well to take a page from him.
Quickly her mother added, “I only ask because you would be welcome to join us if you can’t make it to Iowa.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the invitation. Mittie said Iris would be coming. I’m sure you’re happy about that.”
“We can hardly wait, isn’t that right, dear?” She patted Mittie’s dad on the arm.
“Absolutely. I’ve missed her, and I’m anxious to hear about the steel industry from Hayden as well. Nothing like getting an insider’s view on the economic side.”
Ames raised his eyebrows. “For your investments?”
“My banker tells me I need to diversify.”
“Have you considered aviation? Not that steel isn’t viable, but there was quite a show of interest when I was in St. Louis with Mittie.”
“I’ve gathered that from the newspapers. Any particular companies you’d recommend?”
“Most are growing right now. Travel Air. Lockheed. They’ll be players in the near future, I’m sure. Even Henry Ford’s jumped in with the Tri-Motor he brought out last year.”
“The one they call the Tin Goose?”
Ames chuckled and nodded.
Afterward, Mittie’s mother, bless her heart, didn’t mention the dangers of flying or the unfortunate childhood she imagined for Ames. In the tit-for-tat waltz she and her mother had engaged in, Mittie offered to write out the invitations for the baby shower they were having for Nell while Iris was home for Christmas. And she didn’t even flinch when her mother suggested that she embroider a pair of lambs on a receiving blanket for the new baby. With every wobbly stitch and bloodied finger from poking herself with the needle, Mittie envisioned flying in her own plane. What kind of plane could she afford? A zippy little Swallow like Victor’s or a tried-and-true Canuck like Weaver’s? Someday. Someday soon.
The night before Ames left for a trip to Wichita to see another possible investor, he took her to a tavern that was known for its rustic ambience and hearty food. He looked up from the menu and said, “I’m leaving Trixie in your care. If you have a sunny day, you might take her up so she doesn’t get rusty.”
“You’re sure about driving instead of flying?”
“After the storm that blew into St. Louis, I’m a little leery.”
“You may rest assured that I’ll handle Trixie with kid gloves and treat her like she’s my very own.” Light flickered from the kerosene lantern between them, casting shadows on the walls, bathing one side of Ames’ face in light, leaving the other shadowed. Her heart skipped just looking at him. “And speaking of my very own, I’m serious about getting a plane. I was hoping you could advise me on what features would be best for competition and what one might cost.”
He asked how much her daddy was willing to spend.
“I could never ask him to buy a plane. I have a small trust fund that Grandfather set up, but I don’t want to use all of it, as there’ll be other expenses. Competitions. Travel money. Repairs.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but he must’ve left a substantial amount.”
“Not a great lot, but with what I’ve saved from working for Daddy, it should be enough.”
He blew out a breath that riffled the raven hair on his forehead.
Mittie laughed. “Do that again. You look cute with your hair mussed like that.”
“You’re something else, you know that? Here I am hoping to set up a romantic moment, and you’re discussing the price of airplanes and making goofball conversation about my hair.”
“Sorry, but I do think it makes you look dashing. I have to agree, though, that letting me take care of Trixie is quite the romantic gesture.”
“That was just the warm-up.” He reached over and took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Just a promise for later, okay?” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a thin rectangular box.
Mittie sucked in an audible breath and gave a mental sigh at the same time. Engagement rings come in cubed boxes. Bracelets and necklaces in flat ones. She knew she wasn’t ready for the cubed box. At least not yet.
“For you, my dear.” He tucked the jeweler’s case in her hand and told her to open it.
There was no wrapping paper, just the caramel leather case. And inside, a gold heart-shaped locket rested on red velvet.
“It’s lovely.” The fine gold chain glinted in the yellow lantern light as she ran it through her fingers. “Oh look—it opens.” Inside was a picture, smaller than a dime.
“The picture is Pawpaw, and the locket was Granny’s. I don’t have a trust fund like you—”
“I can’t take this. It’s your grandmother’s, what you
have to remember her and your grandfather by. And what about your sister. Fern, isn’t that what you called her? Maybe she would like it.”
“Fern’s not the sentimental type. Granny would’ve loved you as I do. And I’d bet the moon and stars that she’s smiling right now, happy for you to have her necklace.”
Mittie’s fingers shook. “Are you sure?”
“Never more sure of anything in my life. Here—let me help you put it on.”
His fingers were warm on the back of her neck as she held her hair up for him, but the locket was cool against her chest. She leaned in close and kissed Ames on the cheek. “Thank you; it’s perfect. And the kiss was just a sample of the real one I’m saving for later.”
“I can’t wait.”
The locket grew warm, nestled near her heart.
Chapter 17
A Flying Affair Page 14