by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
Lee kicked his boot into the soil on the pathway, sending up a clump of dirt. “Yeah?”
Swallowing back guilt, Grant considered how every time Lee had an idea he’d wanted to pursue, he’d steered him back to the notion of a huge balloon powered by engine that could carry many people far distances. Was this an imitation of his father’s dream? Of an elaboration on Father’s foray into Virginia during the war? Was it to show him he could go farther, do it better than he had? That Grant would have stopped his mother from …
Something deep and dark welled up in him. He swiftly fled, weaving in and out of the crowds of people. His heavy burden lightened then lifted heavenward, like a balloon finally untethered.
The tension in the Home Arts Pavilion felt palpable to Sarah. Although the judges had listened to the Detroit quilters in private, rumors had quickly circulated as to what the consequences would be. The lead quilter, “Miss Mary” as Lee had called her, kept her head high as she and the other quilting-bee members strode from the building and their formal grievance meeting in silence.
Mrs. Burgi gave Sarah a gentle push. “Serve them now before they speak with that pretender.” The disgust in the sweet-natured registrar’s voice surprised Sarah.
After the AME Quilting Bee had been heard, another private meeting was to be held—this one with Miss DuBeau.
Sarah pushed her cart toward the pavilion’s center and the judges’ table. Earlier she’d decorated it with fall leaves, apples, and tiny pumpkins. Prior to the churchwomen’s arrival she set out cucumber sandwiches, pecan tarts, and miniature apple turnovers. Now she brought both tea and coffee service for the judges. Her hands shook as she set up afternoon tea for them.
Mr. Thomas, seated in the middle, presided over the group. He smiled at her when she poured his coffee. She continued serving each judge.
Mamie DuBeau, attired in a coral linen walking suit with a prominent bustle and French lace-edged blouse, moved alongside Sarah’s cart. Mr. DuBeau, looking more dapper than in newspaper photos, followed his daughter. He carried his top hat under his left arm and a black, silver-headed walking stick in the other.
Mamie tipped her nose in the air and avoided Sarah, but her father offered a gentle smile. The beautiful socialite nibbled her lower lip.
“Good day, esteemed judges.” Mr. DuBeau bowed toward the table. “I’m Cyrus DuBeau, here from Detroit.”
“We all know who you are, sir.” Mr. Thomas’s voice was gruff, despite the humble delivery by Mr. DuBeau. “State your business.”
Red crept across the man’s high cheekbones. Mamie’s face contorted, but then a mask of serenity replaced her livid expression. She stepped forward, clasping her hands. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Such as?”
“I was supposed to display the quilt I brought as a group submission from a local church. However …” She glanced down at her ivory kid, button-up boots. “I incorrectly completed the paperwork.”
“And submitted it as your own?”
She lifted her chin. “Nowhere on the form did it have a section for all the church members’ information.”
Mr. DuBeau touched his daughter’s shoulder. “I fear I haven’t trained my daughter how to complete paperwork. I’ve always done it for her. I take responsibility for that error in judgment.”
“So this quilt was to have been submitted on behalf of the church group?” Mr. Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Yes.”
Several of the judges simply stared at the DuBeaus.
“But it’s too late to be reentered for judging.”
Mamie’s shoulders edged up toward her ears, like a chastened child.
Mr. DuBeau tapped his cane. “I’d hoped to display the quilt at my flagship store in Detroit, as the winner of the blue ribbon.”
“A pity the churchwomen will suffer from your daughter’s mistakes.” Mr. Thomas fixed his eyes on Mamie, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Mamie shall make amends to them, I assure you.”
“We’re afraid we’ve also voted Miss DuBeau may not submit in any state fair category for two years.”
Mr. DuBeau stiffened. “She’ll be a married lady by then and too busy keeping household.”
Mamie raised her chin and glared past her father at Sarah, who only then realized she’d simply stood there like a ninny, listening in.
The socialite’s eyes narrowed. “I’m no longer engaged, Father. I fear Mr. Stollen’s fascination with those silly, boring balloons has come between us. I’ll not sit by for years while he works on an engine for them to become more than they were meant to be—a simple diversion. And I have no plans to begin quilting, either.”
Mr. DuBeau’s mustache twitched. “There you have it, esteemed judges. You shan’t be troubled by my blunders or my daughter’s in the future.”
A smirk settled on Mamie’s face.
Sarah hastily placed the last creamer at the end of the table and pushed the cart toward the alcove. Mamie and her father passed nearby, her father’s scolding words too low for her to hear at first, but then his voice raised a touch. “If all you want is excitement and a handsome face, you’ll only find sorrow. A marriage is based on sacrifice by both parties and mutual love and respect. You’ll never find that if you keep putting yourself first.”
After steering the cart into the quiet alcove, Sarah removed her apron. Had it only been yesterday that Grant had almost kissed her? Even though it was she who sent him away that day, his absence today rippled through her like physical pain. Would the sadness of losing him outweigh the anguish she’d experience if he died in a balloon crash?
“Trust Me,” a still, quiet voice nudged her.
I want to trust You, Jesus. I want to rely on You, but right now I can’t seem to get past myself. Like Mamie. Tears filled her eyes.
“Lean into Me.”
The sun began to dip in the autumn sky. Father and Mr. Thomas drew in closer as Grant commandeered the first winch, and his strongest assistant managed the second. Hired helpers clutched the additional safety ropes. They’d worked hard all week long. Might as well give the assistants a bonus, because Lee and Grant would, by no means, raise enough money to keep their engineering shop in Detroit going. Tethered.
Lee assisted Mamie into the basket. Her father drew in beside her. And Stollen, a sulky look on his face, stepped in, too. Soon, ballast was emptied, and Grant and his helper loosened the winch, as the balloon ascended into the air.
From the periphery of his vision, Grant sensed someone watching him. He continued to focus on the DuBeau contingent, not wanting to be distracted. A gentle breeze stirred the fragrance of autumn leaves and apples—and a distinctly feminine scent he associated with Sarah: lilacs and roses. He daren’t look around, though. They allowed the balloon to move higher into the cerulean skies. He looked up to see Mamie clutching not Stollen’s arm, but her father’s. Even from this distance, she appeared pale. Grant made a slashing motion at his throat and the other wincher also stopped.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, “Are you all right?”
Mr. DuBeau gazed down with obvious affection at his only child. He patted her arm. Mamie nodded and DuBeau jerked his thumb upward.
Breathing slowly in relief, Grant and his helper continued to unwind the tether rope. Once they reached about a thousand feet, a cheer went up from the crowd. He resisted the urge to turn and count how many observed. But from the sounds of chatter in the background, the numbers were growing.
Footfalls hurried toward him. “Sir?”
Grant didn’t stir as the ticket boy came alongside him. “Yes?”
“We sold out all the tickets.”
“All?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant could feel the boy’s smile, even though he didn’t look. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the DuBeaus.
“Folks said if Mamie DuBeau and her pa could go up, so was they!”
He almost cringed at
the child’s grammar but didn’t correct him. “I’ll honor our agreement.”
“Whoopee!”
All the ticket sellers were promised unlimited drinks and food from the Italian boy’s cart if they sold out.
If they sold out. That meant they’d made enough to hold on to their lease. If they did a real aeronautical show, with a parachute drop, maybe they could finance their new prototype.
A stiff wind blew leaves up from the ground. Between the excitement of their sales, the strong breeze, and the sensation that Sarah was nearby, Grant struggled to keep his focus on the tethers. Tomorrow promised to be a long day. How could he make things up to Sarah?
Chapter 9
It’s the last day of the fair and your only chance! You can do this.” Denise patted Sarah’s arm.
“I know. I have to do this.” Having seen the night before that the balloon was tethered and appeared quite safe, Sarah almost looked forward to going up.
“Lee is such a sweetheart. I was so surprised when he brought those tickets by.”
“Yes, but without Grant.”
“Grant tried to speak with you yesterday, but you said you were too busy.” Denise’s gentle chide brought tears to Sarah’s eyes.
She’d prayed for an answer, and God had provided. Lee had explained how the winches worked, one on each side, and the balloon ride was secured. Sarah had to try. Only God knew the time and place in which someone’s time on earth would end. She had to trust that He knew best.
The autumn sun rose higher in the early morning sky.
“What a long line!” Sarah pointed.
As they approached, Lee jogged toward them and practically dragged Sarah and Denise to the front of the line, over the protests of the people ahead of them. “Guests of honor!” he called out.
Grant’s eyes sparkled as Sarah shyly moved forward. “You’re really going up?”
“I am.” She raised her chin. I can do this.
“All right.” He pointed at Lee and then the winch. “We’re going up alone. You two can go next.”
“Ya might start a riot, old man.”
“I may be over thirty, but I’m not old.”
This virile man was anything but old. Strength radiated through Grant’s arms as he led Sarah to the balloon basket and assisted her in.
She was doing this. Really going up. Grant’s hand brushed against hers as he secured the basket door, sending a thrill through her. “Hold on.”
He gestured for them to begin and tossed a sandbag out.
As the balloon propelled upward, Grant wrapped his arm around her waist. The warmth of his palm penetrated her cotton dress, sending tingles up her spine. “I’m not a youth. I know my own mind. And if I have figured correctly, you might be of the same persuasion.”
Sarah swallowed. They ascended higher, the crowd beneath them growing larger even as the people appeared smaller. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Confusion flashed over his handsome features. His lips, which she longed to have pressed against her own, twitched.
Grant turned her toward him, and she clutched at the rail, despite feeling quite stable in their perch. “I’m trying to say that I care very deeply for you, and even though we’ve known each other a short time, I feel close to you.”
Though she was aware the balloon continued to rise, ever so slowly, the only thing she could contemplate was Grant Bentley. He edged forward, his shoes nestled between her low boots, and pulled her into his arms. As she released the rail, his head inclined toward her. Then his mouth covered hers, and nothing else existed. Nothing but the two of them, high above the earth.
She was safe. Perfectly safe. In his arms.
Were they engaged now? Grant wasn’t sure he’d actually asked the question. But judging by the crowd’s excitement, they thought so.
Reporters crushed in. “When is the big date, Professor Bentley?”
Grant cringed at being addressed by the aeronautic honorary title of professor.
A Lansing photographer snapped a picture of Denise hugging Sarah, who gazed wide-eyed at Grant. “Let me get one of the happy twosome.”
“We’ve heard of couples getting married in a balloon, but this is the first engagement we’ve gotten wind of.” Danny Williams, from the Detroit Free Press, scribbled on his notepad. “When’s the wedding date?”
A fracas began in the background. People shouted as the crowd parted for someone.
“What’s happening?” Williams called out.
“Dunno!” Another man answered as he jumped up on an overturned box. “Someone’s rushing the balloon!”
“Hey!” Lee called out as two men jumped into the basket.
A policeman’s shrill whistle pierced the air.
Grant pushed past the journalists to Sarah and wrapped an arm around her. Beyond her, the two brothers who’d threatened her stood in the basket, whacking at the winch ropes with long knives.
“Stop them!” Two policemen ran across the field.
The balloon lifted off. Ballast rained down, and the men and balloon shot upward.
Lee moved alongside him. “Suppose they know …”
Danny elbowed Grant, pencil raised. “Will those two be able to land safely?”
“Short of a miracle, no.”
“I’m so sorry about your balloon, Grant.” Sarah’s heart still pounded from their fast walk to the pavilion for the presentation of home arts awards.
They arrived just in time to hear Mrs. Burgi announce, “And the blue ribbon for individual quilts goes to …”
Sarah gripped Grant’s hand tighter than a vise. All the way there, he’d urged her to do as he did: to pray and give the matter over to God—both the fiasco that had just occurred and the possibility of winning the blue ribbon.
“Sarah.” Grant grinned down at her, affection in his eyes.
Her heart leapt. “Yes?”
“You need to go up.” Grant bent down and kissed her cheek. “Congratulations.”
Lee nudged her. “Ya need to hasten up there before someone else grabs that silk ribbon.”
Denise giggled, and Sarah’s feet finally managed to move as Mr. Thomas called out, “Ahem! Again, I give you Sarah Richmond, this year’s winner of the blue ribbon.”
That afternoon, Denise came out to the farm to style Sarah’s hair. “Looks just like the new style in the latest Godey’s magazine.”
Sarah patted the side of her upswept hair. “Thanks for helping.”
Applying pomade to some of the curls, Denise sighed. “I wish I was going.”
“But Lee will be coming here with Grant’s uncle.”
Denise laughed. “Lee confided that I shouldn’t miss tonight’s ‘big doin’s.’”
“Oh?”
“I’m hoping …” Her friend blushed.
With some of Aunt Bonnie’s jewelry, a borrowed cloak from Denise, and her boots freshly polished till they shone, Sarah went downstairs to await Grant’s arrival. She’d be in his horseless buggy that evening. Dangerous or not, she’d trust God to get them to the restaurant near the Grand River, which edged the fairgrounds.
When he arrived, Grant escorted her out to what he referred to as his latest “prototype.” She enjoyed the ride, and they reached the restaurant much sooner than they would have in a horse-drawn buggy. They didn’t have to worry about finding a stable, either. Sarah and Grant entered the hotel’s restaurant through the large varnished oak doors ten minutes early.
Sarah marveled as the hostess led her and Grant past cherrywood tables, covered with pristine white linen tablecloths and fresh flowers in crystal vases at each table. Silver place settings were laid out, with starched napkins at several empty tables. They were directed to a corner table with plenty of space around it for privacy, obviously one of their best in the restaurant. The candelabras were higher at this table, and lit, to add more illumination than the gas-lit sconces on the wall provided. Mr. Thomas was waiting for them, along with another man.
“My fath
er, Herbert Bentley. And this is Sarah Richmond.”
Mr. Bentley’s deep blue eyes met hers. “Good to officially meet you, Miss Richmond.”
When his father made to rise, Grant gestured for him to sit. He pulled out a chair for Sarah and sat beside her.
The gravity of meeting Grant’s father suddenly weighed on her. On their drive, Grant shared that with their balloon destroyed, he and Lee would be unable to continue to use the device to raise funds for their research.
Sarah wondered at what effort it must have taken to get Mr. Thomas up the stairs and into the restaurant with his wheelchair. He steepled his fingers. “The two culprits are in City Hospital. Busted up by their crash into the trees.”
“But they’ll probably survive.” Mr. Bentley’s eyes took on a sheen.
Sarah’s eyes, too, welled up, realizing Grant’s father likely felt as she did—that Grant could easily have perished in one of his flights, if not now then later, had he continued.
Grant held up his hands. “Well, all of that’s over for me and Lee, now.”
Clutched in her lap, Sarah’s hands shook. Grant placed his warm hand atop them, bringing her comfort. She looked into his dark blue eyes and saw something there that made her draw in a deep breath.
“They make a handsome couple, don’t they?” Mr. Thomas grinned at them.
Sarah’s cheeks heated.
“Sure do.” Mr. Bentley accepted a menu from the waitress.
The petite red-haired woman gave them each a copy. “I recommend the Kansas City steak tonight. It’s real tender and comes with roast potatoes and asparagus.”
The two older men passed her back the menus. “You’re speaking our language, ma’am,” Mr. Thomas quipped.
“Same here.” Grant returned his.
Sarah knew she couldn’t eat a whole steak. She’d be lucky if she could manage to eat at all.
“How about our house salad, miss?”
“Perfect.” What was in it? It didn’t matter. A rock had settled in her gut.