by Kirby Larson
“To Vida?” I brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek. It was an interesting question Ned posed. Did I? “To see the people, yes. The place, no.” It seemed I’d made a choice not only to move westward, but also to move forward, not back.
“What about Iowa?” He tugged my arm to call my attention to a man in a wool swimming costume doing a handstand on the beach.
I pointed at the reason for the handstand. A threesome of giggling girls. Ned nodded. “So, Iowa?”
“No again.” Even when Charlie had still been there, I’d felt no tug to Arlington, or any other part of Iowa.
“Then I stand a chance.”
“Come again?” I had to quickstep to avoid a collision with an ice-cream-sticky little boy.
“Never mind.” Ned eyed the little boy’s ice cream. “That looks good. Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“It has gotten a little warm.” Even from under my wide-brimmed hat, I was beginning to wilt a bit from the sun.
We made our way to the nearest ice cream stand. I ordered strawberry, Ned chocolate. “This is refreshing. Thank you.” I nibbled a bit of fresh berry as we continued our walk past the amusements. A barker called out, “Three tries for a dime. Only one thin dime!” Ned and I wound our way through the crowds of promenaders, proud papas pushing baby buggies, little boys rolling hoops, little girls roller-skating. There were the daring, dressed in swim costumes, and the hangers-on, egging the former to dive into the sea. Enterprising sorts sold all manner of geegaws from wood crate storefronts. I was tempted by a thimble embossed with seals and bought it as a gift for Perilee. I also bought a penny post card of the Great Beach Highway itself.
Above all the people noise, gulls and other seabirds made it clear that this was their domain and we humans mere trespassers.
I chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Ned asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking back on my first day in town. I felt like such a country mouse.” I waved with my ice cream cone. “All these people! The noise! The commotion! It gave me the jitters. And now, after a couple of months, it seems normal.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Ned said. “Because I have a secret plan for keeping you here.” He waggled his eyebrows like a mad scientist.
“Oh, dear!” I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead like the women always did in melodramas. “Whatever shall I do?”
He pretended to twist a long moustache. “Say yes.” Beneath the silliness, I sensed something else going on. I wasn’t sure what it was though.
“To what?” I concentrated on my ice cream cone.
“Being my partner.”
“In what?” I asked in a teasing tone. “Crime?”
“In news.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “What do you mean?”
He led me over to a bench and we sat. “President Wilson’s going to pay a visit to our fair city next month. Trying to get backing for the League of Nations.”
“I’d heard that.” What I knew about the League of Nations would fit in that thimble I’d bought Perilee.
“So that gives us about two weeks to earn the assignment. There’s a lot of background to fill in, to understand.”
“You want me to help with the research?” I’d gotten pretty good at that, if I did say so myself.
“That’s the ticket.” He sat back on the bench. “But I’d pay you myself. Monson doesn’t need to know about it. It’d be our little project.”
I thought it over. It was flattering that Ned wanted my help. But I knew he aspired to being more than a cub reporter. And something like this could boost his standing. Considerably. I sensed this was the time for some horse-trading. “I’ll do it. And you don’t have to pay me.” I held up my hand to stop his protest. “At least, not in cold hard cash. What I want is the chance to do some of the writing. If it’s not up to snuff, you don’t have to use it. But if it’s newsworthy, you do.”
“I’ve no complaints about your writing.” He chewed on my suggestion for a moment. “Seems fair.”
“I’m not finished.” This might be the chance to hang up my navy blue work smock for good. “We share a byline.”
“What?” Ned nearly jumped off the bench. “That’s just not done, Hattie.”
I shrugged. “Fine.” I stuck out my hand. “Good luck, then.”
He frowned. “And here I thought you were a sweet young thing. This is something Marjorie D’Lacorte might cook up.”
“I will take that as a compliment.” I stood. “Shall we keep walking? I see Maude and Orson up there.”
He snatched my hand and shook it. Firmly. “All right. All right. It’s a deal.”
“You won’t regret it!” I could have done a little jig right there on the boardwalk.
“Oh, I will,” he said glumly. “I already do.”
Tetrazzini Chickens Out
Hubbard Lands in City to Promote Boeing Airplane Company
By NED KIRK
SAN FRANCISCO, AUGUST 21: Eddie Hubbard, William Boeing’s right-hand man, plans a short trip to this city to show off the Boeing C-700. “The seaplane is the future of aviation,” the daring pilot proclaims. He will be in town this week to spread his aviation gospel and to take the braver of our city’s bigwigs for aerial joyrides.
“Hattie! Hattie!” Raymond flagged me down. “Don’t worry. He’s gone.”
Raymond seemed even fuzzier this morning than usual. Maybe he nipped at two bottles last night rather than one.
“Ned?” I asked. I couldn’t think of any other “he.” But he’d picked up everything I’d pulled together for him the morning before, when I got off work.
“Scruffy-looking guy. Needs a haircut. Grease under his nails.” Raymond gave a tight nod, as if that was all that needed to be said about the unexpected visitor. “Asking for you. But I sent him on his way.”
“Well, I do appreciate your watching out for me.” I shifted the newspaper I carried to my other arm and pushed the button for the elevator. I was eager to catch a few precious winks, as Ned and I had a story to cover that afternoon.
Raymond stepped behind the front desk. “He wouldn’t leave till I took this message.” He handed me a piece of paper and I read the five words written there: “Mr. Whiskers’ friend was here.”
“Oh!” I stopped. “Do you know where he went?”
He scratched his head. “He did ask where to get a decent breakfast. I sent him over to Scuzzi’s.”
I flew upstairs to freshen up, then changed into the dress Ruby had bought for me. I popped on the matching cloche and hurried over to Scuzzi’s.
The restaurant was crowded with workingmen, a crush of male heads all wearing similar newsboy-style caps. It took me a second or two to pick out the head I was looking for. Hoping for.
“Is that chair taken?” I stopped at the table for two where Charlie sat by himself. Seeing him was like taking a long sip of cold water on a hot, hot day.
He stood and pulled the chair out for me. “I wasn’t sure that fellow would give you my message. He didn’t seem to think much of me.”
“Raymond wasn’t impressed with your dirty nails.” I sat down. The waiter saw me, held up the coffee carafe, and waggled it, as if to ask if I wanted a cup. I nodded. I didn’t really need any, but it would give me something to do with my hands.
“If he did anything but flit around behind that desk, he’d get his nails dirty, too.” Charlie glanced down. “Guess they are kind of stained. But it comes with the territory.”
I settled my dress. “That looks good.” Charlie’s breakfast of hash browns, eggs, bacon, and pie reminded my stomach that I’d skipped my wee-hours lunch to type another copy of my working-girls article.
When the waiter came with my coffee, Charlie ordered a second breakfast. “Eggs over medium this time,” he told the waiter. “That’s the way you like them, right?”
“Oh, I don’t need all that,” I protested.
“Yes, you do.” He pushed the sugar bowl my w
ay. “Perilee keeps fussing, worried that you’re not eating. ‘She’ll be green-bean skinny,’ she says.” He looked me over. “You eat that breakfast or I’ll tell her she’s right.”
I had been scrimping on meals so the coins in my cold cream jar would multiply faster. There had been a lot of saltine and butter sandwiches lately. Time to change the subject. “I read that Eddie Hubbard was coming to town.” I thought it best not to mention that I knew the writer of the article. Or that I knew why he was in town.
“It’s something a bright young reporter like you might be interested in.” His eyes twinkled in that wonderful Charlie way.
The waiter placed my breakfast in front of me. My stomach clenched at the sight of it. I’d told Charlie about my job at the paper but had never gotten around to telling him what that job was. He had assumed I was a reporter. It was time to fess up.
“Charlie …”
“Don’t you want your eggs?”
I took a bite. “Delicious.” I might as well have sampled the tablecloth.
“I can’t wait any longer.” Charlie’s face lit up like a starry night sky. “You’ve heard of Luisa Tetrazzini, the opera star, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she’s in town. Singing at some fancy theater.” He gobbled down a biscuit in two bites. “And she’s paid for an aerial tour of the city. Wouldn’t have any pilot but Eddie Hubbard.”
I poked at my fried eggs. “Your boss.”
“And he wouldn’t have any mechanic but me, so here I am.” He pushed his empty plate out of the way and slid the piece of pie in its place. “Seemed like a great story in it for you.”
Oh, this was awful. Here he was thinking about how he might be able to help me, and I hadn’t even been honest with him. I cleared my throat to make sure I could trust my voice. “If the Great Tetrazzini’s going up in the air, some newshound has probably already sniffed it out.”
“Maybe.” Charlie cocked his head. “But maybe you’ll sniff out something another newshound doesn’t.” He reached over and forked off a piece of my uneaten peach pie. How could I have forgotten about that scar over his left eye that dimpled when he smiled? “Cancel that. There’s no ‘maybe’ when Hattie Brooks is on the case. Or whatever you call working a story.”
I didn’t deserve his faith in me. I set my fork down. “Charlie. I have to tell you something.” Everything spilled out.
“You stayed here to be a charwoman?” he asked when I’d finished. “You could have done that in Great Falls.”
“I’m doing more than that,” I said. “The research. And I do have the one baseball article. That’s something I wouldn’t have had in Great Falls.”
He shook his head. “I gotta hand it to you. You really are going after this, aren’t you?”
My heart melted at his kindness. His support. “I’m trying to,” I told him.
“You done with your food?” When I nodded, he opened his wallet and threw down a dollar bill to pay for our breakfasts. “I suppose you’d already planned to be at the airfield.”
“Yes.” I stood up. “I’ll see you there.”
At the door, he took my hand. When his palm slid next to mine, it was like a key slipping into my heart. I squeezed. One-two-three. Like I used to do with Mattie. Charlie didn’t know what that signal meant. Just as well.
“I have to say one thing, Hattie.” He squeezed back, then looked right at me with those mesmerizing eyes. “I wish you’d been straight with me about the job. I think I deserved that.”
I couldn’t disagree with him. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
He tugged me close, and I filled my lungs with his clean smell. “If a guy wants to be your fellow, he’d best learn to watch out for those snake balls you keep throwing.” His lips brushed my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”
After we parted company, I walked back to the hotel, his words of forgiveness buoying me up as if I were a zeppelin. If it hadn’t been for my sturdy brown oxfords, I might have floated right away. How could I have forgotten how good Charlie smelled? How strong his hard-working hands? Or how being with him was like dipping into a beloved book? Maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe I should go to Seattle.
I stumbled over a stone on the sidewalk, jarring myself and my thoughts back to earth. My heart had no right to take over like this. It was a hammer making crooked nails out of all my plans to be a writer. Not a wife. I shot a cranky prayer heavenward, demanding to know why the good Lord had given Charlie Hawley eyes that made a girl forget everything she was working toward.
Back in my room, I pulled the covers over my head, aiming to get a few hours of shut-eye before the afternoon’s event. There was little shut-eye but much tossing and turning. Finally I gave up and got dressed to go out again. Ned and I had planned to meet in the newsroom. But he was nowhere to be seen when I arrived. The minutes ticked past and still no Ned.
“Aren’t you going to the airfield?” Miss D’Lacorte shrugged into a chiffon cocoon jacket.
I looked around. Was she speaking to me? Stunned at this attention from the Tiger Woman, I stammered out a reply. “I—I was supposed to go with Ned.”
She opened her pocketbook, pulled out a set of car keys, and jingled them. “I’d say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Ride with me.” She started for the elevator.
I hesitated. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d miss the flight. But what would Ned think when he arrived to find me gone? If he arrived. Besides, did one dare turn down an invitation from a tiger?
“Wait!” I hurried after her, one step behind the whole way to her car.
“Got your notebook?” she asked as she cranked the ignition.
I was glad I could answer affirmatively. “I keep it in my pocketbook,” I told her. A car honked as she lurched out into the street. I kept my eyes straight ahead. I hated to admit it, but Miss D’Lacorte made a good case against women having licenses to drive.
She took the next corner too sharply and sent a pedestrian scurrying back to the curb and me sliding up against the passenger door.
I pushed myself back to an upright seated position. “Are we late?” I hoped she’d hear the hint to slow down in my words.
“A reporter can never be too early.” She shifted gears and we rolled down O’Farrell. “Or too well prepared.” She glanced over at me. “I suppose it’s hopeless to think you could write anything about Tetrazzini.” The Tiger’s claws unsheathed.
Thank goodness I’d thought to jot down some notes about the opera star when I’d been poking around in the morgue that time. I fished out my notebook and improvised. “Luisa Tetrazzini, called the Florentine Nightingale, was born June 29, 1871, and began singing opera as a child. She made her San Francisco debut in 1905.…”
Miss D’Lacorte held up one hand and gestured with the other. “Dry as—”
“Look out!” I flattened against the seat, steeling against a crash. She clasped the wheel and miraculously avoided hitting a jitney head-on.
“—dust,” she continued, unfazed by the mayhem she was causing. “You need to add some frosting to those facts. Help them go down sweeter.”
“She’s large.” I remembered her photograph in the paper. “Very large.”
“Hattie.” Miss D’Lacorte clicked her tongue. “And here I thought you actually had an imagination. What you mean to say is, ‘The Florentine Nightingale is full-figured, attesting to a life lived with verve and passion.’ ”
I continued. “The neighbor’s dog began to howl when I played one of her recordings on Maude’s Grafonola.” When it came to opera music, I sided with the dog.
“Her voice inspires each who hears to join the heavenly song,” Miss D’Lacorte paraphrased. A long, heavy sigh escaped her. “You’re not even trying.”
I sat, chewing the end of my pencil as we rattled pell-mell to the Flying Field at the Presidio. It was hard to think clearly when facing certain death due to either an auto wreck or the sharp tongue of Marjorie D’Lacorte. I thought about how dramatic
s defined Miss D’Lacorte’s driving as well as her writing style. “How about this for the headline? ‘Florentine Nightingale Soars Over San Francisco.’ ”
That earned me a quick glance. “Not bad. Now, give me the lead.”
The lead? For a story yet to unfold? “I haven’t met her yet. Haven’t seen the flight!”
“Swizzle sticks. Never hurts to have a lead ready to go. Just in case.” She double-clutched. “Sometimes we record history, but sometimes we make it.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Me? Make history?
“I’m dead serious.” She waggled her finger at me. “And you should be, too. I want one hundred words by the time we reach the airfield.”
“A hundred!” I nearly dropped the pencil.
“This job’s about quality and speed.” She honked at the driver in front of her. “Now get cracking.”
Okay. Okay. So what did I know? A fat—rather, a full-figured opera diva was going to go for a spin with Eddie Hubbard in one of Mr. Boeing’s seaplanes. It would hardly do to comment about whether the plane would get off the ground with such a passenger. Opera singer. Airplane. Opera singer. Airplane. Opera singer … famous pilot! I began to scribble. With that germ of an idea, I was able to knit together words, then sentences, faster than Perilee could knit a pair of baby booties.
“We’re nearly there.” Miss D’Lacorte extended her arm to signal the last turn. “Whatcha got?”
“It’s not very good,” I started.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “Give.”
“Here goes.” I cleared my throat and then, hesitantly, began to read. “Each night on the stage, the Florentine Nightingale, Luisa Tetrazzini, sends her listeners soaring with her cultivated tones. Each day, from far-flung airfields, Eddie Hubbard sends airplanes soaring with his piloting skills. Today, history was made when opera singer and pilot soared together over our fair city, allowing Madame Tetrazzini to hit the highest note of her grand career.”
The last word barely out of my mouth, I glanced over at Miss D’Lacorte. There wasn’t any reaction right away. Then, one corner of her lipsticked mouth curved up. Ever so slightly. “You might not be worthless after all.” With that pronouncement, she hurled the car into a parking spot near the airfield alongside a brand-new Packard. She turned off the engine, then shoved her door open, smacking it into the Packard. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Now the mayor will have one more thing to complain to Monson about!” She pulled out her handbag and shut the door. “Come on. That rat from the Call is already here.”
