by Janet Dailey
“No one ever does.” Her voice was quieter, flatter. “Jews just make a good scapegoat. You can take all your fears and frustration out on us; blame the Jews for the Depression, the war—everything.”
At the end of her bitter words, there was an awkward silence. Her head remained bent to her task. Uncomfortable, Eden watched Rachel’s hands and avoided the blonde’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Eden voiced the feeling in the room, the phrase seeming inadequate.
“Being sorry is worthless.” A knot was tied and the thread was broken with a small snap. Then Rachel lifted her glance to Eden. “When I was a little girl, I remember listening to my father during his morning prayers. One of the Old Testament verses he sometimes recited said, ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who hast not made me a woman,’ I used to be sorry I was a girl because there were so many things I couldn’t do. Being sorry doesn’t change anything. If I can’t be a soldier and fight the Germans, then I’ll fly planes so a man can go. In my own way, I’ll fight.”
“We all will,” Mary Lynn agreed in a low, tight voice.
Rachel handed Eden the finished pants, “Thanks,” Eden said as she took them from her. Rachel’s hand remained outstretched.
“Ten dollars is what you said you would pay,” Rachel reminded her coolly.
For a shocked instant, Eden was stunned that her offer had been taken seriously. Her reaction became tempered with cynicism. “So much for esprit de corps,” she murmured and went back to her cot to fetch the money from her purse.
With the impending visit of the big brass, they managed to fit into their free time between ground school and flying not only the uniform alterations but also hours of drilling. Marching to and from the flight line, or mess, or the barracks took on a new significance. They practiced until their columns were as knife-straight as the creases in their new tan slacks. Then the word came.
“They aren’t coming?” Mary Lynn wailed. “After all I went through to get these damn pants to fit me!”
“Tsk, tsk, such language,” Marty said mockingly.
“There was a change of plans at the last minute,” Cappy informed them. “That happens often in the Army.” Cappy knew this well, but she’d been all caught up in the excited furor, too.
“Is that it?” Eden demanded. “I mean, they simply aren’t coming—no apologies, no explanation, nothing?”
“That’s it,” Cappy replied, then shrugged. “Oh, there was talk of some low-level officer being sent around in the next few days to look around.”
Eden pulled off the turban that had enwrapped her red hair and slammed it on her cot, then flounced down beside it, simmering. “I feel as if I’ve just been stood up by my date. No one has ever dared to do this to me before.”
They all shared the feeling, and none of them liked it any better than Eden did.
The hush of the classroom was broken by the scratch of lead pencils on the test sheets, the rub of erasers to strike a reconsidered answer and the soft shuffle of papers. Cappy was bent over the essay-type meteorology quiz, the tension throbbing in her temples.
Define the difference between cirrostratus, cirrocumulus, and stratocumulus and the type of weather or associated fronts related to each. Cappy read the question and wanted to groan aloud.
As the lead pencil-point touched the paper, the door to the classroom clicked resoundingly into the near silence. Briefly, the class was distracted by the opening of the door.
It lasted long enough for most of them to surmise that the rather good-looking officer, escorted by one of the training staff, was the Army major sent on the unofficial inspection tour, Rumor had reported his arrival at Avenger Field earlier in the morning, so his appearance wasn’t totally unexpected.
Except by Cappy. She stared at him, indifferent to the meteorology instructor, who joined him by the door to converse in whispers. That angled profile and strong jawline, that proud way of carrying himself, she’d know them anywhere. Cappy didn’t need to see the confirmation of the name tag, on his breast pocket. It was Major Mitch Ryan.
Her throat felt tight and strangled by an emotion she was reluctant to name. Until she saw Mitch standing there, in the same room with her, she hadn’t realized how homesick and lonely she’d been. Cappy felt the excited rush of her pulse, the joy that soared inside her. Mitch was a slice of home. The remembered warmth in his dark eyes and the hard feel of his arms came rushing back.
Her fingers released their grip on the pencil and it clattered onto the tabletop. Impulse nearly pushed Cappy out of her seat to cross the room to Mitch, but it died the instant he turned his gaze in her direction and she saw the hard, impersonal look in his expression. She realized how wide her smile had been and felt the sting of a rebuke for allowing her emotions to be seen in public. He was here in an official capacity, she reminded herself, and quickly lowered her gaze.
Her intense dislike for the requisite military discipline resurfaced as Cappy picked up her pencil and attempted to concentrate on the meteorology test, but she was conscious of all that went on at the classroom doorway. She recognized the familiar tread of his footsteps as he wandered into the room and strolled behind the test-taking trainees.
When Mitch paused by her chair, all her nerves went tense. Her pencil remained poised above the paper the whole time he was there. Her mind refused to function or come up with a single, intelligent answer to any of the easy questions. In the edges of her vision, she could see the sharp creases of his trousers and the polished brown of his shoes. He stood next to her for so long that Cappy wondered if he expected her to acknowledge his presence. She started to look up, but he resumed his leisurely pace, moving by her.
A few more hushed words were exchanged with the instructor, then Mitch left the classroom. Cappy stared at the door for a long time, feeling hurt without being sure why.
Later, on the floor of the ready room, Cappy sat hunched over her bent knees, subdued and silent in the afternoon bustle of the flight-line area. She listened to her more talkative baymates with only half an ear.
“I don’t know why we couldn’t have multiple choice,” Marty complained. Then brightening, “Now, if I’d been given my choice, I would have picked that rugged-looking major. I wouldn’t have objected if he wanted to make a closer inspection of the troops.”
“Marty, you’re incorrigible,” Mary Lynn protested with a laugh.
“Attention!” A voice barked the command that sent all the trainees scrambling to their feet.
As Mitch Ryan walked into the ready room with his entourage of base personnel, Cappy kept her gaze to the front, resisting the urge to look at him. “As you were.” His richly timbred voice released them to return to their former casual informality.
Despite the order, Cappy couldn’t fully relax. Her glance kept darting to locate him as he wandered through the room, smiling aloofly at the eager and admiring looks that greeted him and steadily coming closer to the side of the room where she stood. Then he was towering beside them, his few extra inches adding to the commanding aura.
“Cigarette?” He shook some partway out of the pack and offered one first to Marty.
“Thanks.” She took one while Mary Lynn refused.
The pack was offered to Cappy and she withdrew a cigarette. “Have you been up flying today?” Mitch addressed the question generally as he took a pack of matches from his inside pocket.
“Not yet,” Marty answered while he lit her cigarette. “It should be a good day for it, though.”
His hand cupped the match flame to Cappy’s cigarette. She bent her head to it, her gaze straying over his long fingers, conscious of the strength in them. When Cappy straightened to blow the smoke to the side, her response was automatic. “Thanks, Mitch.”
Silence seemed to thunder about her for a lightning-struck second while Marty and Mary Lynn stared at her. But Cappy had already felt the hard, accusing thrust of his look. She met it without outwardly flinching.
“It is Major Ryan to you, traine
e.” The rough reprimand discouraged any further familiarity.
“My mistake, sir,” Cappy shot back at him, cold and angry. “I thought I knew you.”
She dropped the cigarette and ground it into the floor with her heel before she stalked onto the flight line, her visage frozen into an emotionless expression. She faced into the wind, letting the hot May air blow over her.
Chapter X
MINUTES AFTER CAPPY had walked onto the flight line, Mitch came out of the building accompanied by one of her classmates. As they crossed the apron to a waiting aircraft, it was clear Mitch intended to fly with the trainee to see for himself the type of training the women pilots were getting. He didn’t so much as look Cappy’s way.
She wished fervidly that he was flying with her instead. What a pleasure it would be to pop the stick and snap his Army neck. The propeller churned the air, blowing up the ever-present red dust. As the plane made its turn to taxi to the runway, the stinging dust cloud was kicked back at Cappy. She narrowed her eyes, blinking them to get rid of the smarting dust while she watched the plane leave the hangar area.
The lyrics to one of their marching songs, the one patterned after the Georgia Tech tune, kept flitting through her mind. It seemed to match this bitter and confused resentment she was feeling.
If I had a civilian check, I know just what I’d
do;
I’d pop the stick and crack his neck, and
probably get a U.
But if I had an Army check, I’d taxi across the
grass.
I’d flip the ship upon its nose, and throw him
on his … Ooooo
Oh, I’m a flying wreck, a-risking my neck and a
helluva pilot too—
The noise from the roaring engine of the BT-13 receded as it taxied away from the flight line. Marty and Mary Lynn emerged from the ready room and joined Cappy in the hangar’s shade. Avid curiosity lurked behind Marty’s close study of her baymate.
“It’s obvious you know him, Cap. Aren’t you going to tell us?” Marty prodded.
“I knew him.” All her attention seemed to be on the aircraft taxiing toward them. “That’s my plane coming in. See you later.” With a little skip, she broke into a slow jog to meet the basic trainer.
“Did you see that look in her eye when we first came out?” Marty said to Mary Lynn while she watched their departing baymate.
“What do you mean?”
“She was dirty-fighting mad.” Marty was willing to bet on it. “It’s kind of hard to believe, isn’t it? Calm, competent Cappy was riled, but good.”
Mary Lynn didn’t comment. The relationship between a man and a woman was a private thing, not to be aired in public. She respected Cappy’s desire for silence on the matter. If she didn’t want to talk about the major, then they had no right to ask.
After three hours of dual instruction, part of it hood time, Cappy landed the BT-13 and taxied to the hangar, where the rest of the planes sat scorching in the rays of the late afternoon sun. Fatigue from the strain of endless concentration left her feeling dull as she climbed out of the cockpit onto the wingwalk.
“Your mind wasn’t on flying today.” The hard criticism came from her instructor, Jimmy Ray Price. He knew full well she could have done much better.
“I know.” Hot and tired, she pulled off the snood and ran ruffling fingers through her nut-brown hair.
“It’s a cardinal rule for pilots-- don’t take your problems up in the air with you. Leave them on the ground. Up there, you need all your concentration on flying.” As always he was harsh with her, always demanding the best from the best.
Tears of exhaustion and self-pity threatened to spill over but she kept them at bay. Why was it the men she knew all seemed to be callous and demanding—her father, her instructors, everyone? She might try to deny it, but—damn, she did want their approval. Always she was expected to excel and even when she did, she received only faint praise for it.
Tired and miserable, Cappy walked toward the ready room with her head down. Her instructor kept pace with her, his silence merely weighting his previous tongue-lashing. Just let the day be over, she kept thinking. Before they reached the building, the base commander, his aide, and Mitch Ryan walked out the door and paused directly in their path. Cappy attempted to avoid Mitch’s watching eyes as her glance skimmed the dark brown of his uniform jacket and, on its shoulders, the gold leaves signifying his rank. The hard bill of his officer’s cap obscured his look, but the set of his mouth and jaw hadn’t softened at all.
“Good flying today, Price?” The base commander directed his question at her instructor, his tone hearty. Then he turned to offer an aside to Mitch. “This young woman is one of our best pilots.”
Obliged to stop, Cappy paused beside her instructor, stiffly tense. She forced a certain pleasantness into her expression for the benefit of the Army Commander of Avenger Field and kept her attention focused on him rather than Mitch.
“Very good, as usual,” Jimmy Ray Price lied. Cappy was convinced it was the kindest gesture he’d ever made, even if it hadn’t been to spare her.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mitch replied, and Cappy was equally certain that was a lie. So far, no one had addressed a comment directly to her. The omission wasn’t corrected as Mitch turned to the commander. “This trainee happens to be the daughter of a friend of mine.”
Surprised that he should choose this moment to acknowledge her, Cappy stared at him. He looked back, aloof and vaguely challenging. “With your permission, Major,” Mitch continued, going through the motions of observing proper channels, “I would like to take Miss Hayward to dinner tonight, off the post. I know the Lieutenant Colonel and his wife are anxious to learn how she’s getting along.”
Lieutenant Colonel. The news of her father’s promotion barely registered. Uppermost in her feelings was a raw resentment at his presumption that she would want to spend an evening with him. Cappy’s response was tempered by the presence of the base commander.
“You’ll have to excuse me this trip, Major Ryan. It has been a very long and exhausting day—”
His low voice cut across her polite refusal. “I don’t recall asking whether you wanted to come, Miss Hayward.”
She wanted to rail at him, to scream and stomp her feet in an uncontrolled protest, but it all lodged in her throat. She had been too well schooled against such outbursts. After a few seconds of hesitant uncertainty, the commander interpreted her ensuing silence to mean an acceptance of the invitation.
“If Miss Hayward is agreeable, naturally you have my permission,” he qualified his answer, giving Cappy an opportunity to protest. She didn’t. Whatever their differences, she wasn’t going to make them a public issue—and Mitch had known that.
“Good.” Satisfaction settled smoothly onto his features. “I’ll need the use of a vehicle from your motor pool.”
“Of course.”
“Can you be ready by eighteen hundred hours, Miss Hayward?” He leveled another glance at her, then swept her with it to indicate a change of attire was required.
“Yes, sir.” She had to agree, but her blue eyes glared at him.
Promptly at six o’clock, Mitch knocked on the bay door. Eden went to answer it while Cappy fastened the clasp on the scrimshaw necklace her father had brought her from Alaska. His presence in the room seemed to alter the atmosphere, sending an undercurrent of tension through it. Cappy listened to the brisk pitch of his voice as Eden made the introductions, but she didn’t look around as she gathered up her purse.
When she finally turned, Mitch was standing just inside the door, his hat tucked under his arm. Without a cap, he looked more mature and masculine, less like a recruiting poster of a roguishly handsome officer.
“Ready?” The one word managed to convey the impression of a challenge.
Cappy simply nodded, and lowered her lashes to conceal the flaring surge of pride that wanted to defy him. Avoiding the glances of her baymates, she cr
ossed to the door and brushed past him as he opened it for her. She caught the tangy scent of some aftershave lotion drifting from his smoothly shaven face before the hot, dusty air chased it away.
The impersonal pressure of his hand at her elbow guided her to the olive-drab jeep parked in front of the barracks and helped her into the seat. Mitch walked around the rear of the vehicle to the driver’s side and hopped behind the wheel.
His hand paused on the ignition key while he sent her a sideways look. “I’ve been told the Bluebonnet Hotel is the place to go in Sweetwater.”
“The dining facilities are probably the best in town,” she agreed stiffly.
“Then you have no objections if we go there?”
“None.” Cappy tied a scarf of sapphire blue silk around her head so her dark hair wouldn’t be blown into total disarray in the open vehicle.
The jeep was not known for its smooth ride. Cappy gripped the side when they turned onto the main road and picked up speed. The roar of the engine made it impractical to talk and the rush of air would have swept the words away if they had tried. In silence, with their eyes to the front, they sped down the highway, traversing the short distance to Sweetwater, bouncing roughly over the bumps and ruts.
Within the town limits, they slowed and Cappy directed him to Sweetwater’s lone hotel. The stiffness and awkwardness between them persisted as they parked in front of the six-story tan brick building. Mitch escorted her into the hotel lobby with its pink walls and art deco light fixtures. In addition to a small sitting area and writing desks in the lobby level, a set of three steps led to a separate sitting area for hotel guests.
“The dining room is this way.” Cappy indicated the direction and Mitch guided her to it.
The hotel dining room repeated the art deco theme and color scheme they’d seen in the lobby. The cloth-covered tables all were set with silverware and glasses, but few diners were seen.
“Not very busy,” Mitch remarked.
“It’s relatively quiet during the week. You have to wait until the weekend for things to liven up.” Cappy was conscious of his body leaning over her as he pushed her chair up to the table.
