by Janet Dailey
“I need the money. I can’t live on the allocation I get from Ernie. He’s just a private in the Army,” she explained, then sighed tiredly. “I’ll be glad when he comes home and I won’t have to work anymore.”
“Yes.” Maybe if she wasn’t doing something she loved so much, she’d feel that way too, Cappy decided.
The subject didn’t interest her copilot in the least, as he looked around with obvious boredom. Suddenly, he lighted up. “Hey! Look!” His burst of excitement caught her attention.
A big, ugly plane with a large, four-bladed propeller attached to a blunt engine cowling was being rolled inside a hangar. It was the powerful P-47 Thunderbolt, a fighter plane that was earning the name “Little Friend” to the Flying Fortresses.
“What I wouldn’t give to be crawling into the cockpit of that,” Lieutenant Franklin declared.
“Me, too,” she agreed.
His look was scoffing. “That plane’s a powerhouse. They’ll never let a woman at the controls of it.”
Cappy didn’t argue the point, but she wondered what the young lieutenant would say if he knew the Army was teaching women to fly the B-17 bomber. It was certainly more airplane than the P-47 pursuit.
Late in the day, they were taken to the hotel where they’d be spending the night. In the short time she’d been on the job, Cappy had learned that piloting Army officers around the country also meant staying in the best accommodations available and dining at the best restaurants. The trip to Evansville was no exception. But dinner that evening proved to be an uncomfortable affair with her father glaring at her from another table the minute any male even walked close to her chair.
* * *
“Afterwards I wished I had eaten in my room,” she complained to Mitch, recounting the experience two days later. “I know he expected me to be accosted at any minute—a woman alone in a public place. Obviously I was supposed to be fast.”
“It’s a common misconception.”
A piano player was providing soft background music to the ever-louder talk in the bar. The pianist was no better than average, but with her platinum hair and a well-endowed figure, more than mediocre talent wasn’t necessary. Cappy brought her attention back to the table and tapped out a cigarette from the half-empty pack. Mitch immediately offered her a light and she bent toward the match flame.
“I thought—” She stopped to exhale the smoke, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
“You thought what?” The warm and steady regard of his dark eyes was interested and admiring. Cappy experienced that rush of pleasure his handsomely rugged looks so often evoked in her, and looked away before it became too strong.
“I thought that once my father saw what a competent pilot I was, he’d give up his stupid prejudices about a woman’s place. When he got on that radio to the tower, he wasn’t demanding respect for me or the job I was doing; he wanted it for his daughter. That flight proved nothing to him. If he had his way, I’d be out of the skies tomorrow.” She was impatient and resentful as bitter thoughts tangled darkly behind the blue surfaces of her eyes. “He’s impossible.”
“He loves you,” Mitch stated.
“Well, he has a fine way of showing it.” To her, love was not something that possessed and confined. It was supposed to be an acceptance and appreciation of a person’s individuality, not an attempt to stifle it.
“Just the same, he does,” Mitch repeated with calm insistence. “Whenever I see him, he always asks about you.”
It moved her, but Cappy answered, “He still doesn’t approve of what I’m doing, so don’t try to convince me otherwise.”
“I won’t. But you still love him.”
“He’s my father.” This was an explanation rather than an answer.
“Let’s dance.” Mitch slid his hand underneath her fingers and rubbed the top of them with his thumb.
Dancing was better than talking. She stubbed out her cigarette before standing to be guided onto the crowded floor. The piano player began singing a throaty accompaniment and Cappy recognized the Frank Sinatra hit of a couple years before, “I’ll Never Smile Again.”
Other couples were making slow circles of the area as she turned in his embrace. With one arm curved around her back and lower rib cage, he held her loosely against him. Her eyes were level with his mouth, and she caught the heady scent of bay rum lotion clinging to his shaved jaw. She felt the pressure of his thighs against hers as they moved in shuffling rhythm to the slow ballad.
“Your father is a proud man, Cappy.” Mitch picked up the conversation where they’d left it at the table. “All he has is the Army and his family—”
“In that order,” she interrupted.
A small smile touched his mouth, but he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I think it’s normal for every man to want a son, someone to carry on the family name and tradition. I have the feeling your father regrets not having a son, although it’s not something he’ll admit, because he doesn’t want to hurt your mother. But because he does regret it so much, it’s probably the reason he doesn’t want you doing the things he would have wanted his son to do. Consciously or unconsciously, he doesn’t want to expect things from you that he would have expected from a son. His standards for you are very rigid because a man wants his daughter to be a certain kind of woman.”
His logic was sound, but she had her father’s stubbornness. “He wants the same blind obedience from his family that he gives to the Army,” Cappy replied dryly. “He isn’t the least bit interested in what I want.”
“What do you want, Cap?” His head was inclined toward her, interest deepening in his expression as he tried to fathom her desires.
“I want a home of my own—and friends that I choose. I want to fly.” She heard the building pitch of her voice and stopped before the desperate longing broke through.
“Those are relatively simple things to obtain.” Mitch drew back to study her, not quite sure what he had thought she would say, but not expecting such a basic reply.
“Are they?” she countered, a trace of mocking irony in her glance. “Look around you and what do you see? Soldiers, traveling businessmen, secretaries from the Midwest. Impermanence. Nothing is sure. Nothing is certain.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything as he gathered her more closely to him, until his cheek was resting against her silken-dark hair, and he was breathing in its sweet smell. At last he was beginning to understand some of what kept her from caring for anyone or anything too deeply.
“It’s the war,” he murmured.
And Cappy didn’t contradict him.
The yellow convertible curved up the mountain heavily timbered with pine and leaf-bare hardwood. Drifts of leaves filled the ditches and carpeted the forest floor, making hiding places where the squirrels could store their winter caches. As the car breezed by, its wind whisked up the dried leaves, spinning them in a devil’s whirl and leaving them to spiral slowly back to earth—in a scurry and a rush, and finally a whisper.
A blue jay took a shortcut through the trees to wait for the flashy car at the tall log chalet, nestled amongst the trees. Stained a dark brown color, the huge logs lay two-and-a-half stories tall, ringed by a galleried porch with a view of the Carolina mountains, smoky in the November afternoon.
The road came to a dead end at the lodge. Bubba slowed the car to a stop in front of it, and stared at the massive structure with a frown. Eden was busy gathering up her purse and loosening the silk scarf that had protected her hair from the tearing wind.
“I thought you said we were staying in a cabin,” Bubba stated, retreating into a thick drawl. “Now I’ve never seen a cabin this size—not even in Texas, where everything’s big.”
Eden just laughed at him and climbed out of the car. “Come on.”
“You’re really serious? This is it?” Bubba followed her skeptically, pausing by the trunk to unload the luggage.
“Leave that. Haines will bring it in.” She tucked a hand through the crook of
his arm and walked him to split-log steps.
“Haines? Is that your friend?” Bubba looked down at her.
“He’s the groundskeeper.” The door opened before they reached it and they were welcomed inside by a plump, matronly woman with gray hair drawn back in a bun and a chubby cheeked smile. “Hello, Ida Mae,” Eden greeted the woman familiarly, then breezed on by her, not bothering to introduce Bubba.
The interior walls were exposed logs, the same dark brown color as outside, but the spaciousness of the living room—with its massive stone chimney and hardwood floors spattered with bright area rugs and animal skins—eliminated any sense of darkness. The high ceilings were ribbed with wooden beams, rustic chandeliers of hurricane-style lamps suspended to light the areas below.
The kindly-faced woman had prepared the liquor trolley for Eden and discreetly withdrawn. Bubba wandered over to stand next to Eden while she fixed them each a drink.
“Who was she?” Bubba asked in an undertone.
“Ida Mae? She’s the cook.” Eden handed him a drink, then touched her glass to his in an unspoken toast, the delicate ring of fine crystal making a bell-like sound.
He glanced at her face, that gleaming devil-light lurking beneath the surfaces of his hazel eyes, exciting her. Maintaining the eye contact, Eden sipped the iced Scotch in her glass, then raised herself on tiptoes to nuzzle his lips and taste the whiskey on them.
With fingers linked, she drew him with her to the Chesterfield, positioned in front of the mammoth stone fireplace. She pulled him onto the smooth cushions and sat with her legs curled beneath her. Like an orange-haired tabby cat she arched against his side. The hem of her skirt had inched up to show her silk-stockinged knees.
“Something tells me”—Bubba looked at her askance and hooked an arm around her shoulders to bring her comfortably closer—“this weekend isn’t going to be quite what I thought.”
Her smile teased him. “I hope you weren’t expecting me to do the cooking.”
“I didn’t think too much about food,” he admitted.
“Oh?” She playfully walked her fingers over the ribbed white wool sweater covering his chest, up to the jutting angle of his wide jaw. “What did you think about?”
“You and me walking through the woods, or sitting in front of a cozy fire,” Bubba replied with a kind of shrug.
“The woods are just outside and the logs in the fireplace are simply waiting for a match.” She was more interested in his mouth and the delights it could hold.
The door opened and a spare-built man entered, toting their suitcases. Not a single glance was sent in their direction as he walked through to the rustic log-railed stairs, as if he were unaware of the couple sitting so closely on the davenport.
“It’s not exactly you and me.” The groundskeeper illustrated the difference between Bubba’s imagined weekend and the reality. “And this isn’t exactly a little ole cabin in the woods.”
“But we’re together … with all the comforts of home,” Eden reminded him.
“Maybe your home … but not mine,” he corrected her drolly. “I’m used to doin’ for myself.”
“And just what is it that you ‘do’ so well?” she asked with her face uplifted in provocative invitation.
A half-muffled groan came from his throat as he roughly gathered her in and reached around to rid himself of the impediment of the whiskey glass, shoving it onto an end table. His mouth rolled onto her lips, heavy with the weight of his needs. She threaded her fingers into the shaggy thickness of his hair, nails digging in like a purring cat flexing its claws. The driving pressure of his kiss was too demanding, yet he couldn’t check it, and she seemed to revel in it. A fine sweat broke across his upper lip with the rising heat that flared between them.
“You are Eden to me.” He held himself a breath away from her softly swollen lips, a fevered huskiness in his low, trembling voice. “All the things of paradise on earth. You are my sun, heating me with your fire—and the blackness of night, taking me into your endless reaches. God, how I love you.” His lips settled onto hers again.
A tap of footsteps on the hardwood floor brought Bubba’s head up sharply. The carpet runner on the stairs had muffled the sounds of the groundskeeper’s descent until he crossed the open foyer to the door. Bubba flushed darkly under his tan and pulled away from her to run a self-conscious hand through his hair. Eden couldn’t completely conceal her amusement over his embarrassment.
“You’ll get used to them. Eventually you won’t even know they’re in the room.”
But Bubba never did get accustomed to their silent comings and goings in the lodge. When Ida Mae brought them breakfast trays the next morning, she didn’t bat an eye at the sight of him in the bed, stark naked under the satin sheets. Eden teased him about it until he found a mutually satisfactory way to silence her.
Against his better judgment, he let her drive him all the way back to the base, dropping him off inside the gates instead of leaving him in town to catch a ride on an Army transport. But Eden was completely unconcerned about any problems that might arise from being seen with a noncom, confident she could handle it. She had her chance when she was ordered to report to Major Stevenson.
“It’s come to my attention that you were seen with an enlisted man,” the squadron commander announced accusingly, keeping the width of his desk between them so it wouldn’t be so obvious that she was taller than he was. “I want the name of this sergeant who was with you.”
“Sir, in a manner of speaking, I wasn’t ‘with’ anyone.” In this situation, Eden was very sure of herself, drawing on the cool hauteur that could stop any man, coldly daring him to deny her word. “I was driving back to base and saw Sergeant Jackson waiting for a ride, so I gave him a lift back to camp.”
“Sergeant Jackson?” His arched eyebrow prompted a fuller description of the man.
“He’s the mechanic who’s worked on some of the planes I’ve flown.”
“Then you admit you were with him?”
“I was with him,” she agreed in an implied denial. “Sometimes I ride in the front seat with our family chauffeur. I’ve never regarded that as being with him, but I suppose you could say that.”
“I see,” he murmured.
Afterwards, Eden laughed about it to Mary Lynn. “When I reminded him that I was a pilot and Sergeant Jackson was merely a mechanic, he was so incensed I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. You could tell how disappointed he was that our meeting had been so innocent.” But Mary Lynn didn’t laugh, causing Eden to add, “I thought it was amusing. The major is such a pompous snob himself.”
“Yes.” Mary Lynn’s attempted smile fell short of its mark. “I was just remembering Rachel. Everybody knew she was sneaking out to meet that private.” She reached inside her jacket and took out an envelope, overseas V-mail. “This came for you. It’s from Rachel’s private.”
After a small hesitation, Eden tore it open and read through the short missive from Zach Jordan. It was a reaching out, expressing his gratefulness for the words of sympathy she had tried to offer him after the chapel service for Rachel.
“He’s in Italy,” she said.
Part III
I just called up to tell you that
I’m rugged but right!
A rambling woman, a gambling woman,
drunk every night.
A porterhouse steak three times
a day for my board,
That’s more than any decent gal
can afford!
I’ve got a big electric fan to
keep me cool while I eat,
A tall, handsome man to keep me
warm while I sleep.
I’m a rambling woman, a gambling woman,
and BOY am I tight!
I just called up to tell you that
I’m rugged but right!
HO-HO-HO—rugged but right!
Chapter XXII
“I HAVE DENIED your request for transfer.” The papers were
pushed across the desk to the two women seated in front of it.
“We’ll resubmit them,” Eden stated, not backing down an inch.
“It won’t do you any good.” Jacqueline Cochran rose from her chair and came around to the front of the desk in the borrowed office, facing her two rebellious pilots. She did not tolerate opposition well. “I’ll simply turn them down again.”
“Then you’ll have my resignation,” Eden countered.
“I won’t accept it.” The director’s dark eyes hardened. “Don’t you realize that your actions could jeopardize future programs for women pilots?” she argued firmly. “Any failure to endure by any woman will be a detriment to all of us. I cannot allow the two of you to knock down what the rest of us have achieved. Conditions are perhaps not the best, but we are at war. The pilots here are performing a vital function—”
“I’m not interested in a lecture,” Eden cut in, not giving Mary Lynn a chance to talk. “And conditions here have not improved that much. We are still flying red-lined aircraft daily. There haven’t been any more fatalities because we finally got smart and started looking out for ourselves instead of depending on those in command.”
At the interruption, Jacqueline Cochran turned coldly angry. “As your superior—”
“You are in charge, Miss Cochran, but you are not my superior,” Eden corrected her.
Mary Lynn was a silent participant in the exchange, watching the clash of two strong wills. Her nature was quieter, but no less resilient.
Wisely, Jacqueline Cochran did not pursue her earlier remark. “My position is unchanged; your requests for transfers are denied. If, in a month, you still feel strongly about this, we will discuss it at that time.”
