by Carrie Lofty
Where was all this coming from? She hadn’t planned to say anything of the sort. But finding those words lifted a crushing weight from around her neck.
“Then it could’ve been anyone,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” She shrugged. “Sorry to say, but yes. Only . . . I’m glad it was you and that I can thank you properly. I’m glad I got to learn your name.”
Joe nodded, accepting her testimony without judgment. He wore a strange sort of blankness. Lulu couldn’t tell if he was a little foggy in the crumpet, or if his calmness simply extended to his thought process, meticulously sorting through details before reaching a conclusion. The latter, she decided, because his eyes sparked with curiosity and unspoken questions—deep green-gray eyes. His turbulent, acute gaze traveled over every inch of her face.
“What did you mean when you said you’d have to pay a quid to the undertaker?”
“Did I say that?” she asked.
“After the crash.”
Lulu bit her lower lip. She’d lost so many moments after plowing onto the airstrip, which left her wondering what else he’d witnessed of her behavior. None of it was likely to be flattering.
“My CO, Nicky Franklin, worked with a pilot down at White Waltham near London, who’d once been a woodworker. This man had carved a little coffin with a slot for coins.” She smiled at the dark humor of it all. “Pilots who’d survived a near squeak, maybe flew too near a barrage balloon cable or took a double-bounce, would give money to the undertaker.”
Joe absorbed the story with a tight smile.
“When the coffin was cram-full,” she said, “Nicky donated it to the Red Cross. After his transfer to Mersley last year, he commissioned a second coffin for us to use.” Those final moments before impact swarmed over her like flies on an animal carcass. “I’ve never thought to donate a full pound before. I owed it this time.”
He set both of their empty glasses on the floor next to the wall. Their hands free, he plaited their fingers. Lulu’s mind fired to life with warnings like the blare of an air-raid siren, but she couldn’t move, not when he touched her and pinned her with that steady, searching gaze.
“I want to see you again, Lulu.”
“Joe,” she said, her head spinning. She must’ve had a few too many nips.
She steadied herself by staring down at their joined hands. Slow heat unfurled in her stomach—a cat stretching as it slowly awakened. Her wooziness had little to do with the watered-down liquor. It was all him. He left her hen-headed and giddy.
How to tell him? How to tell this guileless, delectable wall of a man that she never spent more than one evening in a soldier’s company? How could she tell him about Robbie’s vacant shell of a soul when he’d returned from Dunkirk, how his suicide had ripped apart her life?
Never again, Joe. Not for you. Not for anyone.
“Lou! There you are!”
As Paulie and her American date edged through the crowd, Joe helped Lulu stand. He released her hands and pushed a polite distance between them.
“Where’s Betts?” Lulu asked, hoping Paulie didn’t notice her ragged voice or how she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
“Went to the cinema. Couldn’t stand fending off the troops, I suspect.” Paulie turned to Joe as if they’d already been introduced. “Betsy’s married, you see. Oh, hullo! Lou, who’s this?”
He extended his hand. “Pfc. Joe Weber, ma’am.”
“He was the first medic on the scene when I crashed,” Lulu said, as if that’s where he began and ended.
Paulie’s knowing, almost predatory expression said, You haven’t given me the slip. Lulu would catch hell come morning.
“Well, well, well,” said Paulie’s lieutenant. What was his name? Harry? “If it isn’t Slammer. Small world, you convict piece of shit.”
Joe stiffened. “Watch your mouth around the ladies, sir.”
“A lady would want to know who she’s dancing with,” Dixon said, flicking his gaze down Lulu’s body.
“What is this about?” she asked.
But Joe didn’t move. His eyes never left the lieutenant. The calmness that had defined him refashioned into TNT. He was frowning, his clenched jaw hewn of rock. “Stay out of this.”
“You know each other?” Paulie asked. “How marvelous! From back home?”
“Yeah, from back home.” Dixon crushed a cigarette butt beneath the heel of his jump boot. “Plank still can’t walk. Did you know that, Slammer?”
“Too bad.” Joe went toe-to-toe with the shorter man. “I was hoping to hear he was rotting in the ground.”
Dixon’s fist was quick as a rocket. A gasp jumped out of Lulu’s throat. She was sickened by that sound of bone against bone.
Joe reeled back, clutching his cheek. His shoulder hit hard where he bounced against the wall. He grunted, but his face remained intent and free of any signs of pain or fear. Taller, beefier, he slunk into a boxer’s loose crouch, his fists raised. “You won’t land another punch, Dixon. I promise you that.”
Then he sprang.
With a hoarse scream, Paulie covered her face with her hands. Lulu caught her friend’s arm and yanked her aside. Joe feinted to the left. He struck out and cracked Dixon’s nose.
The lieutenant hissed as he wiped blood off his mustache. “You’ll regret that.”
He swung his fist, but Joe was ready for the attack. He sidled to the right and jabbed a quick uppercut, connecting with Dixon’s kidney. Another two plugs to the man’s face and he slumped against the brick wall.
“Harry!”
Paulie wrenched free of Lulu’s grasp and dropped to the floor. Dixon sported a wide cut along the top of his cheekbone. His nose dripped crimson. Confusion warped Paulie’s pretty features as she stared at the blood on her hands. She quickly wiped them on her skirt.
“Private,” said a man behind Joe. He wore an MP’s armband. His expression was as grave as a mustard pot. “Get out of here before I have to take you in.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe straightened, shedding that fighter’s stance. “We’re done here anyway.”
Lulu touched him on the sleeve. “Joe?”
“Thanks for the dance,” he said, stepping out of reach. “Be safe up there.”
“But . . .”
But what? She had no idea what to say, what to ask.
“Skip it,” Joe said gruffly. “You were only going to turn me down, weren’t you?”
Stripped of words, her brain pounding, she could only nod.
“Then I’ll save you the trouble. Good night, Lulu.”
chapter four
“Here you are, Davies.”
At the head of the pilots’ queue, Lulu hitched the parachute rigging higher on her shoulder and grabbed the ferry chit from Flight Captain Jack Plimsole, Nicky’s deputy.
An Anson? Oh, how she hated taxi duty.
“Come off it, Jack! You’re not serious.”
He handed her a clipboard and a pen. “Not my choice. I’d have you moving Whitleys out of Coventry, but Nicky wants you on taxi runs for your first week back.”
She signed the paper to accept responsibility for her aircraft. “Where is he?”
“You’re holding up the queue.” His clipped tone meant Jack wasn’t interested in Lulu’s pique. “Go on, now. Shoo.”
She shouldered her overnight bag and trudged toward the CO’s office in the headquarters outbuilding. A few minutes remained before departing pilots would need her at the controls of that lowly little Anson—just enough time to tell Nicky what she thought of his overprotective stuff and nonsense. But first she caught sight of Paulie at the end of the pilots’ queue.
“Missed you at breakfast,” Lulu said. “What happened last night after I left the club?”
Dark circles napped under Paulie’s blue eyes, but her hair was immaculately styled. How she managed such wild nights and still reported to first flight every morning was beyond Lulu’s understanding.
“Well, Harry got horribly soused and star
ted another fight. So we’re through. I can’t brook when they’re so erratic. Then I met this other boy, Walter Crane—he’s a sergeant from California. He gave me and three other girls a lift home. How did you get back?”
“I waited outside the cinema until Betsy’s film finished. We split a cab.” Lulu let her two-stone parachute drop to the poured concrete hangar floor. “No word on what the fight was about? Between Harry and Joe?”
“Not a one. Harry put a muzzle on. The whole ordeal was nearly enough to make me agree with your rule about soldiers.”
“Truly?”
“Not quite,” Paulie said, smiling. “He’s out there, Lulu. I know it. The one I’m meant to be with. I’ll find him.”
“I have no doubt.”
That was what separated her from Paulie. They both danced with blokes aplenty, but Lulu never expected anything of her brief flirtations. Paulie cycled through man after man like sifting for a priceless diamond.
“No matter,” Paulie continued. “That fight was bad news. Best to keep clear of them both, I should think. Too many other grand chaps to choose from.”
But Lulu couldn’t help her curiosity. She’d lain awake reliving those strange events, trying to account for what had happened. Bad blood between them, obviously, but why? She shouldn’t care. And she shouldn’t wonder what it would be like to kiss Joe Weber, yet that delicious possibility had filled her dreams.
“Well, good flying anyway, Louise.”
“And to you, Paula.”
She didn’t know when they’d taken to using formal names when saying good-bye, but they’d done so since their first weeks at the all-girls ferry pool at Hatfield. She enjoyed the private tradition, as if to take every farewell more seriously.
They quickly embraced.
Then Lulu hauled her parachute and overnight bag across the grounds. Sir Meredith Henderson owned the sprawling estate, having founded a flight club back in the ’20s after retiring from the British army. The estate boasted not only a hangar and a headquarters building but also the Henderson family manor home, staff quarters, an aircraft repair shed, and a large communal residence for the nine pilots. They considered themselves lucky because Henderson’s wife, Georgette, insisted on keeping chickens and cows. The eggs, milk, and cheese helped stretch ration coupons into genuine meals.
The sky was clouding over. Midland winters were fierce, with bad weather able to advance like a tank corps. Lulu would have to hurry.
“Knock, knock,” she said, standing in the open doorway to Nicky’s office.
Nicholas Franklin, Commanding Officer of the No. 17 Ferry Pilots’ Pool at Mersley, looked up from an inch-thick stack of papers. He wore the same uniform as Lulu—a shirt of RAF blue, a black tie, and a belted navy tunic with four pockets—but he sported the shoulder stripes of an ATA captain.
“Davies.” Nicky smiled in his peculiar way, with his mouth shaped into a frown. “I thought I’d see you here this morning.”
She tossed the chit on his desk. “Taxi duty? Really?”
“How do you feel?”
“You know I’m perfectly well. I have Doctor Flannigan’s clearance.”
When he focused on her so intently, he made her feel like the only other person in the world. Some men led by intimidation; Nicky led through the skillful use of intimacy. She’d always enjoyed their very gentle, very English flirtation.
“You know I’m not talking about your knee,” he said with his rounded Yorkshire vowels. “The first flight after a crack-up can be . . . a challenge.”
“You’re speaking from experience.”
“Of course. And in my experience, it’s useful to have something to take your mind off of what happened.”
She sagged into the ratty wicker chair across from him. “This feels like punishment. Surely there’s something you can do about it.”
“Some people enjoy taxi duty. It’s steady and simple.”
“And as boring as a sleepless night.”
“That’s the truth.” His frowning smile turned into a true grin. The expression changed the composition of his face, from studious to teasing. Dark hair brushed his forehead in a way that drew her attention—such a lovely contrast with his smooth, luminous skin. Really, she had always considered him easy on the eyes. “But can you do this for me?”
“I can never turn you down, Nicky,” she said with a sigh. “At least tell me why?”
After rummaging through his stack of papers, he settled wire-rimmed spectacles into place. Despite the military-style uniform, he more closely resembled a young professor than a flight captain. He needed a haircut, which added to his air of absentmindedness. But he was the smartest person she’d ever known. Almost completely unassuming, he gave away that incisive brain when he turned his bright blue gaze her way.
Only he never quite managed a completely professional demeanor. A hint of interest. Some . . . anticipation.
She never acknowledged that undercurrent, although she could. Maybe she even should. Nicky was as safe and stable as a man could be—a remedy to her black memories of Robbie’s fate. And he was the exact opposite of Joe Weber, with his strong features, brash humor, and powerful wrestler’s stance.
The sane choice was easy to see.
Nicky held a paper, waiting. He lifted an eyebrow. “Woolgathering?”
“Caught me, sir.”
Another true smile. He was in a good mood. And why not? Aside from Lulu’s accident, events at Mersley had been uneventful. That meant high productivity and happy pilots.
But then his humor sobered. “The Accidents Committee has set your hearing date—this Thursday at ten in the morning, down at White Waltham. We can fly down there first thing.”
“We?”
“Understand my position, Davies. Your accident is under investigation—”
“I did nothing wrong!”
“I know that, too, which is why I’ll go down there with you. I’ll offer testimony on your behalf, if need be.”
She swallowed. His faith in her meant so much. It always had. When he was assigned command of Mersley, he had requested her in particular to become one of his pilots. Otherwise she might still have been stuck at Hatfield—just another woman pilot chased by the press for pinup photos and novelty film footage. One round of that unwanted attention had been more than enough. Lulu wanted to fly. As much as she could. As many planes as she could. At Mersley, with Nicky’s support, she had the luxury of blending in as just another pilot. He knew her ambitions and supported them in his staid, wry way.
“Thank you, sir. Nicky, you know I appreciate it, don’t you?”
“Hush. I need everyone in the air. You’ll be exonerated, I’m certain, but the Accidents Committee would like to see that we aren’t making any assumptions. If I put you back on rotation with choice assignments, they’ll take it as arrogance. From both of us.”
“But if I’m on taxi duty for a week, that looks humble?”
“Just so. And besides, a little humility means your chances of training at Marston Moor won’t be ruined.”
Her jaw dropped. To hear her dream so casually threatened stole her decorum. Training on four-engine aircraft had been her ambition for years, ever since the ATA had developed a protocol to certify women. Skill, dedication, sacrifice—she’d given all she had. In return she wanted to fly the biggest birds in the sky: Lancasters and Stirlings, Liberators and Skymasters. She would become one of the most elite pilots in the world.
More important, she would play an even bigger hand in destroying the Axis powers that had destroyed her family.
She shifted in her seat. “They could give away my spot?”
“At present you don’t have a spot to lose. No one does.” Nicky laced elegant fingers together. “There are four women pilots of your rank and seniority who’ve not yet achieved Class Five status. All four, including you, are under consideration.”
“For how many spots?”
“Two.”
“Bugger.”
; Laughter turned his smile right-side-up once again. “Exactly.”
“I’m running out of time, aren’t I?”
“Bomber training is expensive and takes pilots out of rotation for two weeks. The ATA, no matter how progressive, already has enough Halifax Girls for their propaganda reels. Training all who yet qualify isn’t a top priority.”
She stood and retrieved the chit from his horror of a desk. “It’s a priority for me.”
“I know it is. So . . . Ansons this week, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He rounded the desk and kissed the back of her hand, like a knight paying tribute to his lady. Casually. As if he did so all the time. Lulu inhaled softly. He’d never been so forward. In fact, she hardly would’ve thought him capable of such a gesture. Usually she came away from their conferences with the renewed belief that she had a champion. No one wanted success for his pilots more than he did.
This was . . . arousing.
Her skin still tingled. And he still held her hand. His avid gaze took stock of her expression, but she had no idea what that might reveal. Hot on the heels of the eventful evening previous, Nicky’s unexpected intimacy turned her in circles.
She gave his hand a squeeze, then turned to gather her belongings. “May I know who the other three girls are?”
Nicky’s blue eyes shone all the brighter now, but he cleared his throat. The return to his usual demeanor did nothing to erase the obvious. Their leisurely flirtation would change. “Evelyn Wambaugh, down at Hatfield. Katarzyna Lezczewski at Cosford.” He paused. “And Paula Travers.”
“Oh, my. Paulie, too?”
