It wasn’t difficult at all to imagine. Calista was winsome and ethereal, her cheeks rosy beneath gray eyes as pale as water. “I can see that. You’re a wing walker, then. I thought maybe you two knew each other from Iowa.”
Calista nudged Ames. “I didn’t know you were from Iowa. I thought you said Louisville.” She had a way of drawing out the syllables like someone from the Deep South. Definitely not Iowa. When the corners of her mouth tilted up, her face glowed.
Ames stepped back and held up both hands, palms out. “I don’t recall you ever asking.” To Mittie he said, “We need to get going while there’s still daylight and do that engine check.”
“Good to meet you, Calista. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Lord willing. Y’all take care now.” She backed up and gave a little wave, then turned and slipped through the crowd. If her moves in the sky were as smooth as her hip movements, Mittie was in for a stiff competition.
The day of the rally dawned with overcast skies that were expected to clear by midmorning. Victor Booth and Weaver had driven over the day before, both to cheer Mittie on and meet with the aeronautic club members in Kansas City to discuss new ideas in aviation—hobnobbing, her daddy would call it.
As the clouds thinned and the skies opened up, the planes with the women pilots were instructed to line up. Ames did a final engine check and told Mittie he’d hang around the airfield until the reports of the first day came in.
Weaver said, “Stick with the roads if you can, although that might be tricky if you’re over a forested area. Remember the Missouri River will be to your south all the way to Columbia but to your north after that.”
Victor agreed and told her to keep her altitude high enough to avoid brushing the tops of the trees. “Two hundred feet would be best, but whatever feels right for the air current.”
Ames joined them just as the announcer told the contestants to board their planes. He pulled Mittie into his arms and kissed her softly. “That’s to remember me by until tomorrow.”
“As if I could forget.” She took a deep breath and wiped damp palms on her wool jodhpurs that would keep her warm in the nippy air. She pulled on leather gloves and hopped on the wing, then slid into the cockpit. Chin strap snapped, she slid the goggles resting atop her head into place. Although the preflight check had already been done when she’d pulled the plane into the sixth position—her number in the race—she checked the gauges again and put her hands on the wheel.
Calista Gilson was in fifth position, and when Mittie looked her way, she gave a friendly wave. Her pale orange Curtiss had “Peaches” in a broad script on the side, a bi-wing that oozed the same charm as its owner. Adrenaline pulsed in Mittie’s neck and temples as Calista moved forward at the signal and taxied toward the open field. When the flagman waved at Mittie, she followed, everything she’d learned up until this point doing laps inside her head.
And then the sky was hers. She climbed higher and higher, her hours of training taking over. A short five months ago, this had been only a dream, and now she soared, banking to the left and finding the ribbon of highway that snaked across Missouri, taking her toward Columbia, the halfway mark, on wings of silver.
Her eyes burned even with goggles, the rush of air cold on her cheeks, but she’d never felt more glorious. She kept one eye on the compass and altimeter, the other on the landscape below. Feet on the rudder, hands on the wheel, she tended Victor’s Swallow with the same precision as she did when training Gypsy. The wind whistled by, catching her at times in its currents, giving her heart a momentary start until she leveled out and checked her position. Below her, the highway was the hand that guided her. Obscured from view for minutes at a time, the road wound through hilly terrain, then straightened and beckoned her to follow. An hour, then almost two, and she passed a small lake that blinded her with its reflection of the sun and mounds created by Indians centuries before. The splendor of creation and the work of man converged in wonderment beneath her. Mittie sent a prayer of gratitude heavenward and moments later saw the sprawl of Columbia on a plateau above the Ozarks. She corrected her direction and circled to the north and the plains where the airfield waited.
An official of the race met her at the end of the runway, stopwatch in hand.
She jumped from the wing, eager to know how she’d done and to stretch her legs while the ground crew added fuel. When the timekeeper didn’t offer the information, she asked if the others had touched down yet.
“You’re the fourth one to check in. Any trouble?”
“None at all.”
“Good luck, then.”
She slipped back into the cockpit, took a swig of water from a canteen, and prepared for the next 125 miles. Ten minutes later, she crossed the Missouri River and made a decision to follow it rather than the highway. It took her a bit off course to the north, but she could fly at a higher altitude and go faster.
Fourth place. It wasn’t bad. Maybe she could advance her position before Kansas City. Mittie opened the throttle and stayed the course. When she arrived at Kansas City’s Sweeney Airport, the first person she saw after the official was Calista. She stood, flight helmet in hand, the hem of her skirt riffling in the breeze with a man on either side. One looked an awful lot like Bobby. Mittie wasn’t sure why, but irritation bubbled up.
Mittie taxied to the area where the official pointed, cut the engine, and crawled out. Bobby stepped away from Calista and came to greet her, his smile wide, arms open.
“I made it.” Her muscles trembled when she hugged him back.
“Never doubted you for a minute. Three of you so far. And record times, from what I hear.”
“Get out. How did you find out?”
“One of the contestants sweet-talked the timekeeper.”
“Girl with a Southern accent?”
“Could be. All you Yankees talk funny to me, but if you’re talking about the comely blonde over there, then yes.”
“So you’ve met Calista.”
“We weren’t formally introduced. One of the chaps called her Peach.”
“That’s the one. Sweet girl, and from the looks of it, quite a competitor.”
“As are you. How was the flight?”
Mittie closed her eyes, the feel of the wind still on her cheeks. “More than I ever imagined. You know, there was this moment when it felt as if I were suspended in time, that the only things around me were the heavens and the breath of God. I was almost sorry when the airfield came into view.”
Bobby wiped a strand of hair away from her cheek. “It’s what I call divine affirmation—that feeling that comes from the soul.” His eyes, when they peered into hers, were as deep as the ocean—mysterious, as if more dwelt beneath the surface of Bobby York than he was willing to share.
The roar of an approaching plane broke the trance. Another entrant had made it.
Dinner for all of the contenders and their teams was in the hotel dining room that evening. After changing in her room, Mittie went to the lobby to wait for Bobby. Calista waved her over to join her and two of the other girls from the race and made introductions all around. Her enthusiasm was contagious with a constant string of darlin’ this and bless your heart that peppering her conversation. When the other girls drifted off to meet their companions, she asked Mittie about the handsome devil that had driven her from the airfield.
“You mean Bobby? He’s my flight instructor.”
“Lucky you. A fella in every port.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m just fortunate that Bobby wanted to see more of the country. He’s not been in the States that long, so it worked out for him to drive over and meet me here.”
“He’s British, isn’t he?” When Mittie nodded, she said, “He seems more your type than Ames.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had a type. I’ve barely even met you, and you’re sizing me up?”
“Trust me—I know these things.”
“And how, pray tell, have you come to this conclusion?
”
“I’ve been around, seen things. That flight jacket you had on cost more than Ames makes in an entire weekend.”
What nerve. She wanted to ask what, if anything, she’d seen about Bobby while she’d been around, but Bobby sauntered up at just that moment.
After the introductions, Calista gave him a coy look and said it was a joy to meet him. “And please, my friends call me Peach.”
“Peach it is. May I escort you lovely ladies into the dining room?”
He held out the chair for Calista and the one next to it for Mittie, then sat on Mittie’s right. The atmosphere was lively with much talk about the day’s race as plates of roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans were set in front of them.
And it seemed that Calista—Mittie refused to think of her as Peach—knew everyone. “See that fella over there?” She pointed to one of the men in the race. “He’s got a rose tattoo on his bicep for the gal he met in England during the war. And Barb—she’s the one that finished first today and is sitting with her daddy—she works as a fashion model in Dallas. I call her Venus—you know, the Roman goddess of beauty. Fits her, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. She is cute as can be, but how do you know all this about people?” A fleeting thought about what Calista might say about her zipped through her head.
Calista’s pale eyes grew round, innocent. “Just curious, I guess.” She leaned in and looked at Bobby. “Like I’m curious about that sweet little roadster I saw you driving. Any chance you’d give me a ride sometime?”
Bobby swallowed what he was chewing and said, “I suppose, but time is rather short with needing to be at the airfield in the morning.”
“The night is young.”
“Did you have a particular destination in mind? Someplace you needed to go?”
“Not right offhand. Of course, I don’t want to infringe on Kentucky here’s territory if you’ve already made plans.”
A flicker of irritation nipped at Mittie. “Kentucky? Do you give everyone pet names?”
“Sorry. It’s a terrible habit I’ve picked up trying to remember all the people I’ve met on the barnstorming circuit. Mama says I should mind my manners in a way that’s befitting the Georgia raisin’ she bestowed upon me. What would you like me to call you?”
Mittie smiled. “How about Mittie? So you’re from Georgia?”
“Yes, Mittie, I’m from Atlanta. Born and bred. My granddaddy rebuilt half of the city after those damn Yankees burned it to the ground.” She clapped her fingers to her lips. “I have to be careful when I’m in a big crowd like this that I don’t step on some damn Yankee’s toes.”
“It’s all right. Bobby calls everyone in the States Yankees.”
Calista pointed her fork at him. “I’ll be happy to set you straight on the difference between the North and the South when we go for that spin. How about when we finish eating?”
Bobby cocked his head at Mittie with a questioning look.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I want to call Mother and Daddy and take a steaming hot bath.” The sudden chill she’d developed wasn’t from the weather.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
They decided on the time to meet the following morning.
As she lay staring at the ceiling two hours later, Mittie’s thoughts swirled. She was in third place after the first day, but a remnant of disappointment ate at the fringes of her heart. Calista was in second place and had monopolized the conversation with Bobby—time that Mittie had hoped to spend telling him about her flight and discussing strategy for the return trip to St. Louis. As she drifted off, it came to her that perhaps Calista wasn’t the innocent she pretended to be. Perhaps the chatty blond banter and making eyes at Bobby was to distract Mittie and put her on edge. And as the evening’s events replayed in her head, Mittie pressed her palms against the sheets to keep her hands from curling into knots. Seeing Calista prance off with Bobby bothered her more than she was willing to admit.
Chapter 15
Mittie and Bobby arrived at Sweeney Field early the next morning, having had a quiet, uninterrupted breakfast where they did get to talk about the previous day’s flight. They looked over the maps, and she asked if he was driving to St. Louis for the end of the race or if he was still touring the country.
“I’ll be in St. Louis—maybe not by the time you land, but soon thereabout.”
“Thanks. Did you and Calista have a nice drive?”
Bobby swallowed his coffee, his eyes clouding just a bit. “Calista? Oh, you mean Peach. Yes, we did. The river’s got quite a nice view at night.”
“Did she set you straight on the differences between the North and the South?”
He rubbed the side of his neck and chuckled. “Guess the subject never came up. She was curious about Brooklands, where I trained, and what I’m doing in the States. Have you talked to Ames?”
“I left a message for him with the desk clerk at his hotel. And for Victor as well. I do appreciate your coming. It was nice to see a friendly face when I stepped out of the cockpit yesterday. How can I ever thank you?”
“Just finishing the race today is all the thanks I need.”
Although the skies were a brilliant blue on takeoff, a thin black line of clouds threatened on the northern horizon. Sudden updrafts and air instability kept Mittie’s feet riveted to the rudder for control the entire way to Columbia. She lowered her altitude, looking for a pocket of smoother air, but she knew she was sacrificing speed. And this time, when she stopped for fuel, she didn’t ask how the others were doing.
The flight from Columbia to St. Louis was equidistant to the first half of the trip, which she’d done in two hours and forty minutes if her calculations were correct, but it was also more difficult to fly because it was more wooded and what few leaves were left on the tree branches played with the light in a dizzying effect. Her neck ached from stretching to keep on course, and her mouth felt as if it were full of sand. She fished in her pocket for a piece of Beech-Nut gum just as an updraft rocked the plane. Steady. Feet on the rudder. She didn’t need an adverse yaw when she was this close. Another wind pocket bounced her again. She gripped the stick, her muscles taut.
Stay calm. Check the compass. She nosed down to get a better look at the countryside and discovered she was directly over Lambert Field and going too fast to land. She would have to circle back, losing precious time, but relief swelled within her. She’d made it.
After the postflight check, Mittie jumped from the wing as photographers and male reporters with pencils poised scurried onto the field toward her. Mittie braced herself to give a word about the flight, but the press reps streamed past her straight for Calista, who stood by her little plane. A short, filmy skirt whipped around her legs, her smile that of a film starlet.
Mittie popped the piece of Beech-Nut in her mouth. She’d come to check out the competition, and it couldn’t have been more clear had it been written across the sky. She pulled off her leather helmet, tossed her head to let her hair fly free, and headed to the hangar to find Ames.
The temperature had dropped considerably since the day before, but there was still a nice crowd of onlookers. They gave Mittie a hearty round of applause as she stepped into their midst. A small boy with two front teeth missing tugged on her arm and asked for an autograph.
She patted his cheek as she’d seen Ames do at barnstormings. “My pleasure, young man.” She scribbled her name on the scrap of paper he thrust at her, and when she handed it back, she gave him a stick of Beech-Nut and winked. “It’s a secret weapon for aviators.”
“Thanks, lady; I’ll remember that.”
“There you are.” Victor approached from her left before she made it to the hangar’s open doors. He waved Weaver over. “So glad to see the Swallow dip out of the sky with you in it. I worried a few years off my life when the wind shifted with that cold front.”
“I think I hit it about ten miles out.”
“Did you have any trouble?�
��
“Not really. I hit a few air bumps, but the Swallow got me here.”
Weaver gave her a fatherly hug. “I couldn’t be more proud than if you were my own daughter.”
“I’m just thankful for both of you. Have all the women made it?”
Victor said, “Last report was all but one. We’ve stayed close to the officials’ table just inside the door to keep abreast of any news.”
A wave of apprehension sloshed in Mittie’s belly as Weaver said, “Hope she didn’t have trouble. I don’t like the looks of those dark clouds.”
The air buzzed with worry as people watched the sky. Mittie looked around for Ames and caught snatches of conversation.
I’d rather get caught up in a tornado than a blue norther.
Heard it dropped thirty degrees in an hour over in Columbia.
Sure hope the hail don’t hit before we get out of here.
She turned to Weaver and Victor. “Have you seen Ames?”
Victor said he was inside earlier but thought he’d seen him going out to the plane.
“I must’ve missed him, then. Any idea how we all placed in the finish?”
Weaver shrugged. “Don’t expect they’ll announce it until everyone’s accounted for.” His eyes stayed riveted on the sky.
The wind, brisk when Mittie landed, now gusted, sending hats sailing and kicking up dust on the runway, pelting them with grit.
Victor held his hand on his hat and jerked his head toward the hangar. “Let’s get back inside.”
Mittie followed, her head turned, still hoping to catch sight of Ames. She tugged on Victor’s sleeve. “I think I’ll go over and see if Ames is with the Swallow. I bet he’s tinkering with something, maybe putting the cockpit cover on in case it starts raining.”
She didn’t wait for any objections and turned, bracing herself against the wind. Calista and the entourage of reporters had disappeared, leaving only the flagman and a few men in coveralls on the field. She sprinted to the Swallow, but no Ames. And since she was there, she felt she owed it to Victor to protect the jewel he was so proud of. She grabbed the canvas from the baggage compartment, hefted it up on the wing, and jumped on after it. Bending her knees to get leverage, she threw it up into the cockpit. A gust of wind nearly threw her overboard, but determined, she climbed into the rear passenger seat, dragging the cover with her. It landed splayed open, saving her from wrestling with that at least. She took the bottom rope, threaded it through the slot on the rear right of the open seat, and knotted it. The same for the rear left. Working the fanfold, she threw her leg over into the next seat, pulling the canvas with her. She stopped to take a breath, the effort bringing tears to her eyes. Leg up and over into the cockpit. The canvas felt like it weighed five hundred pounds. As she fished for the right front rope, the air gusted. She struggled to hold the tarp down, but the force of the gale was stronger. The canvas flew up, snapping like sheets on a clothesline as it whipped around beneath the upper wing. She hopped back toward the rear where she started, her arms and legs quivering. Her fingers clutched an edge; then from behind, strong arms reached over her, two beefy hands pulling the canvas into submission.
A Flying Affair Page 13
