A Flying Affair (2 page)

Victor huffed, a plume of smoke making phantom curlicues. “You bet he was. Just not in this century.”

Mittie read off what she had and told Gordon she'd bring a typewritten copy of the minutes to the mayor's office the next morning.

Gordon adjourned the meeting, and as Mittie was nearly to the door, Weaver asked to have a word. “Nice job of keeping things under control.” He jerked his head in the direction of Gordon. “Poor sap got in over his head. Thanks for stepping in.”

“My pleasure, but I hope I didn't speak out of turn.”

“Don't concern yourself with that, my dear girl. Give me a call when you want to take another jaunt in the old Canuck.”

“It'll be a while, I'm afraid. Iris' wedding is just around the corner.”

Weaver nodded. “Ah, yes. Give her my best. With your charm and good looks, I'm sure it'll be your turn soon.”

She glanced at the clock, which told her she was going to have to floorboard it to make it to the fitting. She offered her apology for having to run and sailed out the door, chuckling at Weaver's remark. The last thing she wanted—or needed—was a husband.

Low clouds hovered over the airfield, the air heavy with the promise of another storm. Mittie strode to the end of the walk, but at the edge of the gravel, her heel sunk into the soft earth, causing her to teeter off-balance for a moment. When she put her foot on solid ground, a sharp pain shot through the ball of her left foot—a piece of gravel had slipped into her shoe and lodged there.

She winced, plucked off her shoe, and shook out the offending pebble. When she looked up, a man in an aviator helmet and leather flight jacket offered his hand while she slipped the shoe back on.

She muttered her thanks and hurried on.

“Wait, miss!” The pilot fell in stride with Mittie. “Don't I know you? You look terribly familiar and gorgeous to boot.”

Mittie stopped. The voice was familiar, perhaps someone who'd given her a come-on before. She gave him a quick glance, thinking she might slap him if he said something fresh. The chin strap of his leather helmet swung unfastened along a strong jaw, flight goggles resting atop his head. On his forehead, a black lock of hair had escaped, grazing a raised eyebrow. One raised brow that invited a response. Her stomach lurched with recognition.

“Ames? Ames Dewberry?”

“In the flesh. And if I recall, you're the lass from Long Island that begged me to take you up in that old Curtiss of mine. Musta been what—three, four years ago?”

“Four years next month.”
Ames Dewberry
. How she'd dreamed one day he'd step into her life the way he had when she and Iris had gone to that garden party with their cousin Nell. Ames Dewberry, mystic and intrepid, swaggering onto the lawn that night, leaning on one elbow on the backyard bar. He'd matured a lot in four years, but there was the same cleft in his chin. Same dark eyes that, when Mittie wasn't dreaming about flying, drifted into her sleep and uncountable waking hours.

“Mattie, wasn't it?”

She snickered. “Close, but no. Mittie. And I didn't beg.” She had begged. Pathetically. And scribbled her address on the back of a calling card she found in her evening bag. “I spent months thinking I hallucinated the whole thing since I never heard from you.”

His brows converged into a
V
between simmering coal eyes. “I lost the card you gave me—thought I put it in my pocket, but never could find it.” His hand rested on her forearm, searing through the voile of her afternoon dress.

“So what brings you to Louisville?”

“Barnstorming across the river in Indiana, scoping out some new spots and crowds to entertain.” He nodded toward the runways. “The setup here would be a good place for home base. And getting reacquainted with you if you're not spoken for, although I fear I'm probably too late for that. Dolls like you don't stay unattached for long.”

Mittie shrugged noncommittally. “I'd love to chat with you and hear what you've been doing, but I'm in somewhat of a rush. Perhaps soon.”

“How soon?”

“Well, not today. The next few days are swarming with things I have to do.”
Those eyes.
Sympathetic. Hopeful. Pleading. Clouds drifted past, the minutes ticking away. She was already dreadfully late.

“Rotten luck for me, then.” His smile made the sun pale in comparison when he offered his hand for a shake. “In case you change your mind, I'll be around at ten in the morning. This joint have a coffee shop?”

“Canteen. But don't wait around. Like I said, I've got loads of things going on.” She turned and ran to the car, and when she glanced back over her shoulder, Ames Dewberry hadn't moved, his wide shoulders and narrow hips everything she remembered. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel all the way to Martha Vine's Dress Shop.

Mittie hoped to sneak into Martha's salon for the fitting, but Caroline, her feisty nine-year-old cousin, met her in the anteroom. She twirled, her tea-length dress of palest lavender swishy above shiny buckled shoes. “Aunt Sarah! Mittie's here!”

Caroline planted a hand on one hip. “How do I look?”

“Like a princess. I'm sure you'll have every male at the wedding vying to dance with you.”

“Ick. If you mean boys, then no thank you. Dancing is splendid, but why ruin it with boys?”

Mittie tweaked her cousin's nose. “That's rather the point, sugar. You'll change your tune someday.”

“That's what Mama says, but Aunt Sarah says I should quit being a tomboy and be more ladylike. Like Iris. Will you take me for a ride in your roadster when we're done here? There's a big ship docked on the river, and I'm ab-so-lute-ly dying to get a closer look.”

Poor kid. She'd come along when Aunt Evangeline, Mittie's mother's sister, was nearly forty. Her daddy died on a British Royal Navy ship during the war before she was born, but still she was obsessed with anything to do with water—swimming, sailing, riverboats. Caroline tapped her toe in expectation of an answer.

“Not today, I'm afraid. Your aunt Sarah's booked a table at the Brown for lunch later. No sense ruffling her feathers.”

“When has that ever bothered you?” Mittie's mother strode from one of the fitting rooms and told Caroline to scoot, that the seamstress was ready for her. She leveled her gaze on Mittie. “Look at you. Late and such a fright. You've splatters on your dress, and it looks like you've crossed a field with the mud on your shoes. What happened? Did you get a tire puncture and have to change it yourself?”

Too many questions, and no answer would suit her mother, who'd donned her Mother Superior cap relegating Mittie to aberrant child status. She half-wished she'd stayed and talked to Ames.

Mittie pecked her mother on the cheek. “Nice to see you, too. Where do I need to go for my fitting?”

“Over here.” Iris waved her over to the large room at the back where the other bridesmaids—two of Iris' college chums—were already dressed and being nipped and tucked by Martha and her assistant. Their gowns, exquisite in whisper-soft pink and baby-blue organza, were a veritable rainbow of pastel that Mittie's mother had insisted would be the talk of all Louisville for months to come.

Mittie knew different. Iris' wedding would get a flashy write-up in the Sunday edition of Louisville's
Courier-Journal
and no doubt in newspapers in Alabama where the Wainwright family had a firm clasp on the steel industry. By marrying Hayden, heir to the dynasty, Iris would be breaking the hearts of every hopeful mother in Bir­mingham. But Lucky Lindy would be who people were talking about for months to come.

Iris' cornflower-blue eyes darkened to deep azure—the please-don't-make-this-difficult
look that Mittie knew all too well. Her twin carried the burden of keeping things smoothed over in the family—always patching things up between Mittie and their impossibly interfering mother, calming the house staff when they'd been scolded, and offering apologies to complete strangers who felt slighted when their mother spoke her mind. Iris had agreed to the pastel wedding, the guest list, and even the menu for the reception. Iris, though, was no doormat. She simply had the finesse Mittie lacked and was, in fact, brilliant. She said and did the right things on cue and was witty and engaging, but not coy. Mittie was happy for her. Thrilled, really. As their eyes locked, Mittie knew she wouldn't do anything to take away from the joy of this day for her womb mate and dearest friend.

She took the frothy frock from Iris, all billowy and yellow, a color that would give Mittie's complexion a waxen pallor, and said, “It's even snazzier than I remembered. And sorry for being late. The meeting ran long, and I—”

“Don't worry. Mother hasn't even worked herself into a lather yet. And the adjustments so far have been minor. It's more to reassure Mother that this is going to be all she imagined.” Her voice trailed off in a wistful tone, and for a fraction of a second, Mittie wondered whether Iris had regrets over the future she was choosing. Soon, Iris would enjoy life in her Alabama colonial where she could make her own decisions and welcome her adoring husband each night with a glass of sweet tea and a kiss. The very thought made Mittie want to hightail it to the Kentucky hills. It wasn't a startling discovery. Everyone knew she and Iris were as different as midnight and dawn—Mittie the dark unknown and Iris like a pat of butter on a warm biscuit.

The yellow frock wasn't all bad. Mittie turned this way and that, getting the full effect in the cheval mirror. Nice straight lines through the torso with a swingy gored skirt that would work well on the dance floor. The lace ruffle framing the V-neckline, though, drew attention to her long neck.

Her cousin Nell, who was Caroline's older sister, stepped inside the fitting room, hat in hand. “Oh goodness—don't you look fabulous!”

Mittie wrinkled her nose. “I look like a giraffe.”

Nell cocked her head and laughed. “Only you would think such a thing. What I wouldn't give for your height and long neck.” She held out the hat she'd brought in. “I think you'll be surprised when we get your hair done and you wear this.”

The hat was a dream, like all of Nell's creations—airy gold netting over a silk cloche with rhinestones in the same lemon color as her gown, and a narrow velvet ribbon in deep chocolate. Nell fluffed out Mittie's dark curls, tucking a few wisps behind each ear before arranging the hat at a flattering angle.

“What do you think?”

Mittie gasped at her reflection. “I think you're a living doll—that's what!” Simple, yet elegant. Perhaps she wouldn't feel like she was the object of a safari after all. In the mirror, she saw her mother approach and nod in approval.

“I simply do not know how Louisville survived without you, Nell. Every one of the bridesmaids' hats are perfect. Just think: someday you'll be making Mittie's bridal veil.” She dabbed at the corner of her moist eye.

“Mother, don't start getting sappy. Let's get Iris married first.”

Her mother waved a hand. “Your day will come.” She draped an arm around Nell and said she had some questions about Iris' trousseau.

Mittie thought of her visit to Nell when she lived in New York, the visit where Mittie had met—and flown with—Ames. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Four years, and Ames had shown up in Louisville. Her skin was still tingling with the thought when Martha Vine declared the fittings complete and said the dresses would be delivered by the following afternoon.

Cornelia Humphreys, Mittie's paternal grandmother, in a suit the color of a new buffalo nickel, greeted them when they arrived at the Brown Hotel. She patted the chair next to her for Mittie to have a seat. Her marcel-waved hair beneath a charcoal silk hat matched her outfit exactly. A tuft of netting at the front skimmed her thin, arched brows. Mittie idolized her—her no-nonsense manner, the way she didn't give in to the conventions of style but still managed to pull off a surprisingly fashionable look, even at age seventy-four. Widowed since Mittie was three, she lived in a grand but small stone home at the back of Morning Glory Farms property—one with a view of her beloved saddlebreds and in the perfect location to keep an eye on everything that went on.

Her grandmother leaned in and whispered, “You and Gypsy were having quite a frolic this morning.” She patted Mittie's hand, liver spots dotting the weathered hands that had handled horses and weren't afraid of hard work. Hands that offered a firm shake when sealing horse agreements and yet were tender enough to caress Mittie and Iris when they'd come to her with strawberries on skinned knees, bee stings, and broken hearts.

While Mittie and her grandmother talked about Gypsy and how she'd progressed with her gait training, conversation bubbled around the table. They nibbled on shrimp “fresh from the gulf and trucked in special for y'all,” the waiter had said.

Mittie's gaze caught Nell's, and she thought her cousin looked a bit wan. Perhaps the wedding trousseau questions from Mittie's mom had been too much, the pinch of last-minute changes. Nell bit off a corner of cracker, her shrimp cocktail untouched.

Soup followed and then the main course: a luncheon portion of Hot Brown, the chef's specialty that had caught on like wildfire with the locals. Mittie took a bite and wondered if they would serve it to Charles Lindbergh at his Louisville banquet. She would suggest it on the typed notes she took to Gordon at the mayor's office tomorrow. Tomorrow. She'd told Ames Dewberry she was too busy to see him, but if she worked it just right, maybe she could squeeze in a stop at Bowman Field after seeing Gordon. She wanted to know more about the barnstorming. She'd read about it in the papers, how planes buzzed over farms and put on shows with aerial tricks, but she hadn't ever met anyone who actually did it. Her skin tingled.

“Mittie!” Her mother's voice drew her out of her rambling thoughts, and from the look on her face, it wasn't the first time her mother had said her name. “Mittie, dear, as the maid of honor, wouldn't you like to propose a toast for Iris?”

“Oh, sure. Don't know what got into me.” She rose and hoisted her water glass. “To Iris, the best sister in the world. I'm going to miss you terribly. Here's to the perfect wedding day and a lifetime of love.” A lump filled Mittie's throat.

Iris chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes misting, as she whispered, “Thank you.”

Caroline wiggled in her seat. “I have a sister toast, too.” She stood and lifted her glass, drawing smiles from around the table. “Nell and Quentin, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Nell pushing a baby carriage.”

Nell's eyes grew round, her face flushed. “Caroline! Where did you hear that?”

“School, girls teasing, but I'm not teasing—not even a tiny bit. I heard you and Mama talking.” She giggled and pronounced, “Nell's going to have a baby!”

Aunt Evangeline placed a firm hand on her young daughter's arm. “First of all, young lady, you don't eavesdrop on conversations. And you also don't go blabbering things you know nothing about.”

All eyes were on Nell, who now looked green instead of just pale. She glared at her little sister. “Mama's right, Caroline.” To the rest of the guests, she shrugged. “I'm sorry; I didn't want to say anything until after Iris' wedding. This is her big day, and we have worlds of time to talk about the baby.”

Questions came from around the table in a flurry about when the baby would come and if they were hoping for a boy or a girl.

Nell sighed. “We think January, and I'm hoping for a boy.” She gave Caroline a narrow-eyed look. “Boys aren't so nosy and wouldn't be blabbering.”

Caroline tucked her chin to her chest. “I'm sorry. I thought it would make you happy.” Tears filled her eyes. “I always wanted a baby brother or sister…”

Nell rose and went to Caroline and hugged her. “I know; I always did, too, and then when you were born, no one was happier than me.” She kissed her cheek and then thanked her aunt for the lunch. “I am feeling a little peaked and think maybe I should go.” She turned to Iris. “Don't worry. I'll have everything ready for your trousseau. For now, I just need a bit of rest.”

The party lost some of its glow with Nell gone, but Mittie was grateful that her mother didn't say anything about her sister Evangeline becoming a grandmother before her. Under normal circumstances, the competition between the two of them might have surfaced, and really, there was no harm done. If anything, it was another reason to celebrate.

When the chatter resumed, Grandmother leaned over and whispered to Mittie, “Your father called and told me about Buck Lamberson.”

Mittie wanted to spit. Just the mention of his name coiled like a snake in her belly. “Rotten timing with the wedding.” It was the best she could muster.

“I'm sure the operation won't be cheap and is perhaps necessary, but it gives me pause. I think he planned his visit with a touch of malice in mind—coming on the eve of Iris' wedding and knowing that finances might be somewhat stretched right now.”

Mittie kept her voice low. “And that Mother has spared no expense, you mean.”

“I just thought his request untimely—that's all.”

“Dobbs deserves the best, to be able to walk normally. And if there was anything at all that I could do to repay Daddy, I would. There's not a day goes by that I don't wish the accident hadn't happened.”

“No one blames you. Certainly not your dad. It wasn't even your fault.”

The familiar panic swelled in Mittie's chest. No, her grandmother and father didn't blame her for the incident with Dobbs. But Dobbs did, and so did his parents. A broken leg that left him a cripple was a big price for Dobbs to pay.

Mittie's lunch soured in her stomach.