Baroness (39 page)

She wasn't surprised to find the field full of spectators, most of them sitting on blankets or on the hoods of their cars, maybe a thousand of them. Concession workers moved through the cars selling peanuts and popcorn, programs and playing cards. The cab dropped her off at the outskirts and she walked in, paying her dollar walk-in fee and finding a spot on the far edge of the field just in time to watch Agnes the Sky Angel climb out onto the wing and prop on the leading edge while the pilot did an inside loop, then a series of barrel rolls.

She could almost taste the wind in her teeth, the rush of adrenaline, feel her stomach climb up into her throat.

She didn't even realize she was holding her breath during the ladder act, when the wing walker climbed down to a car and sped off, her arms waving.

Well. Lilly hadn't mastered that move. Yet.

No, there was no
yet
. That life was over. She didn't long for the danger, the sense of power. Didn't long to look back and see Truman grinning at her, pride in his eyes.

Didn't long for—

“Lola the Flying Angel, I can't believe it!”

Lilly looked up at the man that blotted out the sunshine and grinned. “Rango.” He wore a white shirt, a pair of canvas pants, suspenders holding them up. He still brilliantined his hair back with enough grease to power a small engine. “Still hawking popcorn?”

“Naw. Only when we're busy.”

She bounded up to him, and he gave her a hug. She smelled the gasoline on him, reached up and scrubbed a smudge off his face.

“What are you doing here?”

“Marvel sold the show to Truman. Said he was the only one who he trusted to keep it flying.”

“When?”

“About a year ago. Truman's still making payments, but he finally got his own plane.” He pointed to a black biplane, now playing daredevil fighter in a mock battle against the other orange biplanes. “He's still the best I ever seen.”

She shaded her eyes, imagined him at the controls, in the back cockpit, his eyes fierce, pushing his aircraft to the limit. “He never does anything halfway, does he?”

Rango looked at her, his smile gone. “Nope.”

“Can I ask you something?” She looked back at the black hawk in the sky. He'd rigged something to his engine that released flour, just like their jumper once had, and the trail of white sketched his movements in the heavens. “Has Truman moved on since me? I know he was once a ladies' man.”

“What?” The noise he made turned her attention to him. “No. Not even one. I promise, only one he's ever fallen for is you, Lilly.”

She drew in that information, swallowed it down, blinked her eyes against the glare of the sun.

“Ever,” Rango added as he picked up his concession box. “Stick around for after the show?”

She nodded. Absolutely.

They played in the sky for over two hours to the crowd's delight, and afterward, a line rushed the pilots, Agnes, and the parachutists. Lilly watched from afar as Truman signed autographs, his face tan outside the lines of his raccoon eyes, smiling as women all but swooned next to him.

She moved away from him, wandering to the fleet of airplanes. Five of them, four dressed in orange, the last in black. Truman's Hawk. She climbed up onto the wing, peered inside to the cracked red leather seats. Then she turned and scrambled onto the wing. On a tail dragger, she could upset the entire plane with her weight, so she simply stood at the far edge, holding the rope. Closed her eyes.
You're a natural, New York. You belong up there.

“Lilly?”

His voice startled her out of herself. She looked down, over her shoulder.

“Did you hear me? You belong up there.” Truman held his gloves in his hands. He piled them into his leather helmet and dumped it into the cockpit.

“I…” She shook her head. “I don't know. Maybe not.”

He stepped up, offered his hand to her. She considered it a moment then took it. He caught her as she jumped down.

She disentangled herself and stepped away, too aware of how easily memory swept her back. He still smelled fresh and strong, like the sky, like freedom. But she wasn't that girl anymore. Wasn't his girl. “I was young, and really naïve.”

“I thought you were brave.”

She couldn't let him see how his words tunneled deep inside her, how he could still make her heart pulse to life. “You have an amazing show, Truman.”

He sighed, something so long it could make her cry. “Thank you.”

“It's everything you hoped for. A fleet of planes, a daring wing walker, your name as owner.”

“No, that's not everything, Lilly,” he said softly.

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Truman—”

But he grabbed her arm, spun her around. And, as she opened her eyes, she hadn't even a moment to brace herself before he kissed her.

He simply slid his hand behind her neck and pressed his lips to hers, an urgency, even desperation in his touch that shattered all the arguments she'd come armed to wield. He tasted of their past, the sweet moments of discovery, of the too-vulnerable intimacy, the delicious safety of being in his arms.

She had no power to resist him, not when he softened his kiss, moved his arm around her waist, drew her into the pocket of his embrace. Not when he came up for air whispering her name, pressing his forehead to hers, then dove back in.

Truman. She tasted tears and realized they were his. Oh, Truman. She slid her arms up around his shoulders and simply hung on, losing her grief, forgiving him, needing him to be everything he promised with his touch.

“Please, Lilly,” he said as he pulled away again, finding her eyes. She could fly forever inside them. “Please say you still love me.”

Oh, she wanted to. It was right there, the last pulse between what she wanted and the fears that choked her. She caught her breath, tried again. But the smells and sounds of the airfield rose around her, reminded her of the truth.

Flyboys flew away.

She said nothing.

He slowly released her, back to the ground—she hadn't even realized that he'd picked her up—and stepped away from her, holding up his hand as in surrender.

He shook his head then, trying a wry smile. “Can't blame a guy for trying.”

“Truman—I…don't you see? You'll always be a barnstormer, always the scamp that flies away with my heart. I can't live this life with you. I can't love a man who needs flying more than he needs me.”

And, she couldn't run away from Oliver, again.

He swallowed and looked away. Ran a thumb under his eye. “How about I give you a lift home?”

“I can take a cab—”

“I insist.” He didn't look at her again as he rounded up the keys from Rango, who glanced at them both with something of confusion.

She gave him a kiss on his ruddy cheek. “Good to see you again. I'm still holding out for that dance.”

He tipped his hat to her, his smile half-hitched.

She climbed onto the truck bench and Truman motored them out of the airfield toward Manhattan.

“Where to next?”

His hands on the wheel whitened. “West. Philadelphia, then across to Pittsburg. We have permission to play all the big cities.”

“That'll put you in the black.”

He nodded, still not looking at her. “I've nearly paid off Marvel.”

“Rango told me.”

He said nothing as they crossed the bridge, the sunset bleeding through the streets, over rooftops.

“Truman, I'm sorry.”

He held up his hand. Then, he leaned over and tugged out from below his seat the curl of papers. Tossed them on the seat. “Don't worry, I'll sign them.”

She picked them up, smoothing them out on her lap, swallowing against the great well of emptiness consuming her. She could hear the roaring inside, and with everything inside her wanted to tumble out of his truck at the next intersection and run.

They finally turned onto Fifth Avenue, the streetlights splashing into the streets. As they neared the house, she drew in a breath. “You can sign these inside.”

His lips knotted into a tight bud. He pulled up to the curb outside her house then got out and came around the truck and opened the door.

The gate hung ajar and he pushed it open, following her up the stairs, his shoes scuffing on the marble.

She put her hand on the handle to open it and jerked. Her hand came away sticky, and she stared at it a moment, at the smear of red embedded in her palm. “What—?”

“Stay here,” Truman said and pushed past her into the foyer.

She stood there, dumb for a moment, unable to move. Blood. Her hands began to tremble. “Oliver!” She stumbled inside, saw more of it, a smear across the floor, footprints tracking it into the hallway.

“Oliver—where are—”

She stopped at the sight of Rosie, blood saturating her dress, leaning over a man sprawled on the floor, his body writhing as Bette and Oliver tried to press towels to his wounds—so many of them, seeping blood onto the marble floor. Rosie held his face in her bloody hands, staring into his eyes, speaking quietly.

Truman stood above them, not moving. But he turned when Lilly gasped, catching her a second before she slid to the floor. “What happened?”

“It's Rosie's husband,” Oliver said. “He's been shot.”

“Shot? How—”

Oliver turned to Rosie. “Just breathe. It's going to be okay.”

But one look at Rosie told Lilly that no, it would never be all right.

“Truman, call an ambulance,” Oliver said.

“I already called them.” Mr. Stewart appeared with more towels.

“I have my truck out front—we can take him!” Truman still had his arms around her.

“Please, Guthrie. Please. Shh, listen to me. You're going to be okay.” Rosie put her face down to the man's. “Shh. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Lilly untangled herself from Truman's grip and edged over to Rosie. Her hands were bloody to her wrists. “Rosie, let Bette in here. She and Stewart know what they're doing.” She reached for Rosie's hands, but her cousin slapped them away.

“Guthrie!”

Guthrie was pale, his lips a horrid color of gray. His breathing emerged shallow, if at all, his eyes drifting closed, back open again when Rosie shook him. “Guthrie! Don't leave me!”

He seemed to gasp then raised his hand and clasped Rosie's arm. There was so much blood, it slicked the marble floor, saturated Lilly's skirt.

“I'm sorry, Red.” His voice was so faint, Lilly wanted to weep. “I thought I could fix this.”

“I told you I had the money.” Rosie was beside herself, her words nearly intelligible. “You didn't have to do this.”

“I didn't want your money, Rosie. I…wanted…us. You. We had to be free of him. He'd never let us go.” He reached up around her neck, pulled her forehead down to him. “You have to be free, Red. For Charlie.”

Rosie had begun to weep, to unravel, her words unintelligible.

“I love you, Red.” His arm slipped down, landed on her hand. “But…you—you gotta leave. He'll find you. He'll find the baby. Save Charlie.”

His eyes closed, his body shuddering.

“Don't leave me, Guthrie. Don't you dare leave—Guthrie!”

Lilly wanted to press her hands to her ears, to close her eyes, to curl into a ball at the stench of death, but Rosie's wail shredded through her, lifting her out of her horror.

“No—no, God! No!”

Rosie had Guthrie by the shoulders, was shaking him. His hand flopped onto the floor.

“Rosie—stop. Rosie!” Oliver reached for her, put his arms around her, pulled her back from Guthrie just as Truman appeared with two men carrying a gurney. Rosie fought Oliver, twisting in his arms, landing an elbow in his chest. Oliver just held on, scooting her back from the corpse as she writhed in his arms, hysterical.

Oliver met Lilly's eyes, shaking his head.

Lilly scrabbled over to Rosie and caught her face between her hands. “Rosie, shh…they're working on him. Shh. You're going to hurt the baby.”

The words seemed to capture her, because she stopped struggling, fixed her eyes on Lilly's. “My fault. This is—this is my fault.”

Oliver still had a grip on Rosie, his white shirt dripping, his arms around her. Lilly looked up and found Truman standing above them. “Help me get her into the study.”

He nodded, then bent down and swooped Rosie into his arms, as if she weighed nothing. She curled into a ball against his chest, starting again to unravel.

Lilly cast a look back at the ambulance drivers and wanted to weep at the loss of urgency. Guthrie's body lay still, already dissolving of color.

Truman set her on the leather sofa and Rosie began to shake. “Guthrie—he needs me.”

Lilly caught her hands, held them together. “Rosie. You have his baby to think about right now. You have to calm down.” Her words, but they didn't seem to issue from herself, because inside she was still screaming. Still seeing Guthrie writhing through the last throes of his life.

Still listening to Rosie's world shatter.

Truman appeared with water. He must have also closed the door, because the voices outside muffled.

Rosie's hand shook as she drank, and Lilly steadied it. She took the glass and gave it back to Truman. “What happened?”

“I…I…I had the money. And Cesar told me to meet him at the park. I thought Guthrie had practice, but…Guthrie was already there. How did he know I was to meet Cesar there? And he'd brought some of his fellow players with him. Mugs and Smiley and—and then Cesar and his men had guns and they just started shooting them. Shooting Mugs. And Smiley—they shot him in the head. And…” She pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “But Guthrie didn't run. He ran at Cesar with a bat—a
bat
—and hit him. He hit him again then…” She swallowed, looked up at Truman, back to Lilly. “They shot him. Cesar's men shot him. And he kept hitting Cesar, getting up until they shot him again—” Her voice raised, on the far end of sanity. “They kept shooting him until he just lay there, bleeding. So— so much…blood.”