Lone Eagle (3 page)

He was only inches from her finally, as he held a half-full plate, and he sensed her watching him. Looking down at her from his great height, with a serious air, their eyes met. He stopped moving for a minute, as they watched each other, and when she smiled at him, he almost forgot he was holding the plate. He had never seen anyone like her, as beautiful or as vibrant. There was something fascinating about her, like standing next to something very bright at very close range, or looking
into a very bright light. Within seconds, he had to look away. He lowered his eyes, but he didn't move away from her. He found he couldn't move at all, he was riveted to where he stood, and in an instant he looked at her again.

“That doesn't seem like enough dinner for a man your size,” she said, smiling at him. She wasn't shy, and he liked that. He had found it difficult to speak to people ever since he'd been a boy. And as an adult, he was a man of few words.

“I had dinner before I came,” he explained. He had stayed away from the caviar table, had avoided the vast variety of oysters that had been brought in for the occasion, and had been satisfied with the two lamb chops, a roll and butter, and a few shrimp. It was enough for him. And she could see even in his tailcoat that he was very slim. It didn't fit him as perfectly as it should have, and she suspected correctly that it had been borrowed for the occasion. It was an article of clothing he had never needed in his wardrobe, and he did not expect to wear it again. He had borrowed it from a friend. He had done his best to get out of coming by saying that he didn't have a set of tails. And then had felt obligated to come when his friend had gotten them for him. But with the exception of his brief encounter with Kate, he would have given almost anything not to be there.

“You don't look very happy to be here,” she said only loud enough for him to hear. She said it with a gentle smile and a sympathetic air, and he grinned, admiring her.

“How did you guess?”

“You looked like you wanted to hide your plate
somewhere and run away Do you hate parties?” she asked, chatting with him easily, as the girl from Wellesley got distracted by someone else and drifted away They seemed to be standing alone in the midst of hundreds of people eddying all around them, and they were oblivious to everyone else.

“Yes, I do. Or I think I do. I've never been to one like this.” He had to admit, he was impressed.

“Neither have I,” she said honestly, but in her case it was not due to preference or lack of opportunity, but to age. But there was no way Joe could have known. She looked so relaxed and was so mature that if someone had asked, he would have guessed her to be somewhere in her early twenties and closer to his age. “It's pretty, isn't it?” she said, glancing around and then back at him. And he smiled, it was, but he hadn't thought of it that way. All he had been thinking of since he arrived was how many people were there, how hot and crowded it was, and how many other things he would have preferred doing. And now, looking at her, he wasn't as sure the party was the total waste of time he had deemed it to be at first.

“It is pretty,” he said, as she noticed the color of his eyes. They were the same as hers, they were a dark almost sapphire blue. “And so are you,” he said unexpectedly. There was something so direct about the compliment he had paid her, and the way he looked, that it meant more to her than all the elegant words of the dozens of young men who had been paying court to her. And although visibly ten years younger, they were far more socially adept than he. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said, fascinated by them. They were so clear and so
open and so alive, and so brave. She looked as though she were afraid of nothing. They had that in common, but in very different ways. If anything, this evening was one of the few things that had frightened him. He would rather have risked his life, which he did often, than tackle a group like this. He had been there for less than an hour when he met her, and the party had already worn thin for him, and he was hoping to leave soon. He was waiting for his friend to tell him they could leave.

“Thank you. I'm Kate Jamison.” She introduced herself, as he shifted his plate to the other hand, and extended his right hand to her.

“Joe Allbright. Do you want some food?” He was direct and clear, and spare in what he said. He only said what he felt he needed to. He had never been one for flowery words. And she had not yet taken a plate at the buffet. As she nodded, he handed one to her. She took very little, some vegetables, and a small piece of chicken. She wasn't hungry, she'd been too excited all night to eat. Without saying a word, he carried her plate for her, and they walked to one of the tables where the others were dining, and found two seats. They sat down in silence, and as he picked up his fork, he looked at her, wondering why she had befriended him. Whatever the reason, it had improved his evening immeasurably. And hers.

“Do you know a lot of the people here?” he asked, without glancing at them, only at her. She was picking at her food, as she smiled at him.

“Some. My parents know more than I do,” she explained, surprised by how uncomfortable she felt with
him. It was unusual for her, but it felt as though everything she said counted, and as if he were listening to every inflection in her voice. Being with him didn't have the light, easy feeling that she had with other men. There was something startlingly intense about him. With Joe, it was as though all the frills and subterfuge were stripped away, and what you were left with was very real.

“Are your parents here tonight?” He seemed interested as he ate one of the shrimp.

“Yes. Somewhere. I haven't seen them in hours.” And she knew she wouldn't for several more. Her mother had a way of settling into corners with a few close friends, and whiling away the evening, without even dancing. And Kate's father always stayed close to her. “We came down from Boston for the party,” she offered to further the conversation, and he nodded.

“Is that where you live?” he asked, eyeing her carefully. There was something about her that mesmerized him. He wasn't sure if it was the way she spoke, or the way she looked at him. She looked calm and intelligent, and interested in what he was saying. He wasn't comfortable with people paying such close attention to him. And beyond her obvious intelligence and poise, she was exquisite looking. He loved just looking at her.

“Yes. Are you from New York?” she asked, abandoning her chicken. She wasn't hungry, the evening was too exciting to be bothered with eating. She'd rather talk to him.

“Originally, no. I'm from Minnesota. I've been living here for the past year. But I've lived all over the place. New Jersey. Chicago. I spent two years in Germany. I'm
going out to California after the first of the year. I go wherever there's an airstrip.” He seemed to expect her to understand that, and she looked at him with increased interest.

“Do you fly?” For the first time, he looked genuinely amused by her question, and he seemed to relax visibly as he answered her.

“I guess you could say that. Have you ever been up in a plane, Kate?” It was the first time he had said her name, and she liked the way it sounded. He made it seem personal, and she was pleased that he had remembered. He looked like the sort of man who would forget names with very little effort, and anything else that didn't hold his interest. But he was fascinated by her and had noticed everything about her even before they met.

“We flew to California last year, to take the ship to Hong Kong. Usually, we travel by train, or ship.”

“It sounds like you've done some traveling. What took you to Hong Kong?”

“I went with my parents. We went to Hong Kong and Singapore, but up till then we'd just gone to Europe.” Her mother had seen to it that she spoke Italian and French, and a smattering of German. Her parents thought it would be useful for her. Her father could easily imagine her married to a diplomat. She would have been the perfect ambassador's wife, and unconsciously he was grooming her for it. “Are you a pilot?” she asked, with wide eyes, which betrayed her youth for once. And he smiled again.

“Yes, I am.”

“For an airline?” She thought him both mysterious and interesting, and watched as he unwound his long
limbs, and sat back in his chair for a moment. He was like no one else she had ever met, and she wanted to know more about him. He had none of the obvious polish of the boys she knew, and at the same time there was something enormously worldly about him. And for all his shyness, she could sense a deep sense of confidence about him, as though he knew he could take care of himself anywhere, at any time, in any circumstance. There was an underlying innate sophistication about him, and she could easily imagine him flying an airplane. To her, it seemed very romantic and powerful.

“No, I don't fly for an airline,” he explained. “I test planes, and design them, for high speed and endurance.” It was more complicated than that, but it was all he needed to tell her.

“Have you ever met Charles Lindbergh?” she asked with interest. Joe didn't tell her he was wearing his tails, and had come to the party with him, although his mentor had been reluctant to come too. Anne was at home, caring for a sick baby. Joe had lost Charles in the crowd at the beginning of the party. Joe suspected he had gone to hide himself away somewhere. Charles hated parties and crowds, but had promised Anne he would go. And in her absence, had invited Joe for moral support.

“I have. We've done some work together. We did some flying in Germany while I was there.” He was why Joe was in New York now, and had arranged for Joe's work in California. Charles Lindbergh was his mentor and friend. They had met on an airstrip in Illinois years before, it was at the height of Lindbergh's fame, and Joe had been just a kid then. But in flying circles now, Joe was nearly as well known as Charles. He just wasn't as
well known to the public or as openly acclaimed. But Joe had been breaking records consistently in recent years, and some flying buffs thought that Joe was an even better pilot. Lindbergh had said it himself once, it had been the high point of Joe's life until that moment, and even since then. The two men had great admiration for each other, and were friends.

“He must be a very interesting man … and I hear she's very nice too. That was such an awful thing that happened to their baby.”

“They have a number of other children,” Joe said, wanting to dispel the potential emotion of the moment, but Kate was startled by the comment. To her, that didn't seem as though it would make a difference. She couldn't imagine the horror it must have been for them. She had been nine years old when it happened, and she still remembered her mother crying at the news and explaining it to her. It had sounded terrifying to Kate, and still did, and she felt very sorry for them. To her, the agony of it seemed to outweigh even his accomplishments, and it intrigued her that this man actually knew them.

“He must be an amazing man,” Kate said simply and Joe nodded. There was nothing he could add to the adulation the world had for Lindbergh, and as far as Joe was concerned, he deserved it. “What do you think of the war in Europe?” Kate asked Joe then, and he grew pensive. They both knew that the draft had been voted in by Congress nearly two months before, and the implications of that could not be ignored.

“Dangerous. I think it will get out of hand if it
doesn't end soon. And I think we're going to be in it before we know it.” The Blitz had begun in August with nightly bombing raids over England. The RAF had been bombing Germany since July. He had been to England to consult on the speed and efficacy of their planes, and he knew how vital their air force was going to be to their survival. Thousands of civilians had already died. But Kate was quick to disagree with him, which intrigued him. She was definitely a woman with her own opinions, and a strong mind.

“President Roosevelt says we're not going to get involved,” she said firmly. She believed him, as did her parents.

“With the draft already in place, do you believe that? Don't believe everything you read. I don't think we'll have a choice sooner or later.” He had thought of volunteering for the RAF, but the work he was doing with Charles was more important for the future of American aviation, particularly if the U.S. got into the war. He thought it was vital for him to be home now, and Charles had agreed with him when they discussed it. It was why Joe was going to California. Lindbergh was afraid that England could not hold out against the Germans, and he and Joe wanted to do all they could to prepare the U.S. to help if they entered the war, although Lindbergh was violently opposed to the U.S. joining the war.

“I hope you're wrong,” she said softly. If he wasn't, it meant that all the handsome young men standing around the room would be in grave danger. The entire world, as they knew it, would be profoundly challenged,
and ultimately changed. “Do you really think we'll enter the war?” she asked, looking worried, forgetting their surroundings for an instant, and thinking of far more serious matters. The war had already spread in Europe to a frightening degree.

“Yes, I do, Kate.” She loved the way he looked at her when he said her name. There were a great many things she liked about him.

“I hope you're wrong,” she said quietly.

“So do I.”

And then, she did something she had never done before, but she felt comfortable with him. “Would you like to go into the ballroom and dance?” She felt suddenly as though she had found a friend, but Joe looked uncomfortable at the suggestion, and stared down at his plate, before glancing back at her. He was not in his element here.

“I don't know how,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed, and much to his relief, she didn't laugh at him, but she looked surprised.

“You don't? I'll teach you. It's pretty easy, you just shuffle around and look like you're having a good time.” Dancing with her, that part at least would be simple, but not the rest.

“I think I'd better not. I'd probably step on your feet.” He glanced down and saw that she was wearing delicate pale blue satin evening shoes. “I should probably let you go back to your friends.” He hadn't spent as long talking to anyone in years, and surely not a girl her age, although he still had no idea that she was only seventeen.