Soaring Home (10 page)

Snow drifted lazily from the sky, glistening where the light from a window caught it. The sandy brown of the road had started to whiten. He kicked a stone and it skittered ahead ten feet, creating a thin, brown trail across the white.

“I’m headed back to the boardinghouse,” he said.

“I’ll walk there with you.”

“And then I’ll have to walk you back. That defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it does.” Still, she kept walking beside him. “Tell me everything that’s happened since I left. Did my article bring in new students?”

Jack hesitated. “Inquiries.”

“How many signed up?”

He hated to disappoint her, but he couldn’t lie. “Just one, for the spring.”

“Then how are you making do?” Her voice hummed with alarm.

“I pick up jobs here and there.” He couldn’t tell her the truth, that he was looking to fly exhibitions in Texas for the winter.

“Is that enough to live on?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“And of course you live with your sister.”

Jack started to correct her but got caught by those deep, dark eyes. They reflected a full moon that peeked out from between the snow-laden clouds. They also reflected him.

A snowflake landed on her lip and melted. Another stuck on her lash. She blinked. Another clung to her brow. Carefully, he brushed it away.

It was dark. Late December. Snowing. He should be cold, but he wasn’t. Not a bit.

He combed the snowflakes from a strand of her hair.

“You’re beautiful,” he said in far too throaty a voice. How he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her forever. How he wanted to protect her from everything bad that could ever happen. How he wanted to kiss her.

Her eyes reflected the same desire. Her lips softened, accepting him. He leaned closer by small degrees, gauging her willingness.

Her lids slowly drifted shut, and he brushed his lips across her cheek. She drew back.

He flinched. What now?

Her attention focused on the street, where a motor car sloshed through the snow. “You’re getting covered in snow,” she laughed. “Come with me.” She grabbed his hand and led him down the street to a park with a little wooden pavilion.

His initial shock subsided into pleasure at her touch. Her
cold fingers could turn cream to ice cream, but the place where their palms met radiated warmth. He raised her hand to his mouth and blew to warm her fingers. She giggled and tugged him toward the pavilion.

“What is this used for?” he asked as they climbed the steps to stand under the roof. It was open on three sides and stacked with rough wooden benches.

“Speeches or rallies or revivals,” she said, still holding his hand. “We had a big suffrage rally here last summer, before you dropped out of the sky and graced us with your presence.”

She might have said they slaughtered pigs there. It wouldn’t have mattered. She had a sparkle and a way of talking that reminded him of a time long ago, before all the pain had begun, a time when he still had parents and his sister could run, a time when he still believed in God and miracles.

She was talking, but Jack didn’t hear a word. He reveled in the timbre of her voice, the way her hands constantly swooped open in a gesture of inclusion, and the delicate tendrils of dark hair that fell loose. He wished it would never end.

Darcy Shea was not like any woman he’d ever known. She had courage. She was strong. She inspired him.

And yet she was reckless and vulnerable and so much in need of someone to take care of her.

She paused a moment, and the moonlight revealed her rare beauty. Lips slightly parted. Hair spilling to her shoulders. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her close and kiss her, but that was the worst thing he could do. She wasn’t ready.

Somehow he had to stop this attraction. He had to break the thread that connected them. The truth would do it. It had always worked in the past.

“I don’t live with my sister, because she’s an invalid,” he blurted out. “Polio. She’s at St. Anne’s Hospital. That’s why I was there, to visit her.”

Jack waited for the usual signs of emotional withdrawal. He’d seen them often enough. The flustered exclamation of sympathy, the darting gaze, the tiny step back as if he was contagious. He waited, but it didn’t happen. Yes, she looked surprised, but not horrified.

“Oh, Jack.” She clasped his hands, and he just couldn’t pull them away. “Is she in pain?”

“No, not at all.”

“Thank the Lord,” she sighed.

The old anger and resentment started to bubble up. His mother’s church friends had said exactly the same thing, but God didn’t deserve thanksgiving. He’d abandoned them.

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t suffering,” he snapped. “She can’t do what you do. She can’t walk around town. She can’t fly.”

Darcy tilted her head. “Why not?”

“Didn’t you hear me? She can’t walk.”

“That doesn’t mean she can’t fly. The controls in the trainer are all operated by hand. And even if she can’t use her hands, you could fly for her. It’s not holding the controls, you know, it’s experiencing the wonder, seeing God’s world spread out below.”

Jack was stunned. He’d never considered taking Sissy in his plane. Too risky. Something might happen, and he could never live with that. “You have the most outrageous ideas.”

Instead of being affronted, she laughed. “Like attempting the transatlantic crossing?”

He concentrated on the swirling snow. If he looked at Darcy, he’d be lost. “That’s just plain foolish.”

“Is it? You own a plane built for distance flight.”

“Not for that long a distance.”

“And you have the skill. All you need is someone with nerve, connections and organizational ability. It can be done, Jack. Everything is possible if you believe.”

He broke away, clawing for solid ground. If he looked into those eyes that so perfectly reflected him, he’d agree. And that would bring disaster. He had to put a stop to her wild ideas. Emphatically.

“It’s not going to happen. Ever.”

“W
hy not?” Darcy spun around, catching snowflakes on her bare palms. The cold didn’t matter. Jack and this flight would rescue her from drudgery. “It’s the answer to everything.”

The transatlantic flight would set her on the world stage. She would be first. Not second. Not following a man’s success. First.

“Whoa, whoa.” Jack dragged her to a halt. “It’s not that easy. You need the right plane, which I don’t have, and then you need backing—lots of it. Then you have to plan every second of the trip. One mistake and you’re dead.”

“We can do all that.”

“Do you happen to have an extra forty thousand dollars, because I’ll tell you right now it’s going to cost that, and probably more.”

Forty thousand dollars? The amount staggered. A person could buy half of Pearlman for forty thousand dollars.

“You’re teasing,” she said. “Who would go for a fifty thousand dollar prize if it cost forty thousand to do it?”

He crossed his arms. “For what comes afterward: lectures, books, interviews. Publishers will pay big money for the rights to the story. There might even be a film. The lecture circuit alone has funded many an expedition.”

Of course. She mentally regurgitated all those expedition narratives she’d read. Books, articles and lectures had been part of them all.

“It’s not the payoff that’s the problem,” Jack said. “It’s the upfront money.”

“Forty thousand?” Not one expedition had been funded by a sole benefactor. “If it takes that much, then we’ll find patrons. Lots of them.” She threaded her arm around his. “And I know right where we can start.”

“I don’t want to be indebted to your family.”

Other than Perpetua, Darcy doubted anyone in her family would contribute. “That’s not who I had in mind.” She tugged him toward the grange hall. “We can start tonight. Everyone’s there.”

“You’re loony.”

“Crazy, mad and naïve,” she laughed as they skidded through the slick snow, back to the hall. The squalls had stopped, and the moon glimmered off the newly fallen blanket of white.

Guests streamed out the front door of the hall. Motorcars chugged home, while other guests walked in merry little groups, reliving their favorite moment from the wedding.

“Follow me.” Darcy eased past the departing guests and found Beatrice just inside the door, thanking each person for coming.

“Darcy, where have you been? O-oh.” She’d spotted Jack. “Mr. Hunter. You came.” Strangely, she didn’t look surprised.

“Beattie? Did you send Jack an invitation?”

Beatrice looked chagrined. “Are you terribly sore?”

“How could I ever be sore with you?” Darcy hugged her friend and whispered, “Thank you.”

“I’m so glad.” Beattie held her hands and looked like she
wanted to say more, but the Grattans approached, calling her to duty.

“Hunter?” Blake popped out of the crowd. “Good to see you again. What brings you back to Pearlman?”

“A grand adventure,” Darcy said.

Jack filled in the details. “Attempting the first nonstop transatlantic flight. We might be looking for subscribers.”

“That so?” Blake grasped Jack’s hand and nodded for him to follow into the hall. “Let’s talk.”

Blake drew Jack through the throngs of guests donning coats and mittens, and Darcy began to follow, but Beatrice held her back. “Not this time.”

Darcy shook off her friend. “What do you mean? It’s my idea.”

“Not anymore. Like it or not, men prefer to think they come up with the big ideas. Don’t look so disappointed. We know who truly thought of it.”

“But I need to be part of this,” Darcy insisted. “I’m going to be in that plane.”

“Let them have their moment. Your turn will come, I promise. Mr. Shea.” Beattie elbowed her.

Papa. She hadn’t seen him coming.

“It’s time to go, Darcy.” He did not sound pleased. “Your mother is waiting.”

“I’ll be right along.” She couldn’t leave now, when her whole future was about to be decided.

“It’s late, and you have responsibilities. Amelia needs your help.”

Amelia. Always what Amelia needed. Never what she needed.

“Please let me stay a bit longer. Jack is going for the transatlantic prize, and I need to help him.”

“Jack?” Papa placed undue emphasis on his name. “Jack who?”

She lost nerve. He’d never met Jack, didn’t even know he was her flight instructor. She looked to Beatrice for help.

For the first time since childhood, her friend abandoned her. “Speaking of which, I believe my new husband might be getting himself talked into subscribing to Mr. Hunter’s project. I had better see what he is agreeing to.” She scurried off, leaving Darcy alone with her father.

“Jack Hunter?” Papa’s brow furrowed. “The aviator who landed here in September? You are on a first-name basis with a man you’ve barely met?”

All the air left the room. Perhaps she should have mentioned earlier that Jack was her flight instructor, but it was too late now. She looked around for an escape. The snow had begun again, whirling like a blizzard in the light from the door. Snow. Of course. Papa loved expeditions.

“He’s going for the
Daily Mail
prize, Papa. You remember. For the first aviator to cross the Atlantic nonstop. It’s better than Peary reaching the North Pole. If we make it, our names will be immortalized.”

“We?” He donned his top hat. “How are
we
involved?”

“If we subscribe. Jack, uh, Mr. Hunter, needs sponsors.”

Papa’s frown deepened. “Sounds to me like throwing perfectly good money away.”

“But you’ve always wanted to be part of an expedition.”

“Expeditions are fraught with danger and risk. They are for younger men than I. Come along, Darcy.”

Darcy couldn’t give up. Not now. She had to make him understand. “But Papa, this is our big chance. We may never have an opportunity like this again. How often does an adventurer come to Pearlman? Never. At least not until now.”

“Darcy, the joy of an expedition is not in paying for it; it’s in participating, in experiencing the danger and the reward.”

“That’s what I want.”

“You? What role could you possibly play?”

Darcy’s heart pounded like a steam engine blasting through a tunnel. “I might fly. Ride as navigator. You see, Jack Hunter is my flight instructor.”

Papa went pale. Not a single muscle moved, beyond the twitching of the artery in his neck. “When were you going to tell me this?”

“I—I—” Darcy couldn’t find an answer.

The color flooded back into his face. “This is mad, daughter. Do you have any idea of the risk? I can’t believe Mr. Hunter would agree to this. I should tell him what I think of his plan.”

“No, Papa.” She grabbed her father’s arm. “Please don’t.”

He looked at her long and hard. “Mr. Hunter hasn’t agreed, has he?”

Tears rose, but she blinked them back. “He will.”

“Listen, Darcy. I went along with your flight lessons. I don’t understand, but I can accept it. But this flying across the Atlantic Ocean is too much. You have responsibilities to your family. Your mother needs you. Amelia needs you. Those children need you.”

“The flight wouldn’t take place until spring, after Amelia has delivered.”

“That is not the point, daughter. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“But Papa—”

“I hope you understand that your care is my responsibility. I love you and want only the best for you. It might not seem like it now, but trust me, you’ll thank me one day.”

Darcy couldn’t see how. “But I want to be part of this. I want to make history. That’s what’s best for me.”

Papa kissed her forehead. “Then if this foolishness transpires, wish Mr. Hunter well. Tell everyone you know that he was your flight instructor, but I need you to stay close to home and on the ground.”

Crushed. Ground to tiny bits and flung out in the snow. That’s how Darcy felt. For once, hope failed her.

Things progressed far too quickly as far as Jack was concerned. Blake Kensington had an adventurer’s soul and a wealthy man’s wallet. What he couldn’t provide financially, his father could—for a price. Like everything else in town, the Kensington name would be emblazoned across his plane.

Within minutes, Jack had enough support to begin preparing for the transatlantic attempt. The Kensingtons wanted the preparations done in Pearlman, which meant shipping the plane. It really needed two motors to make the crossing, requiring a lot of reengineering. He had to arrange an airfield in Newfoundland, file the paperwork and pay the fee. He needed to get permission to take off and land on foreign soil. Supplies had to be ordered and tests run on the modified plane.

And then there was Sissy. She’d support him, of course, and the Kensingtons paid enough to cover her hospital bills, but who would care for her if he didn’t survive?

“I’m not sure I can commit to this,” he told Blake the next day.

He stood in Branford Kensington’s mahogany-paneled study while Blake’s father shouted into the telephone.

“Turn the bloody shipment around and send it to Pearlman. How difficult can it be?”

Blake seemed to think the whole thing humorous. “You’ve just got cold feet. Had a bit of that myself before the wedding. Father’ll set you right.” He jabbed Jack in the ribs and headed out of the room.

The elder Kensington resumed ranting. “I know it’s the holiday season, but there are four business days left this week.”

Jack edged away from the Cape buffalo head mounted at
eye level. Its huge black eyes and curved horns made him more than uneasy. The blood-red carpet and smell of polish recalled childhood and the parlor he was never allowed to enter. People with houses like this did not accept “no.” He could sure use Darcy right now. She had a way of bulling around any obstacle to get her way.

“It’s done,” Kensington said, hanging up the telephone receiver. “Imbeciles. They don’t know their brains from their bums, but rest assured, your aeroplane will be here within the week or they’ll pay a hefty price.” He clapped Jack on the back. “Care for a drink? Eugenia, have the housekeeper run in some ice.”

The sleek Mrs. Kensington, who had appeared from nowhere, pursed perfectly formed red lips. “It’s Sunday.”

“For heavens sake, can’t I offer the man a drink?”

Kensington’s walrus mustache bristled with irritation.

“Thank you anyway,” Jack said quickly. “I have things to do.”

“On a Sunday evening?”

“Do stay for supper.” Mrs. Kensington touched Jack’s arm lightly. “The newlyweds will be joining us.”

Reason enough to leave.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I have things to do. Mr. Kensington. Thank you. You’ve saved me a lot of travel.”

“It’s my money,” the man joked, though Jack didn’t find much humor in it. Bad enough he was into these people for thousands. When they realized how much it would really cost, he expected them to back away in a hurry. Blake was young enough to ignore the cost for the thrill of adventure. Blake’s father was another matter.

Jack hustled out into the night, glad to leave the sterile house behind. Flurries fell on roofs and porches. Lights glowed through front windows, beacons of warmth lining the streets. In one house an old man danced with his wife,
their steps slow and painful, their faces rapt with tender love. It was achingly domestic. In another home a family said grace around the Sunday meal, heads bowed. Jack could almost taste the roast turkey.

How long had it been since he’d sat for a family meal? Before Mom died. Before boarding school and the army and flying. There were meals, sure, and people to share them with, but never a family, never a wife or mother to welcome him home. Never children who laughed and told stories.

For the first time in years, he longed for it—not what was lost, but what could have been. He—Jack Lindsey Hunter—wanted a family. The idea stunned him. He’d never quite imagined himself with a wife and children. He’d never allowed himself that fantasy.

He shook his head. This foolishness had to be brought on by fatigue. He hadn’t slept well in days.

That was it.

Yet, as he walked back to the boardinghouse, he looked for Darcy in every parlor window. She must live in this grandest of Pearlman’s neighborhoods, where the three-story Victorian and Federal homes towered over the town. He walked past house after house, but none of the windows revealed her.

The snow was coming down harder, sticking to every branch and limb and accumulating on the sidewalks. He trudged through it, collar turned up.

Darcy was right. He had returned to Pearlman to see her. He needed her. Her fire and spirit energized him. She made him believe anything was possible. When he was around her, he actually believed he could cross the Atlantic.

Then he spotted her in a modest two-story house. She stood in the front window, back to him, gesturing the way she did when she was excited. He lingered as the snow piled onto his shoulders and cap.

She was directing a trio of children in a game that
apparently involved jumping on and off the furniture. Little heads bobbed up and down, followed by Darcy’s larger, more lovely one.

The ache intensified. He wanted this so badly it hurt.

A large snowflake landed on his jacket. Its minute crystals spread in glorious beauty. He touched a finger to it, and it melted. By trying to hold the snowflake, he’d destroyed it.

Just like with Darcy. Hold on too tightly, and he’d ruin everything that made her wonderful. Protect her, and he’d lose her, but at least her family would have her.

No matter how much she argued and protested, he had to keep her on the ground. For her sake. Unlike him, she had too much to lose.

A church bell tolled the hour and reminded Jack that he didn’t belong here amongst the happy memories and loving families. He had to let them go. He had to let Darcy go.

He shook off the snow and walked back to the boardinghouse.

Darcy tossed and turned for two nights, torn by her responsibility to her family and her desire to make the transatlantic flight. Or was it her desire for Jack? Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Jack. He’d come back to her. The thought filled her with such bliss that she could easily lose her head if she didn’t keep reminding herself that flying came first.