Soaring Home (15 page)

“We’ll have it ready in no time,” said that most exquisite object of loveliness as she shimmied down from the cockpit.

She showed no ill effects from the crash, other than a yellowish bruise and scab on her forehead. Somehow, even that made her more attractive.

“Aren’t you pleased?” She circled in front of him, hands clapped on her hips.

When she did that, her figure showed just a little. He tried not to look. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good.” She squeezed his elbow. “Come up to the cockpit and survey the work.”

He followed in a stupor. “Why did you do this?”

“To get ready for the transatlantic attempt, silly.” She said it so matter-of-factly that he almost believed.

“But there’s not enough time. By now, Raynham and Hawker will be on their way to Newfoundland.”

She shrugged. “Who cares about Raynham and Hawker? I only care about Jack Hunter.”

The ice that had encased Jack’s heart for so long cracked and started to slip away, like icebergs calving from a glacier. The soul beneath ached, raw and tender and unaccustomed to the air. And it was all because of her.

She climbed back into the plane, and the hem of each pant leg rose slightly when she bent her knee. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off her. Why hadn’t he ever noticed how her hair tumbled over her shoulder? When had it grown so long? Had it always been that shiny?

He climbed willingly into her net. Her plan wouldn’t work of course. Not enough time. But he couldn’t disappoint her. Not today.

She was attaching a bracing wire to the upper wing.

He settled into the forward cockpit and leaned over the back of the seat to watch her work. She was gorgeous, abloom with the scent of violets. “What’s that you’re wearing?”

She gave him a scathing look. “Overalls.”

“No. Your perfume.”

Her smile could have thawed Antarctica. “I’m not sure what scent it is. My aunt—the one in Buffalo—gave it to me.”

“Smells like violets.”

“Violets. Hmm, maybe you’re right. Or perhaps it’s the added aroma of engine oil that does it.”

“I happen to love the smell of motor oil.”

She laughed. “I’ll bet you do.”

She drove the screw with all her strength. Such determination. Such certainty.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know where that had come from, but he knew without a doubt that it had to be said. “I shouldn’t have left.”

She turned those deep, dark eyes on him. “Don’t you ever leave me again, Jack Hunter.”

The force of her statement stunned him.

“Here I was, trying to recover, and I found you had left town without so much as a note. I thought we were working together on this.”

Jack gulped. “It was wrong of me.”

“Yes it was.” Her lip quivered slightly, and the sight tore through him.

He’d hurt her terribly, and not just in the plane crash. He hadn’t considered her feelings. He’d been too possessed by his own selfish guilt. Maybe Sissy was right.

“I’m sorry,” he said once more. It was inadequate, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Well, don’t ever do it again.”

He nodded. He owed her that.

As the afternoon waned and daylight dimmed, the barn gradually emptied of workers. Jack personally thanked each one. Blake waited at the worktable, perusing the acquisition lists and navigation notes. It made Jack nervous. The man clearly wanted to tell him something that couldn’t be said in front of others. It had to be about the money.

As Jack shook the last hand, Blake walked toward him. With his pulse pumping, Jack extended a hand. “Thank you for organizing the repairs.”

“You’d better thank Darcy. She’s the one who did it all.”

The warmth returned, tugging at Jack’s heart. After he’d mishandled the landing and caused her injury, she’d done this for him.

“If you ask me, she didn’t do it just to get ready for the shot at the record.” Blake gave him a wink and a nudge.

The revelation that Darcy might have engineered the repairs because she cared for him distracted Jack for a moment from the rest of Blake’s statement.

“So, when can we ship?”

Jack wiped his mouth. “You still want to take a shot at the transatlantic crossing?”

Blake stared blankly, and then broke into a hearty laugh. “You fooled me for a minute, sport. Not go for the transatlantic record? Why do you think I’m pouring so much cash into this plane?”

Jack forced a chuckle. Darcy was right. This wasn’t his plane anymore. He calculated how long the test flights would take. Pohlman should arrive in a week. Add a couple weeks for the tests.

“Three weeks, maybe four if the weather doesn’t cooperate.”

“Great.” Blake clapped him on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

Jack scrubbed his head. What if Pohlman canceled again?

He walked to the worktable where Darcy had left the requisition lists in perfect order, each item numbered. Each number had then been written on a crate or box stacked along the barn wall. Everything had arrived. He was ready to make the transatlantic attempt, except for the test flights.

“You can’t stop her, you know.” Simmons’s voice startled Jack. He hadn’t realized anyone else was still there.

“What do you mean?”

The mechanic squared off before Jack. “Darcy’s got a mind of her own, and she’s gonna do what she wants, no matter what you or anyone says.”

“I’ve discovered that.”

Simmons didn’t look convinced. “This flying is what she’s wanted for a long time, and she ain’t gonna give it up. If you won’t teach her, then she’ll find someone else.”

The man was dead right, but he didn’t have to deal with her father. Jack stood in an impossible place. She would demand to fly, and her father had made him responsible for ensuring she didn’t. He should have stayed in Buffalo.

Darcy preferred any amount of work to staying home. Papa barely spoke to her. They studiously avoided any talk of the plane or flying, though Papa must have known Jack was back.

Mum surprisingly took her side, even offering to get the children ready for school so Darcy could work more on the plane. “Give your father time. He’s a bit set in his ways, but he’ll come around.”

Darcy wasn’t so sure, but she wouldn’t let Papa stop her. The plane was nearly ready. Soon they’d be back in the air, resuming the test flights.

When morning dawned bright and clear, without a breath of wind, she hurried to the barn. This might be the day.

She found Jack on a ladder checking the left motor. “Is it working?”

He looked up, startled. “Didn’t hear you.”

“Sorry. Did Hendrick get the motor running?”

“First thing this morning.” He scurried down the ladder. “Started and ran a good twenty minutes. I was just checking the spark plugs.”

“And?”

“And they’re still clean.” The old lopsided grin flashed across his face for a moment.

Her heartbeat escalated. “Then it runs.”

He wiped his hands clean, leaning against the wing strut the very way he had the day she met him. “I thought I just said that.”

“Can we take it up? On a test flight?”

He shook his head. “I want to do these with Pohlman.”

She clenched her fists. He didn’t even look at her when he said that. “If we start now—”

“Too late.”

“What do you mean, ‘too late’? You’re waiting for Pohlman.”

He wiped the wrench for the tenth time. “There’s no need to rush, because we’re already too far behind. Hawker and all the others are weeks ahead of us.”

“So? That’s no reason to give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” he said curtly. “I’m facing reality.”

“Reality is an excuse for pessimists.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Optimism. It’s one of your more endearing qualities. But the fact is, I have at least five test flights before we can ship the plane. By then the prize could be claimed.”

“Perhaps.” Darcy gathered speed. She could convince him.
She knew how. “But what if it’s not? What if none of the teams succeeds, and we didn’t even try? This isn’t about only you, Jack Hunter. This attempt is for much more. It’s for Pearlman. It’s for the little guy, the unheralded, the unknown. It’s for every person who volunteered his time to repair your plane. It’s for every person who believes in miracles. It’s for all of us. No matter who you have in that cockpit with you—and yes, I accept that you want Pohlman—we’ll all be there, cheering you on. Don’t give up on us, Jack.”

His expression never changed. Grim determination. He looked over the plane, wing tip to wing tip. “What does your father say?”

So that was it. Jack feared her father. Not her. Trials had forged her tough. “My father knows I am going to fly. Whether or not it’s with you is your call.”

He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache.

“I am a grown woman, and perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

He jerked and stared at her. Then at the plane. Then back to her. “So—if I understand correctly, you’re saying it’s a perfect day for a test flight.”

After all that hesitation, she wasn’t ready for this response. “A what?”

The grin exploded across his face. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I am.” She bounded to get her goggles.

“I’ll pilot. You handle navigation. I want exact figures, speed, altitude, noted every thirty seconds.” He launched into the full explanation while she jotted it down on the clipboard.

It felt good to have him bark orders at her again.

It felt even better to be in the air. She attached the watch to the clipboard and marked the required readings he wanted. The flight lasted an hour, the most she’d ever been aloft. As
they approached Baker’s field, she couldn’t help tensing, but this time Jack touched down perfectly, with only a few jolts and bumps from the rough terrain.

“What does this test tell us?” she asked as they climbed down.

“Fuel consumption for a light load. By the time we reach England, we’ll be empty.”

“We?”

“Don’t get any ideas.” But he said it with a grin, and her spirits soared even higher.

“Darcy?” Papa’s voice startled her. He stood stiffly in the barn door, dressed for work in his charcoal gray suit and waistcoat. His black derby sat firmly on his head. What was he doing here? Papa never came to the barn.

“I, uh,” she stammered, checking the watch. “The children are still in school.”

His expression was grim. “Your sister went into labor last night.”

“Already?” Amelia wasn’t due for two more weeks. Icy numbness seeped into her hands and feet. Papa wouldn’t be here unless there was a problem. “How is she?”

“It’s not going well.”

Only then did Darcy notice his ashen complexion. It must be very bad. “Doctor Stevens?”

“He’s with her. Come. She asked for you.”

Darcy’s legs nearly gave way. “She asked for me? Why?” They weren’t close. In fact they fought. A terrible dread filled her. She looked to Jack.

“Go,” he said softly, nudging her toward the door.

“The motorcar is outside,” said Papa.

The motorcar? Papa rarely drove it, not even to Chicago to visit his family.

Darcy wiped her hands clean and followed Papa. Amelia. A wave of guilt washed over her. Every resentment. Every
bitter word. Always blaming Amelia. Dear Lord, she’d been so selfish.

Papa’s hand trembled as he opened the passenger door.

No. No. Please God, don’t let anything happen to Amelia. Papa couldn’t take it. Not after all the quarreling. He must be so disappointed.

She should have considered his feelings. She should have spent more time talking to him, rather than demanding.

“Papa?” She put her hand over his. “She’ll be all right.”

He started shaking.

No
.

“I’m sorry, Papa.” She could barely fit the words through her constricted throat. “I’m so sorry.”

He pulled her close and hugged her as if afraid she would slip away. That was it. He was afraid of losing her, of losing them both. He shook with stifled sobs.

“I’ll always love you, Papa.”

“Me, too, Darcy. Me, too.”

She wept, and she didn’t care who saw her.

A
melia’s shuddering cries made Darcy wish she’d never climbed up the stairs. The bedroom door stood ajar, and Darcy could see a pile of damp, blood-tinged bed linens on the hardwood floor. The corner of an oilcloth hung from the bed. To protect the mattress from blood. Blood. Her stomach churned.

She pressed against the wall, taking deep breaths.

“Darcy. Thank God.” Mum pulled her into the room where death crouched in the shadows.

Doc Stevens, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, nodded at her. “Call if the baby starts to come,” he said as he left to wash his hands.

Amelia panted, her color even more ashen than normal, her usually perfect hair a matted flaxen mess. A sheet covered her round belly, but the struggle of hard labor showed.

“Darcy.” Amelia turned a haggard face to her. “I’m so glad.” She winced and panted again, short little breaths, as if the pain was too much to even breathe normally.

Mum guided Darcy to the bedside chair.

She shook. This was why she wouldn’t marry. “How are you?” What a foolish thing to say. “Sorry.” She knit her fingers
around her knees, feeling out of place in her greasy overalls. “I don’t smell too good.”

Amelia smiled wanly. “I wanted to talk—oh.” Another pain began, contorting her face and sending a spasm through her entire body.

“Hold on, dearest.” Mum put a knotted rope in Amelia’s hand and pressed a cool compress to her forehead.

A rope? Whatever for? Darcy followed it to the foot of the bed, over the end and underneath where it was tied to the bed’s leg.

Amelia yanked. Hard. The rope strained. Amelia’s eyes bulged and perspiration poured off her face. “Aaahhhgggh.” The cry tore out of her, but the baby did not.

After the spasm ended, Amelia lay panting again, exhausted. Mum handed Darcy the compress. “I’ll be just outside. Don’t fret, Amelia. The baby will come soon.” Though Mum smiled when she gazed at Amelia, her confidence vanished the moment she turned away. Mum was worried.

What if Amelia didn’t survive? Women still died in childbirth. Not as often, but it still happened. Every spat and jealousy between them meant nothing now. How foolish she’d been. How trivial her complaints. Flying didn’t take half the courage of childbirth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, grasping Amelia’s cold hand. “I’m sorry for not understanding, for everything.”

Amelia squeezed tightly, and Darcy feared another contraction was on the way. What if the baby came while Mum and Doc Stevens were gone? She looked around for her mother.

“I’m as much to blame,” Amelia said. “Sometimes I provoked you.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have let it bother me.” She laughed a little. “I probably deserved it.”

“Sisters,” Amelia sighed.

“Sisters.” Somehow that said everything that needed to be said. Darcy hugged her tight.

Amelia gasped and her eyes widened. Not another contraction.

“Mum?” Her mother didn’t appear, so Darcy handed Amelia the rope, applied the compress and waited until the spasm passed.

Amelia coughed and gasped, her eyes feverish. “I need to ask you.”

Darcy reached for another compress, but Amelia stilled her hand.

“If I die,” her sister said, clutching at her with bony fingers, “take care of my babies. Un-until Charles remarries.”

The room began to spin, Darcy’s ears buzzed, and her vision grew foggy. No. Impossible. “I…you won’t die. You can’t.”

Sweat beaded on Amelia’s face. “Promise me. Please. Mum will help, but Freddie and Lizzie and Helen need you. They love you.”

“They do?” Her nieces and nephew had never shown any extraordinary affection.

Amelia nodded. “Please?” Her grip tightened.

This couldn’t happen.
Dear Lord, please spare Amelia.
If not? What if
His
will was to take her to heaven? Then the children would need her. She couldn’t turn her back. “I promise.”

Amelia’s grip eased, and with a sigh she settled back, eyes closed. She looked peaceful, though wan and exhausted.

Mum stepped in just as the pain returned. “Doc Stevens is washing up to turn the baby, dearest. Hang on. It will be over soon.”

“Turn the baby?” Darcy asked. “How?”

“By hand of course.”

“You mean…inside?”

Mum nodded and Darcy ran from the room, queasy. She stood in the hall, trying to compose herself. She couldn’t go downstairs like this. The men would think the worst.

Mum came out when Doc Stevens returned. “Thank you, dearest. I know how difficult that was, but it set Amelia’s mind at ease.”

“W-will she live?” Darcy steeled herself for the cries of pain that were sure to come when Dr. Stevens turned the baby.

“Only God knows.” Mum squeezed her arm. “Pray without ceasing.”

But Darcy couldn’t seem to pull her scattered mind together. Take care of three or four children, one a newborn? Charles would probably remarry. Most men did. But what if his new wife didn’t want to take the children? What if Darcy had to raise them for the next eighteen years?

She took deep breaths. This speculation was doing no good, and standing here didn’t help. She needed to clean or cook. Cook. She’d get supper ready. The children must be home by now. That’s what she’d do.

The parlor looked much the same as when she left. Papa sat by the grandfather clock. Charles paced. Unlike before, the three children sat on the sofa, quieter than Darcy had ever seen them.

“How is she?” Charles asked.

What to say? “Tired but well.” She forced a smile.

“I should go to her.” Charles looked upstairs with trepidation.

Papa defused the idea at once. “Let Doc Stevens handle it.” He leafed through a farm tool catalog with the vigor ordinarily saved for heart-stopping adventure novels. Charles paced.

At that moment, an anguished cry came from upstairs.

“Mama,” Helen sobbed, tucking a thumb into her mouth.

Charles dashed to the staircase, his naturally somber face even more drawn. “It’s been so long.”

“Not that long,” Darcy said. “Some births can take days.”

“Days?” Charles swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t know. My mother died in childbirth.”

“Darcy, this isn’t helpful,” said Papa. “Is there something you could do with the children?”

Supper. But not with the children underfoot. “Outdoors you go.” She corralled them through the kitchen, drawing Freddie aside. “Will you please keep them busy with games?”

Freddie absorbed the responsibility, his expression grimly serious. “Is Mama going to be all right?”

“Of course.” Darcy smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “The doctor is here.”

“Would it help if I threw away my treasures? Mama wants me to get rid of them.”

Darcy’s heart broke. The poor boy. “That’s brave of you, but I don’t think that will help. Why don’t you clean them up and give them to her after your baby brother or sister is born? For now, could you keep your sisters busy?”

Freddie nodded solemnly. “We’ll play hide-and-seek.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Darcy took sanctuary in the kitchen, preparing supper. Every anguished cry from upstairs shook her. She had to lean against the worktable to steady herself. She’d been so wrong about Amelia. She squeezed her eyes tight to hold back the tears. Perhaps she should have invested more time in family and less in flying.

Long minutes passed before she gathered enough strength to resume the simple task of getting supper ready. She opened the door to the warming oven and found two meat pies. She sniffed. Beef.

A rap on the kitchen door drew her attention. She could still hear the children shrieking in the yard, so it wasn’t them. She hoped it wasn’t Cora or any of the other town gossips. They did not need visitors in the midst of crisis. She set down the hot pie, snitched a bit of crust, and cracked open the door.

“It’s us,” said Beatrice. “How is she?”

“Nothing yet.” Darcy fell into her friend’s embrace. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Don’t worry. It can take time.” But she looked worried. “In the meantime, we’re here to help.”

“We?”

Beatrice stepped inside and revealed Jack standing on the bottom step.

Darcy blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s a fine welcome.” He tugged off his cap. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

“Me? I’m not the one in labor.” Darcy returned to the worktable and cut into the pies. The rich brown gravy bubbled up through slits in the crust. She knew she’d snapped at Jack, but she didn’t want him to see her so frazzled. She needed to talk with Beattie. Alone.

Beatrice located plates and forks. “I’ll send over some sweet buns a little later.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said softly. “I need to round up the children for supper.”

“I’ll help.” Jack popped out the door.

“He’s a good man,” said Beattie after the door closed. “And he likes you very much.”

“I’m not so sure.” Every time she got a little closer to Jack, he pulled away. Sure, he let her fly the test flights, but that was it. Real closeness required sharing what was deep inside, his hopes and desires, his pains and sorrow.

“Is that why you snapped at him?”

Darcy jabbed into the second pie. “I’m not snapping at anyone.”

Beatrice set down the utensils and hugged her. “It’s all right. Amelia will be fine.”

Darcy struggled for words. “She asked me…to take the children, i-if she dies. Until Charles remarries. What would I do? She can’t die. She can’t.”

Beattie hugged her closer. “Let’s pray.” They folded their hands together into one, the way they did when they were children. “Dear heavenly Father, we ask your blessing on Amelia tonight. Guide her baby safely into this world and preserve that dear child’s mother—”

The door flew open.

“I hope you’re ready for the troops,” said Jack.

Darcy broke from prayer, hoping God understood. She quickly dried her face on her sleeve, but a bit of gasoline stung her eyes. She rapidly blinked to hold back the tears.

“March, one, two, three.” The children pushed behind Jack. “Youngest first, hands out for inspection. Palm up.”

One by one, the children paraded into the kitchen and showed their hands to Darcy. She swallowed her emotion and played along for their sake. After each passed inspection, the child marched into the dining room. Beatrice then followed with the first of the plates.

“How did you manage?” Darcy asked Jack as she handed him two full plates. “Take these into the dining room.”

Instead of obeying her directive, he set the plates on the worktable. “Military school. Do you know you’re lovely when you give orders?” He took her hands.

“Which you are disobeying.” But her voice faltered, and she had to look away. No man liked to see a woman cry.

“It will be all right.” He wiped her tears and took her in his arms. Strong and safe. He gently rocked her, and she let her head rest on his shoulder. The familiar scent of shaving
soap. She lingered as he stroked her hair. Then he kissed her forehead and then kissed away the tears. His lips found hers, and she melted into the embrace. So this was love, feeling so much a part of another that she’d do anything for him. Anything. She remembered Amelia. Love put her sister close to death.

She pushed away. “Stop, stop.” She fought to free herself.

“What’s wrong?” Jack looked confused.

How could she explain? He’d never understand.

Waaaah
. An infant’s cry pierced the air.

Jack’s lips slowly curved upward.

Seconds later, Charles burst into the room. “It’s a baby. She had a baby.” He dashed into the dining room to tell his children.

This time Darcy let the tears fall. “A baby,” she burbled, “Amelia had her baby.” But the joy was tempered with fear. Had her sister survived? She accepted Jack’s outstretched arms and sobbed on his shoulder.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Beattie, bursting into the kitchen. “Oh.”

Darcy pulled away from Jack and dried her eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?” Beatrice smiled coyly as Papa pushed open the kitchen door.

“It’s a boy,” he said.

Thankfully, he hadn’t seen her in Jack’s arms. “How is Amelia?”

“Tired but well.”

“Thank God.” A hundredfold.

The moment of domestic joy disappeared as quickly as it had come. The children. Darcy. A real home. None of it belonged to Jack, but for precious minutes it had felt real. Then she’d pulled away.

Alone in his room at the boardinghouse, Jack took off his grandmother’s ring, the one he wore on a chain around his neck, the one his mother had given him before she died. He’d never intended to give it to anyone, but that evening, watching Darcy rejoice with her family, he’d considered it.

He pressed the ring into his palm, where it left a hard imprint, slightly jagged from the three sapphires. Darcy had stated flat out that she didn’t want to marry. He had a transatlantic flight to make. What was he thinking? Maybe after the crossing. If he made enough to buy Sissy a real home. If Darcy gave up flying.

The next day, Jack returned to the cold barn and the first of what turned out to be many obstacles. Pohlman pushed back his arrival by two more weeks. Winds and rain kept delaying the test flights. They managed a medium-load flight in early April, and then the rains returned. A tumbling crate crushed the flares, and they had to be reordered. The engines required constant adjustment. This project was taking years off his life.

On yet another rainy day, he and Darcy loaded the plane for the full-load test. This flight would measure fuel usage at the heaviest load. After that, he would be able to calculate how much fuel and oil he’d need for the crossing.

All of the test flights until then had been important, but this one was critical. This one determined if they could take off successfully at St. John’s. It was also the most dangerous, with all that fuel onboard. He hoped Pohlman showed, because he did not want to take Darcy. Forget about it being her decision. He was the pilot.

He had made a point of inquiring about her family each day. “How’s your sister?” he asked during a rest between hefting fuel cans into the plane.