Vera caught sight of her and waved enthusiastically. She wore a light-orange dress of chiffon silk that seemed to float around her willowy frame. The gossamer capped sleeves made the dress look even more whimsically delicate. Beside her sat two men in well-tailored suits and expensive-looking silk ties. They didn’t have the appearance of newspapermen but instead carried a whiff of the business world.
Mattie froze.
She’d grown up in the sphere of daredevils. Reporters, she could understand. Men in fancy clothes who stayed inside offices all day and played with numbers were another thing altogether. But if she was going to get endorsements and license her RadioNavigator design, she needed to learn how to conduct herself in meetings. If soaring through the sky didn’t intimidate her, she wouldn’t let these two fellows bother her either. She’d think of them just like any other obstacle to fly around... or through.
“Mattie!” Vera gestured for her to sit as the two men stood up to greet her. They were both middle aged, one balding slightly andattempting to use a comb-over to hide his receding hairline. The other was carefully groomed in an austere, no-nonsense fashion.
“This is Mr.Monroe and Mr.Lewis from Rockol Company.” Vera moved her gloved, upturned palm in the direction of the first man and then the second.
Both men had perfectly polished, perfectly polite smiles, the corners of their lips turning upward to exude some degree of warmth but not far enough to feel obsequious or overly familiar. Despite their pleasant demeanor, Mattie experienced another hint of unease. Resolutely, she straightened her neck and responded with a similarly congenial but unremarkable expression.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of us before, but we sell motor oil for both cars and airplanes.” Mr.Lewis spoke, his voice tinged with a congeniality that felt practiced rather than genuine.
Nowthiswas a world Mattie knew. She could talk grease and machines and parts all day long. Sitting down with the rest of the group, she felt a bit more comfortable. “I’ve been seeing your company’s name on cans in my father’s garage since before I could even read the words. I’d recognize your blue-and-white-striped design anywhere. Why, I might recognize the smell even if you blindfolded me first!”
Mr.Monroe’s slightly round cheeks glowed with pleasure. He spoke in a pleasant southern drawl as he addressed Vera. “My goodness, Miss Jones, youareright. She is mighty perfect for the position. Mighty perfect.”
Mr.Lewis, however, eyed Mattie suspiciously. “Did Miss Jones instruct you to say that, Miss McAdams?”
“I still have no idea what this meeting is about, so no,” Mattie answered honestly. “But my family has always trusted Rockol. You can talk to my mechanic and check my supply trailer. You’ll find cans of it there.”
“I couldn’t script her any better.” Mr.Monroe stared at Mattie as if she were the next Clara Bow.
“Script me?” Mattie asked in confusion, glancing at Vera for an explanation. The flapper looked thoroughly pleased. But before she could answer Mattie’s question, Mr.Monroe spoke again.
“Would you be interested in flying with our lovely Rockol brand painted on your Jenny? We’d pay a pretty penny for the chance to advertise.”
Mattie was very glad the server hadn’t taken her drink order yet. If she had been sipping any liquid, she would have choked on it and likely spewed it all over Mr.Lewis’s flawlessly cut jacket.
“What—what exactly are you asking?” Raw excitement flickered through Mattie, and she was almost hesitant to believe it.
“Miss Jones contacted us a few weeks ago and sent us a bunch of newspaper clippings about your exploits. We generally liked what we saw, and we started following the news reports ourselves.” Mr.Lewis sprawled in his chair, making his body relaxed. Deceptively so. Mattie recognized a con when she saw one. This man might be a professional instead of a grifter, but he wanted to give her the impression of friendliness, false as it might be. Well, if all pitfalls in business deals were so obvious, she could easily navigate around them.
“They were quite impressed,” Vera added.
“Now, Miss Jones,” Mr.Monroe drawled as he leaned back in his chair too, “we haven’t rightly said that exactly.”
Vera’s painted lips stretched into her trademark smile. Wild. Mischievous. And downright flirty. “You are here in Troy, Wyoming, hundreds of miles from company headquarters, to see Miss McAdams fly. That does tend to flatter a woman.”
The men laughed, the sound only a little forced. Vera’s expression never changed. She only arched one delicate, sculpted brow. “Were you not just telling me how delighted you were when she flew by your train car?”
Realization flickered through Mattie. Vera had specifically asked her to impress occupants of the first-class cars. She hadn’t thought much of the request at the time, but clearly, Vera had been planning this.
The men exchanged looks. Mr.Monroe appeared a little sheepish. Mr.Lewis remained stony faced.
“We still want to see her perform.” Mr.Monroe’s southern charm was in place, but Mattie could detect steel underpinnings.
“Naturally,” Vera said. “But Miss McAdams’s flying will once again leave you breathless. You can’t find a better spokeswoman for your product.”
“Spokeswoman?” Mattie repeated. She had thought they would just pay her and Vera for permission to advertise on her JN-4. But an actual, honest-to-goodness spokeswoman? To become part of their marketing strategy beyond just decorating her airplane with their trademarks? And not just any company’s branding, but Rockol’s, the motor oil she’d been using since she could barely reach the pistons? Could this help save the flight school?
“The very face of Rockol.” Vera smiled, raising her glass of lemonade. Even the flapper didn’t risk consuming any alcohol before a performance.
“But isn’t Earl Crenshaw your spokesman?” Mattie asked. “Would we both be representing your company?”
Because she really didn’t want to work alongside that drunken oaf.
The two men exchanged a look. They glanced back at Mattie. It was Mr.Monroe who spoke. Mattie was beginning to get the impression that the honey-toned southerner was the boss, maybe even the owner of the operation.
