I turned to him, admiring the way the morning sunshine played with the sculpted features of his face. He was one of the handsomest men I’d ever met. He had all the trappings of a hero and was famous across Europe and America for his daring aviation exploits and his record-breaking skills. When I witnessed him flying in New York last summer, I had experienced love at first sight, something that had never happened to me before—and that I was certain would never happen again.
“Don’t you want to meet my family?” I asked.
He glanced toward the crowd, and I could see the aversion in his gaze. For a man who had captured the attention of the world, he didn’t seem to enjoy the fame.
“I should get ready for my own flight,” he said as he backed toward the hangar where his other Blériot was waiting.
The thrill I had felt moments ago crashed with disappointment, and I turned to face my family—alone.
The closer I walked to the grandstand, the more I lifted my chin and pretended I was as confident as they expected me to be. Grace stood beside Mama and Daddy. Despite being identical twins, we couldn’t be more different. She was an early riser, and I loved to sleep in. She was practical and thoughtful, and I was rash and headstrong. She loved baking and housekeepingand gardening, and I would be happy if I never had to cook or clean again.
And Grace was kind, often shining a light on my own selfishness, though she would never know it. She saw me for who I was and loved me regardless. It was her greatest strength and sometimes her greatest weakness. People could hurt Grace easily—me, the easiest of all, though I never did it on purpose.
“Hope!” Mama said, her eyes wide with shock as her mouth slipped open.
Grace and I had the same first name in both paths. It was part of the gift. Mama said that God inspired our names, so our father and mother in 1692 had been inspired to call us Grace and Hope, just like our parents in 1912.
Mama was seventy-one, though no one would guess it, with her slim figure and pretty face. She had been a time-crosser, as well, and had chosen this path—and my father—fifty years ago. She had also lived in the 1940s and the early 2000s and had taught me everything I knew about the time-crossers in our past. Her mother, Libby, had lived in the 1770s and the early 1900s, and her father, Henry, had occupied the same years. It was a strange existence, but I had become accustomed to it when I was young and didn’t give it much thought on days like today, when all I could think about was the here and now.
“Surprised?” I asked as I jogged the last few yards to their sides. People in the stands called out to me, but I focused on my family.
Mama pulled me into an embrace. “How could you have kept this a secret?”
I hugged her tight, trying to avoid eye contact with Grace. “I took lessons at four-thirty in the morning almost every day for eight weeks last summer and fall.”
Mama held me at arm’s length and examined me with her bright blue eyes, her dimples shining as she smiled. She was a doctor and seemed always to be assessing me. I was surprisedshe didn’t feel my bones to see if anything was broken. “You never cease to amaze me.”
Daddy took me in his arms next. He was tall and strong, a few years older than Mama. His hair was gray, but his brown eyes were still alight with intelligence. He’d been a Pinkerton agent, working with President Abraham Lincoln in the White House during the American Civil War, and had gone on to help form the Secret Service. He’d retired ten years ago, but he still looked capable and ready at a moment’s notice.
“You’re not going to fly again, are you?” he asked.
“I’ll be flying with the Glenn Curtiss Exhibition team this year. I have several events already booked.”
“What about your work? Aren’t you in a show right now?”
I sighed, wishing we didn’t have to have this conversation. Grace and I had moved to New York from Washington, DC, five years ago for her to pursue a career in journalism and so I could be on the stage. While Grace had gone to every newspaper and magazine office in the city looking for someone to give her a shot, I had auditioned for countless productions. She had finally landed a position as a journalist for theNew York Globe, though she wasn’t taken seriously until recently. I had found work in secondary roles and minor speaking parts, making just enough income to survive. But the passion and determination I’d had for the stage was now eclipsed by flying.
“I finished my last show two days before we came here,” I told him. “I plan to fly now.”
Mama and Daddy looked at one another. I knew that look. It often came seconds before one or the other began to lecture me. So I took my chances and turned to Grace, my hands on my hips.
“Well?” I asked her, ignoring my parents’ concern.
Grace stood before me, beautiful in a white blouse, black coat, and black, nine-gored skirt. She wore a large hat, shading her face, though her blonde curls peeked out from beneath it.Her brown eyes, so much like Daddy’s and mine, stared at me, but I couldn’t determine if she was mad, surprised, or disappointed. She held a black Kodak camera and wore a brown leather shoulder bag, where she kept a notebook and pencil handy for her writing.
“Why?” she asked me.
I lowered my arms. “Why, what?”
“Why are you doing this?”
I laughed and motioned toward the airfield. “It makes me feel alive and excited and—” I paused, not sure how to say that my disappointment on the stage was now overshadowed by my enthusiasm for something new. I didn’t have to compete with other women for a role—this one was all mine. I simply said, “It’s fun.”
“It’s dangerous,” Grace countered. “And foolish and irresponsible.”
“I know.” I smiled and looped my arm through one of hers. “That’s why I love it.”
She was stiff beside me, but what could she say? I had made up my mind, and she knew she couldn’t change it.
