Page 53 of Air Affair

Providing the information, Rory said, “You are the best friend a girl could have, you know that?”

“Promise me you’ll stay in touch, no matter what happens. Let’s meet up once you settle in. I want to hear everything!”

“I promise I’ll reach out as soon as I have my feet under me again.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up.

Rory wiggled her hips and did a little dance. She was free and had a means of making a living. Now all she had to do was find a home. Mineola would make a fine home. Most of the women she wanted to help lived near airfields, not in the city. Yes, it would keep her near Hank, but that was beside the point. It was practical for her work. That was what mattered most.

And her work mattered. She was determined to use the PBA to help lift those in need. For the first time in her life, she had a sense of purpose, a mission to fulfill. She couldn’t fix all of society’s ills, but she could make a difference. Maybe she could start to chip away at the heavy debt she felt for a lifetime of oblivious privilege.

Her stomach growled, and she stifled a yawn. It was time to explore Hank’s kitchen. He’d doubted her cooking abilities. She wasn’t a master chef, but she knew enough to make a decent meal. Opening the icebox, she found milk, eggs, bacon, and some leftover roasted chicken. She took out the chicken and went to see what else she could find. In the pantry, she found potatoes. Out in the garden, she pulled up a couple of carrots. In a cupboard, she found a bottle of whiskey, and she poured herself a dram. She deserved it after what she’d been through today.

Sitting down to her dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots a short while later, she was quite pleased with herself. And Hank thought his poor little rich girl couldn’t cook. It wasn’t the spectacular French cuisine her father’s chef cooked, but it was good, hearty fare that filled her belly. It was all she needed to feel full and at peace.

As she sat back at Hank’s table, drinking his whiskey and eating his food, she couldn’t help but think about the delicious night they’d shared. The consequences were disastrous, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret the night itself. Nothing had prepared her for the intensity, the electric heat of their encounter. She wasn’t sure she wanted to marry Hank, but she couldn’t let him go as a lover. She felt too much when she was with him, and she couldn’t imagine anyone else ever making her feel the same.

Perhaps she’d refuse to marry altogether and be his “companion with no strings attached,” leaving them both free to live their lives as they saw fit. Hank could fly without worrying about his responsibility to a wife at home. She could have her independence without being burdened by children or a household to care for. It was perfect.

She cleaned up her dinner, washed her face, and went to bed, breathing in his scent from the sheets. Such an intoxicating man. She closed her eyes and imagined him here in bed beside her, his body wrapped around hers. Relaxing in his warm embrace, she felt at home. This little cottage felt cozy and comfortable in a way the mansion where she was raised never had. Everything here was functional. Nothing was for show. But it was beautiful nonetheless, just like the man who lived here.

She drifted off surrounded by him, breathing him in, despite his absence. Never had she slept so soundly.

The next morning, she woke up refreshed and ready for the challenges ahead. A small part of her was still shaky from the shock of yesterday’s loss, but her new surroundings and sense of purpose did much to mitigate her lingering distress. If anything, her losses filled her with added determination to succeed in building a life for herself without her father, a life where she did some good in the world. She had a job. She had the telegram in hand confirming it. Papa wanted to teach her a lesson and expected her to come crawling back. Well, she’d show him! Deep down, she knew he wouldn’t let her go so easily, but that was a problem for another day. Today, she would set out to find a home, and tomorrow, she would get to work.

After making a simple breakfast of coffee, eggs, and toast, she sat down with pen and paper to draw up a budget. She’d taken a seminar called “Domestic Finances” in college to prepare herself for someday managing a household. Doing some simple math to break down her salary, she decided she could afford to spend up to eighty dollars a month on housing. Knowing very little about local housing costs, she hoped it would be enough, but she knew her salary was generous, so she thought it likely to be adequate.

After cleaning up her dishes, she set out into town to make inquiries. The greengrocer told her to speak to the druggist who told her to speak to the florist.

“Excuse me,” she said, passing a profusion of carnations in every color to enter the shop. Inside, there were bundles of every possible flower that was currently in bloom.

A gray-haired man with a mustache like her father’s stood behind the counter. He wore a deep plum vest over his pristine shirt. His jacket lay discarded over a chair. His smile was friendly as he said, “Good morning, Miss. Come to buy flowers? We have some beautiful peonies over here. They make a gorgeous centerpiece for a dinner table.” He spoke with a soft Irish lilt.

“Not today, thank you. I’m new in town, and I’m looking to rent a room. I was told you might know who I might speak to.” She smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile.

“Well, Miss, you’ve come to the right place. It just so happens I have a room to let. There’s also a ladies’ boarding house two streets over, but I think Mrs. Allen overcharges for what she provides. My family and I live above the shop here, and there’s a furnished apartment on the third floor that’s vacant. If you don’t mind a few stairs, it’s bright, clean, cozy, and the hot water works consistently—something I hear can’t be said for Mrs. Allen’s. We can also offer board if you like.”

This sounded perfect. A boarding house would come with all kinds of rules that would constrain her freedom. An apartment of her own where she could come and go as she pleased would be just the thing.

“That sounds perfect, Mr.—”

“Mr. O’Donnell.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Donnell. Might I ask what you are charging for rent? I want to make sure it falls within my budget.”

Mr. O’Donnell smiled at her kindly. “We want the right tenant, someone quiet and decent but willing to put up with us. We’re talkative folk. If you decide to take meals with us, you’ll find that out soon enough. We’d like someone friendly who won’t mind our boisterous ways. For the right tenant, we’d charge twenty-five a month. If you want to eat with us, make it thirty-five. Does that sound all right to you, Miss?”

“My name is Rory Belmont, and yes, that all sounds fine to me, ideal even. Might I see the space?”

The man bellowed, “Shannon, can you come tend to the store for a minute? I’ve some business to attend to.”

Moments later, a round older woman with her silver hair in a bun came bustling in, wiping her hand with a dishcloth.

“Good heavens, Finn. You’ll wake the dead bellowing like that. What’s so important you have to interrupt my cleaning?”

“The young lady here wants to see our apartment to let.”

Mrs. O’Donnell looked Rory up and down with a sharp eye. “Shannon O’Donnell, nice to meet you, Miss,” she said, holding out a red, calloused hand. “She looks like quality, Finn. Perhaps you’d best let me handle this. You stay with the store, and I’ll take her up.”