Page 70 of Air Affair

He waved goodbye to his friend and rushed to the locker room to don his leather flight suit, aviator cap, and goggles. Hustling out to his plane, he performed his usual checks, though perhaps he did a more cursory job than usual. After all, he’d just flown the plane from D.C. to Philadelphia. What could possibly have happened to it over a lunch hour? Or really a lunch fifteen minutes.

“Hawley, is that you?” asked Thompson, climbing out of the biplane he’d just landed. “You and I should⁠—”

“Sorry. Gotta go.” Hank waved off his friend and practically leaped into the rear cockpit of his Jenny. “Mind swinging the propeller for me?”

Thompson shrugged and gave the propeller a good shove.

Hank opened the throttle and started down the runway. It was a gorgeous, sunny day with only a smattering of clouds. The heat had broken, and the temperature was a mild seventy degrees. He reveled in the feel of the wind on his face.

The countryside sped by beneath him as he flew faster than any car could drive toward the woman that held all his hopes and dreams in her hands.

She would have received the contract by now. Would it be enough to convince her? She was so close to saying yes before he left. He was nearly certain this would nudge her into certainty. But if, for some reason, it didn’t work, he’d have to keep trying. How could he help her trust him, or even herself?

It broke his heart to think of her self-doubt. What had her father done that left her so uncertain of her own worth? Here he was, a nobody farm boy from Michigan, and she was worried that he was going to get tired of her?

If only she could see herself through his eyes. Her strength, determination, and bravery were unmatched. He’d never met another woman so fiery and full of life. What man in his right mind wouldn’t want to spend his whole life with her?

Edward, that was who. The bounder. Hank wanted to wring his neck for the damage he’d done. And to think he expected Rory to marry him after everything! The senator from Connecticut had better hope that Hank never crossed his path. Hank wouldn’t be answerable for what he might do if he saw that miserable sonofabitch.

Hank realized he’d been gripping the stick too hard and climbing in altitude. He purposely relaxed his hand and let the plane settle back into its proper course.

Trenton, New Jersey, passed beneath his left wing, a mass of brown roofs interrupting the dappled green of the countryside, as he followed the rail lines northeast toward his destination. He was almost halfway there. Not much longer to wait.

As soon as he landed, he was going to head straight over to the O’Donnell place to see her. Hopefully, Mr. O’Donnell wouldn’t have closed up shop yet, and Hank could buy some flowers. He’d take her to dinner at the East Williston Hotel and order their finest champagne. Then he’d take her for a walk in the fairgrounds, stopping at that gazebo he liked with the perfect view of the sunset behind his favorite oak tree.

Kneeling before her, he would say, “Rory, I’m not a poetic man, but I need you to know what is in my heart. Until I met you, I was adrift, and I didn’t know it. When my father and brother both died, it was like the ground fell out from beneath me. All I could do was glide along the surface of life, struggling to stay aloft. But when I’m with you, I soar up to the heavens. You lift me up and give me purpose. You are my compass, my true north. Without you, I am lost.”

Glancing at his compass, he realized he was talking airplanes again. A man took inspiration from the things around him, and could he help it if every time he tried to talk about something personal it took a particular direction? Fortunately, Rory loved airplanes. She wouldn’t mind. She might even get that dreamy look on her face he loved so much.

There was something vulnerable about her in those moments. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, no doubt about that. But sometimes, she took such innocent, childlike delight in things. That smile made his heart dance a jig every time he saw it. It was so raw, so honest. He wanted to see her smile like that every day for the rest of his life.

And for the first time in several years, he wanted that life to be long and peaceful. No more risk-taking for him. He loved the airmail, but he loved Rory more. Thank God Glenn Curtiss offered him that job. He was keeping his fingers crossed that Major Belmont didn’t sabotage it for him somehow. If everything went as he hoped, soon he would be the husband Rory deserved. No more risking his neck for a sack full of mail. He had something to live for now.

Please, God, let her say yes!

He looked down at the winding river of the train tracks, then glanced at his compass, making minute adjustments to his course. The sooner he got home, the sooner he could tell her everything in his heart. And the sooner she could end his agony and give him her answer.

He tried to eek some extra speed out of the airplane, even though he knew he’d pushed it to the limit. The familiar landmarks passed by one by one beneath him with agonizing slowness. He passed Princeton, then Edison, towns he knew far better from the air than on land. Sure, he’d driven through New Jersey on occasion, but from a car, you couldn’t see the distinctive shapes of each town—brown against a field of green.

Staten Island passed beneath him, and the skyscrapers of Manhattan loomed off to his left. He was so close. Not long now until he held Rory in his arms, so soft and vital, her sweet scent of magnolias driving him wild. He could practically taste her sweet lips against his own, each curve of her body pressed up against him. They fit so well together. Surely that had to be a sign.

A vivid memory of Rory, naked against him in the cockpit of a Jenny, momentarily flooded his senses. Oh God.

No. He had to keep his head. He was flying an airplane for heaven’s sake.

Long Island stretched out before him. The racetrack at Belmont Park was just visible in the distance. He began his descent.

The ocean sparkled in the late-day sunshine off to his right as he flew over the factories and rowhouses of outer Queens, gliding over the city’s polluted air. The green oval of the racetrack grew large before him, and he coasted down toward home, toward Rory and a future he was now anxious to embrace.

As he made his final descent, the muggy haze of the city in summer enveloped him, and he loved it—even the factory smoke and automobile exhaust. It meant he was close. So close.

He glided low over the stables, banking slightly as he had a hundred times before.

The familiar three-tiered, green grandstand towered over the cheaper bleachers, and the enormous sun canopy loomed over the track in the evening light. Hank thought about the first time he’d come to a race here. It was the Belmont Stakes, and the world-famous racetrack was full to bursting. Over eighteen thousand spectators were there that day, according to the papers. He was seated so far up, he could hardly see the horses, but he didn’t care. The crowd’s enthusiasm swept him up, and he had a fine old time. And to think he was courting the owner’s daughter! Who would ever have dreamed?

A loud snap pulled him abruptly from his reverie.

Hank inhaled sharply. What the hell?