Page 15 of Landing Love

Handing around the cupcakes, he watched her eat hers before he ate his own. Then he polished his off in three quick bites. A little bit of frosting smeared his upper lip, and she watched avidly as he licked it off, feeling coiling warmth in places she’d ignored ever since she lost Roger.

“Junior and I should catch the train back to the city.” She needed to escape his presence and compose herself.

“Let me give you a ride to the station.” He bounced to his feet like an eager puppy.

She thought for a moment about objecting but decided against it. He would only find a way to circumvent her objections. “Thank you, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

He drove her to the station and waved goodbye. As she sat on the train on the way back to the city, she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps she was in over her head.

6

“So I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with that war widow you met at the Belmont party,” said Pritchard, toweling his blond hair dry in the locker room after a shower. “Is she as luscious as she looked?”

Normally, this was Bill’s cue to rhapsodize at length about her body and drop lewd suggestions about what they might have been up to, but with Ann, he couldn’t do it. “She’s a beautiful woman, but I’ll have you know I’ve been nothing but respectful. And I’ll thank you not to make comments about her.”

Pritchard burst out laughing. “Who are you, and what did you do with Bill O’Donnell?”

“Very funny, Pritchard. Mrs. Prince is special. I need to woo her slowly and carefully. She’s still grieving, for heaven’s sake.” Bill suited up in leather despite the summer heat. The bulky suit smelled of sweat and engine oil, and he wished he could leave it behind. But he knew all too well that he couldn’t. At altitude the temperatures dropped below freezing, so he would just have to button up and suffer through it.

“Oh, I see,” said Pritchard lightly. “Has someone finally captured the errant heart and wandering eye of Bill O’Donnell?”

She might have, he couldn’t help thinking. But it was far too soon to give voice to his thoughts, especially to his pilot friends. He’d be mocked mercilessly if he got maudlin during one of their usual bull sessions. But still, he had to say something. “I wouldn’t go that far. I just happen to like the woman, and she deserves some respect.”

Pritchard shrugged. “I wish you luck. Sounds like you’re going to need it if you’re ever going to get anywhere with her.”

Bill clenched his fists to hold back a sharp retort. “It isn’t about getting anywhere. She needs a friend, and I want to do right by her.”

Pritchard chuckled and shook his head. “If you say so. I’m heading out.” He fastened the last of his shirt buttons. “Try not to run out of gas before Philly. It’s windy out there today.”

Thank God he changed the subject.

“So I’ve heard.” Bill donned his leather cap and flying goggles, sweat dripping down his neck. His shirt was already damp beneath his suit.

“Death or glory, you crazy flying bastard.” Pritchard gave Bill a mocking salute.

“Death or glory, you rambunctious buzzard.”

Together, they sauntered out to the hangar where their airplanes awaited.

Bill said a silent prayer as he started his checks of the finicky flying machine he used every day. The biplane looked almost like a marionette with its delicate wooden wings held together with wires. While he had suggested to Ann that flying the mail was safe as houses, the truth was quite the opposite. Unlike his comrades in the war, he was expected to fly regardless of weather. Worse yet, the routes connecting New York, Philadelphia, and Washington DC pushed the maximum range of the Army surplus Curtiss Jennies they flew, which were far from reliable. They were built for training new pilots, not hauling cargo over long distances.

Examining the delicate wings, he tried not to think about how many emergency landings he’d been forced to make in his brief career flying the mail. He fell short of his destination almost as often as he reached it. The fuel tank barely held enough gasoline for the distances they had to travel on the best of days. And far too often, he ran out and was forced to land without engines. There was a reason people called the Air Mail operation “Uncle Sam’s Suicide Club.”

This morning’s flight plan had him flying into strong headwinds and facing turbulence as he flew to Philadelphia. That significantly increased the chances that he would run out of fuel. If he wanted any hope of reaching his destination, he needed to hold his course as tightly as possible and avoid any deviation. He would just have to pray that the wings would hold in the choppy skies.

But he loved flying. Even with all the dangers, he couldn’t resist the sensation of soaring through the clouds like a bird. As far as he was concerned, he had the best job anyone could ever have. While most people toiled away at factories or behind desks, he got to glide through the heavens and get paid for it. No, sir. He would not change his job for anything.

Climbing up into the cockpit, he signaled to the mechanic to start the propeller. The mechanic called out, “Contact,” as he gave it a whirl. Bill turned the ignition, and the engine sputtered to life. The mechanic backed away quickly before Bill opened the throttle and prepared for takeoff.

Joy buoyed him up as the air lifted his wings off the ground, and he pulled up on the stick. The first jolts of wind shook the frame of the Jenny. He glanced at the whiskey bottle affixed to the dash panel to gauge his rate of ascent. It made sense that they chose alcohol, given the lower freezing point, but he always thought there was another reason. It offered the promise of liquid courage when all else failed—a comfort of last resort as they faced down death.

The oilcloth covering the mail sacks in the front cockpit flapped in the wind. When was the Postal Service going to buy airplanes designed for carrying cargo? It was ridiculous that they were still flying secondhand training Jennies from the war.

Not that he didn’t love his Jenny. He nudged the stick forward, and the engine roared beneath him. The wind whipped his face as he accelerated. He was going seventy-five miles an hour. Could he push it further?

Up and up, he flew, seeking to get above the turbulence. The temperature and humidity dropped, giving him some relief in the suit, but the sun was relentless. He was grateful that nearly every inch of him was covered or else his pale Irish skin would burn to a crisp. Nonetheless, he was sweating through his clothes, even as his hands chilled on the stick.

I wonder what Ann is doing right now. Now where did that thought come from? He should have been concentrating on his flying, but instead, visions of Ann eating strawberry cake crowded out every other thought. The way her lips curved around the fork, the sensual smile as she swallowed, the little noise she made that she thought he couldn’t hear…