Soaring Home

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She’d flown, had faced the worst that could be endured and had lived.

She swallowed as Jack tapped her on the shoulder.

“Sorry about that. Little problem with the engine. You all right?” He’d already taken off his helmet and goggles, and his sandy hair gleamed gold in the rising sun.

She nodded and pulled off her goggles and hood. The flight might be over, but her dream was not. It had only begun. This experience only confirmed that God had destined her to fly.

She climbed out the far side of the cockpit and pulled down her skirt. By the time she rounded the plane, half the town was streaming toward them.

“Thank you.” She threw her arms around Jack. “It was wonderful.”

“Stop that.” He extricated himself. “Remember, you never got into the plane. You had nothing to do with that flight.”

“I know, I know.” She shoved the motor hood into her pocket, but she couldn’t so easily wash away her disappointment. “I was just congratulating you on an excellent flight.”

Jack glanced from Burrows, who was climbing down from the wing, to the gathering crowd, clearly worried.

“Just a kink in the fuel line,” said Burrows. “I’ll check it over, fill her with gasoline and oil, and we can be on our way.”

“I’ll get the oil.” Jack sprinted to the barn.

Leaving? Right now? How could he fly off, after what had just happened? Jack Hunter held the key to her dream. He could teach her to fly. He couldn’t leave. She started after him.

“Miss Shea?” The wiry mechanic caught her arm. “A word of warning. Jack Hunter is not the marrying type.”

She pulled away. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“I just thought…” he let his voice trail off as Jack reappeared with an oilcan.

Burrows was wrong. Despite Jack’s admittedly attractive qualities, she had no intention of marrying. She had to fly first. Her interest in Jack Hunter was strictly professional.

She caught Jack’s arm. The leather was cold and dead, but the man beneath it was not. “Take me with you.”

He stared, a mixture of shock and wariness that sent her spirits tumbling.

“I’ll earn my way,” she said, words spinning out faster and faster. “I’ll work. I won’t be a financial burden. I have to fly. I will do anything to fly. Anything. Please?”

Jack looked disgusted, and for a second she saw herself through his eyes—a pathetic, pleading woman so consumed with her dream that she’d throw away propriety.

“Darcy?” Papa’s gruff voice shivered down her spine. He’d heard. He’d heard everything. She looked for Jack, but he was climbing into the cockpit. Burrows pulled the propeller. No! The cry wailed deep inside, but she dared not let it out, not when she stood face-to-face with judgment.

Excuse after excuse whirled through her mind in time with the propeller’s revolutions. The din spared her from answering her father immediately, but once the plane sped down the field and arced into the air, sun glinting gold off its wings, the reprieve ended.

“What was that about?” he asked.

She fought the horrible deflation. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She swallowed, but the pain would not diminish. “It’s over. All over.”

The aeroplane grew smaller and smaller until it vanished.

Chapter Four

All Darcy’s efforts had come to naught. Jack flew away, and she returned to dull, normal life. Papa must have sensed her despair, because he didn’t lecture. He waited until she spilled the whole story. When the tears subsided, he accepted her apology and requested she devote her free time to worthy causes like the Ladies’ Aid Society and the war effort. No social functions except Beattie’s picnic. Even that came to a dismal end, when pouring rain sent everyone scurrying.

The tedium turned days to weeks. Summer slid into autumn. Though her dream felt as dead as the maple leaves tumbling to the ground, Darcy caught herself looking for Jack around every corner. She gazed for hours into the empty sky. She devoured the newspaper, hoping for word of him. She checked the post every day. Nothing.

Occasionally she’d catch a whiff of a saddle or harness and snap around, looking for the familiar leather jacket. At night she prayed for his return and gazed at the million stars, wondering if he saw the same ones she did.

“I’m so tired of this town,” she complained to Beatrice as they painted signs for the November election. “I need to do something. I need to go somewhere.”

The grange hall bustled with activity, from women preparing voter lists to men setting up tables. Damp wool coats and hats steamed above the clanking radiator. The leaky roof dripped steadily into the tin bucket at the end of their table. The room smelled old and musty and worn.

“You just have the blues,” said Beattie, swathed in an old shirtwaist and apron. “A little sunshine will set you right again.”

“It’ll take more than sunshine.” Darcy dipped a brush in blue paint and laid a wavy streak on the V of the VOTE HERE sign.

“You’ll think of something. You always do.”

Darcy wasn’t so sure. In the past, she would have thrown all her energy into the election. Since this one would give women the state vote, she should be excited, but the old spark had died.

“Maybe I’ll run away,” she mused.

“Stop being a goof. You can’t run away. You have responsibilities. Think of your parents. And Amelia’s expecting.”

Though deep down Darcy knew Beattie was right, she still wished she could recapture the thrill of flying.

“Besides, where would you go?” said Beattie, carefully keeping her paint within the penciled lines.

To Jack’s airfield, of course, but she didn’t want to make it public knowledge yet. Mum stood across the room, talking to Prudy. No one else was near. She could risk telling Beattie. “New York. Long Island to be exact.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Where Jack lives?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Jack Hunter. I need to learn to fly, and New York is the only place I can do so while the war’s still on. Besides, that’s where Harriet Quimby learned. New York.” She savored each syllable.

“New York?” Felicity Kensington flounced near, her brunette hair adorned with diamond-studded combs. “I’m going there next week. If there’s anything I can get for the wedding, Beatrice, do let me know.”

“There’s nothing, thank you.” Beattie concentrated on the sign.

“Your dress is finished already? Usually Benton’s takes forever.”

Poor Beattie’s cheeks flamed. The Foxes could never afford a New York dressmaker, least of all Benton’s. Mrs. Fox, a skilled seamstress, was making the dress herself.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Felicity,” Darcy said. “If Beattie needs anything from New York, I’ll fetch it.”

Felicity’s lips pursed into a frown. “I was just trying to help.”

“Thank you.” Beattie smiled at her future sister-in-law, which was more than Darcy would do.

“Shouldn’t you be helping with the voter lists?” Darcy suggested.

Felicity sniffed. “My work is done.”

“Then you can help us paint.” Darcy stuck the wet paintbrush inches from Felicity’s serge suit.

Felicity jumped back. “Be careful. Do you know how much this suit cost? My mother would be furious if I showed up at the Ladies’ Aid Society meeting with my dress ruined.”

Darcy was tempted to flick paint at her.

Felicity looked down her nose. “You are attending, aren’t you? Mother said it’s mandatory.”

Darcy gritted her teeth. “If I’m done here.”

“Well, we shall somehow manage without you.” She flounced directly to Cora Williams, to whom she’d undoubtedly divulge Darcy’s itinerary.

“That ungrateful simp,” Darcy said.

“Now Darcy, don’t be unkind.”

“As if she wasn’t.”

“The Bible says we’re to turn the other cheek, remember?”

“I know, but some people make cheek-turning mighty difficult.”

Beatrice giggled, and Darcy was glad to hear her friend laugh. A wedding was supposed to be a joyful time, but lately Beattie had been terribly overwrought, and Darcy could guess the cause.

“So,” Beatrice said, a knowing look on her face. “You’re going to talk Jack Hunter into giving you lessons?”

Darcy completed the V with a quick swipe. “He’s an instructor, and I’m a pupil, nothing more.”

“Nothing more.” Beattie laughed. “Um-hm.”

“It’s true.” But her glowing cheeks betrayed her.

“I hope you succeed,” Beattie said more seriously. “Did your father give you the money?”

Darcy squirmed. “Not exactly, but I have an idea. I’ll talk Devlin into paying for the lessons in exchange for daily correspondence to the newspaper. That’s how Harriet Quimby paid for flight lessons.”

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

“It’s to his advantage, isn’t it? He’ll sell more papers.”

“Then why don’t you ask?” Beattie nodded toward the door where the newspaperman gathered his hat.

“Oh, uh,” Darcy stuttered. “Not here. Not now.” She hadn’t had time to think this plan through.

“Why not?”

“He looks busy.”

“Looks to me like he’s leaving. Hurry, and you can catch him.”

Though Darcy gave her friend a scathing look, Beattie was right. If she was going to learn to fly, she needed money. The only way to get money was to act. She scooted across the room, arriving just as Devlin grabbed the door handle.

“Mr. Devlin.” Darcy slipped between him and the door. “I wonder if I might have a minute of your time.”

“Not now, Shea. I’m on deadline.”

She pressed her weight against the door. “All I need is one minute.”

He glanced at his watch. “Sixty seconds.”

“I have a stupendous idea. Imagine this headline: ‘Local Woman Learns To Fly.’”

Devlin snorted. “No news there, Miss Shea, though I’ll consider an announcement in the ladies’ column when you pass your licensing exam.” He reached for the door.

“It’s not just about learning to fly,” she said, searching for something that would impress him. “I plan to go for a record.”

“Sure you do. Record for what? First woman over Baker’s barn?”

“First woman to cross the Atlantic,” she blurted out. Never mind she still needed to learn. Jack had mentioned something about a transatlantic attempt. She’d convince him to do it and take her along. “That’s where you come in. The Prognosticator can sponsor me.”

“Transatlantic?” Devlin nearly choked on his cigar. “You?”

“Yes me,” she said with growing confidence. Fulfilling a dream first required believing in it. “Of course, I need to take lessons.”

“Aha, we’re back to that. And I suppose you want me to pay for those lessons.”

“In exchange for stories. Every day.”

“No, Miss Shea.”

“The readers will love it, and when I make the transatlantic attempt, the Prognosticator will have an exclusive.”

“No, no, and no.” Devlin spat a flake of tobacco on the floor. “Your sixty seconds are up.”

“But I can do this. I can take lessons in New York—”