The day after Thanksgiving, Mittie and Ames flew to St. Louis. The two-day race—five hundred miles round trip—would take them to Kansas City on day one, where the competitors would spend the night and then fly back to St. Louis the following day. When Weaver had mentioned the competition to the Aero Club, Victor Booth offered his plane, a silver and white Swallow. Mittie’s early practice in it had been both exhilarating and humbling as she knew Victor was as proud of it as he was of his Silver Ghost. Although her skin tingled with excitement, Mittie reminded herself that this was just a trial, a way to dip her toes in the world of competition. It would help her gain experience using map navigation and test her endurance abilities under pressure.
They arrived at Lambert Field midafternoon and were directed to the hangar housing the air rally headquarters—a table where a gentleman with a cigar checked her in, told her she was number six.
The man yelled across the dusty hangar. “That’s the last of the ladies.” He nodded at Ames. “Next.” Recognition spread across his wide face. “I remember you from the day you picked up an entry form. Which category did you enter?”
“I’m not entered. I’m with Miss Humphreys.”
“So you’ll be flying with her. Excellent idea to have a man on board in case the little woman gets into trouble along the way.”
Mittie stepped forward. “He won’t be in the plane with me for the race. That wouldn’t seem quite kosher for it being the women’s category.”
The man blew out a puff of smoke. “I see. You’re one of those, are you?”
“One of what?”
“Pretty gal that fancies herself capable.”
“No offense, sir, but I am capable. You’ll see.”
He laughed. “I reckon you are. As long as you have some mechanical skills and are familiar with the route, you should be okay. Guess this isn’t your first rally.”
“Actually, it is, but Lord willing, it won’t be my last.”
“Good luck. If you’re not taking a mechanic on board, should I alert Kansas City to be on standby in case you need anything?”
“Thanks, but no. My flight instructor, Bobby York, will meet me there.”
Ames had originally told her he’d have Lester meet her in Kansas City at the end of the first day of competition, but Bobby had volunteered the same afternoon. He said he’d been wanting to see a bit more of the country and would make a week of it, taking his Morris Oxford that his father shipped from England to try out the American highways. It was a spiffy little automobile, a brilliant blue a few shades darker than Bobby’s eyes. And it fit him. Sporty and solid.
It was a kind offer, and she’d readily accepted. Even Ames agreed—he didn’t want her stranded without help if she needed it.
The man at the table made a note of Bobby’s name and called for “next” again.
Pilots and mechanics greeted one another like they were at a fraternity party. Contentment rode along Mittie’s bones as she breathed in the scent of engine grease and hangar dust and cigar smoke.
Above the chatter, a female voice rang out. “Ames Dewberry. As I live and breathe, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
A willowy woman in a slim skirt and chiffon blouse that ruffled at the neck swept across the floor and threw her arms around Ames’ neck.
“Peach.” A husky whisper escaped from Ames’ throat as he returned her embrace, and with one arm still around her narrow shoulders, he said, “What’s so unexpected? The last time I checked, this was an airfield, and I am a pilot of some note.”
“You’ve got that right, Ames darlin’.”
Ames turned to Mittie. “This is Calista Gilson, better known as Peach on the stunt circuit.” In a grand gesture, he presented Mittie as “the new girl in town who’s going to turn the aviation world on its end.”
“Hey, that’s my line.” Calista offered her hand to Mittie. “Ames knows I’m kidding, at least halfway. I’m tickled pink to meet you.” She was tall, like Mittie, but fine boned with high cheekbones accented by bobbed hair the color of sunlit honey.
Mittie shook her hand. “Likewise.”
Calista had an air of femininity about her that made Mittie, still in her flight clothes, look like a galumphing twit. “Are you here with someone in the competition?”
“Oh, no, I’m flying in the competition. Just here by my lonesome. My mechanic couldn’t make it, so one of the boys back there said he’d check Peaches over for me and swing the prop for me tomorrow.”
“Peaches?”
“My little Curtiss. The one I’m flying in the race.”
Mittie did a double take. “I guess I didn’t understand that part. So that’s where your nickname comes from—your plane.”
“No, flip it the other way. Fellas call me Peach, so my wings are my namesake.”
“Your skirt…is that what you fly in?”
Calista laughed. “It’s a little trick I learned from one of the other gals on the circuit. I did a quick change in the cockpit before I hopped out. Girlish charm and all that.” She had that by the bushel.
“You look like you stepped from the page of a magazine, not out of an airplane, and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways.” Mittie looked from Calista to Ames. “So how do you two know each other?”
Ames rocked back on his heels. “Peach was flying with a group in Kansas when the Patriots were there. Picture, if you will, an angel in a flowing white dress balancing on the wing of an airplane.”
It wasn’t difficult at all to imagine. Calista was winsome and ethereal, her cheeks rosy beneath gray eyes as pale as water. “I can see that. You’re a wing walker, then. I thought maybe you two knew each other from Iowa.”
Calista nudged Ames. “I didn’t know you were from Iowa. I thought you said Louisville.” She had a way of drawing out the syllables like someone from the Deep South. Definitely not Iowa. When the corners of her mouth tilted up, her face glowed.
Ames stepped back and held up both hands, palms out. “I don’t recall you ever asking.” To Mittie he said, “We need to get going while there’s still daylight and do that engine check.”
“Good to meet you, Calista. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Lord willing. Y’all take care now.” She backed up and gave a little wave, then turned and slipped through the crowd. If her moves in the sky were as smooth as her hip movements, Mittie was in for a stiff competition.
The day of the rally dawned with overcast skies that were expected to clear by midmorning. Victor Booth and Weaver had driven over the day before, both to cheer Mittie on and meet with the aeronautic club members in Kansas City to discuss new ideas in aviation—hobnobbing, her daddy would call it.
As the clouds thinned and the skies opened up, the planes with the women pilots were instructed to line up. Ames did a final engine check and told Mittie he’d hang around the airfield until the reports of the first day came in.
Weaver said, “Stick with the roads if you can, although that might be tricky if you’re over a forested area. Remember the Missouri River will be to your south all the way to Columbia but to your north after that.”
Victor agreed and told her to keep her altitude high enough to avoid brushing the tops of the trees. “Two hundred feet would be best, but whatever feels right for the air current.”
Ames joined them just as the announcer told the contestants to board their planes. He pulled Mittie into his arms and kissed her softly. “That’s to remember me by until tomorrow.”
“As if I could forget.” She took a deep breath and wiped damp palms on her wool jodhpurs that would keep her warm in the nippy air. She pulled on leather gloves and hopped on the wing, then slid into the cockpit. Chin strap snapped, she slid the goggles resting atop her head into place. Although the preflight check had already been done when she’d pulled the plane into the sixth position—her number in the race—she checked the gauges again and put her hands on the wheel.
Calista Gilson was in fifth position, and when Mittie looked her way, she gave a friendly wave. Her pale orange Curtiss had “Peaches” in a broad script on the side, a bi-wing that oozed the same charm as its owner. Adrenaline pulsed in Mittie’s neck and temples as Calista moved forward at the signal and taxied toward the open field. When the flagman waved at Mittie, she followed, everything she’d learned up until this point doing laps inside her head.
And then the sky was hers. She climbed higher and higher, her hours of training taking over. A short five months ago, this had been only a dream, and now she soared, banking to the left and finding the ribbon of highway that snaked across Missouri, taking her toward Columbia, the halfway mark, on wings of silver.
Her eyes burned even with goggles, the rush of air cold on her cheeks, but she’d never felt more glorious. She kept one eye on the compass and altimeter, the other on the landscape below. Feet on the rudder, hands on the wheel, she tended Victor’s Swallow with the same precision as she did when training Gypsy. The wind whistled by, catching her at times in its currents, giving her heart a momentary start until she leveled out and checked her position. Below her, the highway was the hand that guided her. Obscured from view for minutes at a time, the road wound through hilly terrain, then straightened and beckoned her to follow. An hour, then almost two, and she passed a small lake that blinded her with its reflection of the sun and mounds created by Indians centuries before. The splendor of creation and the work of man converged in wonderment beneath her. Mittie sent a prayer of gratitude heavenward and moments later saw the sprawl of Columbia on a plateau above the Ozarks. She corrected her direction and circled to the north and the plains where the airfield waited.
An official of the race met her at the end of the runway, stopwatch in hand.
She jumped from the wing, eager to know how she’d done and to stretch her legs while the ground crew added fuel. When the timekeeper didn’t offer the information, she asked if the others had touched down yet.
“You’re the fourth one to check in. Any trouble?”
“None at all.”
“Good luck, then.”
She slipped back into the cockpit, took a swig of water from a canteen, and prepared for the next 125 miles. Ten minutes later, she crossed the Missouri River and made a decision to follow it rather than the highway. It took her a bit off course to the north, but she could fly at a higher altitude and go faster.
Fourth place. It wasn’t bad. Maybe she could advance her position before Kansas City. Mittie opened the throttle and stayed the course. When she arrived at Kansas City’s Sweeney Airport, the first person she saw after the official was Calista. She stood, flight helmet in hand, the hem of her skirt riffling in the breeze with a man on either side. One looked an awful lot like Bobby. Mittie wasn’t sure why, but irritation bubbled up.
Mittie taxied to the area where the official pointed, cut the engine, and crawled out. Bobby stepped away from Calista and came to greet her, his smile wide, arms open.
“I made it.” Her muscles trembled when she hugged him back.
“Never doubted you for a minute. Three of you so far. And record times, from what I hear.”
“Get out. How did you find out?”
“One of the contestants sweet-talked the timekeeper.”
“Girl with a Southern accent?”
“Could be. All you Yankees talk funny to me, but if you’re talking about the comely blonde over there, then yes.”
“So you’ve met Calista.”
“We weren’t formally introduced. One of the chaps called her Peach.”
“That’s the one. Sweet girl, and from the looks of it, quite a competitor.”
“As are you. How was the flight?”
Mittie closed her eyes, the feel of the wind still on her cheeks. “More than I ever imagined. You know, there was this moment when it felt as if I were suspended in time, that the only things around me were the heavens and the breath of God. I was almost sorry when the airfield came into view.”
Bobby wiped a strand of hair away from her cheek. “It’s what I call divine affirmation—that feeling that comes from the soul.” His eyes, when they peered into hers, were as deep as the ocean—mysterious, as if more dwelt beneath the surface of Bobby York than he was willing to share.
The roar of an approaching plane broke the trance. Another entrant had made it.
Dinner for all of the contenders and their teams was in the hotel dining room that evening. After changing in her room, Mittie went to the lobby to wait for Bobby. Calista waved her over to join her and two of the other girls from the race and made introductions all around. Her enthusiasm was contagious with a constant string of darlin’ this and bless your heart that peppering her conversation. When the other girls drifted off to meet their companions, she asked Mittie about the handsome devil that had driven her from the airfield.
“You mean Bobby? He’s my flight instructor.”
“Lucky you. A fella in every port.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m just fortunate that Bobby wanted to see more of the country. He’s not been in the States that long, so it worked out for him to drive over and meet me here.”
“He’s British, isn’t he?” When Mittie nodded, she said, “He seems more your type than Ames.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had a type. I’ve barely even met you, and you’re sizing me up?”
“Trust me—I know these things.”
“And how, pray tell, have you come to this conclusion?”
“I’ve been around, seen things. That flight jacket you had on cost more than Ames makes in an entire weekend.”
What nerve. She wanted to ask what, if anything, she’d seen about Bobby while she’d been around, but Bobby sauntered up at just that moment.
After the introductions, Calista gave him a coy look and said it was a joy to meet him. “And please, my friends call me Peach.”
“Peach it is. May I escort you lovely ladies into the dining room?”
He held out the chair for Calista and the one next to it for Mittie, then sat on Mittie’s right. The atmosphere was lively with much talk about the day’s race as plates of roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans were set in front of them.
And it seemed that Calista—Mittie refused to think of her as Peach—knew everyone. “See that fella over there?” She pointed to one of the men in the race. “He’s got a rose tattoo on his bicep for the gal he met in England during the war. And Barb—she’s the one that finished first today and is sitting with her daddy—she works as a fashion model in Dallas. I call her Venus—you know, the Roman goddess of beauty. Fits her, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. She is cute as can be, but how do you know all this about people?” A fleeting thought about what Calista might say about her zipped through her head.
Calista’s pale eyes grew round, innocent. “Just curious, I guess.” She leaned in and looked at Bobby. “Like I’m curious about that sweet little roadster I saw you driving. Any chance you’d give me a ride sometime?”
Bobby swallowed what he was chewing and said, “I suppose, but time is rather short with needing to be at the airfield in the morning.”
“The night is young.”
“Did you have a particular destination in mind? Someplace you needed to go?”
“Not right offhand. Of course, I don’t want to infringe on Kentucky here’s territory if you’ve already made plans.”
A flicker of irritation nipped at Mittie. “Kentucky? Do you give everyone pet names?”
“Sorry. It’s a terrible habit I’ve picked up trying to remember all the people I’ve met on the barnstorming circuit. Mama says I should mind my manners in a way that’s befitting the Georgia raisin’ she bestowed upon me. What would you like me to call you?”
Mittie smiled. “How about Mittie? So you’re from Georgia?”
“Yes, Mittie, I’m from Atlanta. Born and bred. My granddaddy rebuilt half of the city after those damn Yankees burned it to the ground.” She clapped her fingers to her lips. “I have to be careful when I’m in a big crowd like this that I don’t step on some damn Yankee’s toes.”
“It’s all right. Bobby calls everyone in the States Yankees.”
Calista pointed her fork at him. “I’ll be happy to set you straight on the difference between the North and the South when we go for that spin. How about when we finish eating?”
Bobby cocked his head at Mittie with a questioning look.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I want to call Mother and Daddy and take a steaming hot bath.” The sudden chill she’d developed wasn’t from the weather.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
They decided on the time to meet the following morning.
As she lay staring at the ceiling two hours later, Mittie’s thoughts swirled. She was in third place after the first day, but a remnant of disappointment ate at the fringes of her heart. Calista was in second place and had monopolized the conversation with Bobby—time that Mittie had hoped to spend telling him about her flight and discussing strategy for the return trip to St. Louis. As she drifted off, it came to her that perhaps Calista wasn’t the innocent she pretended to be. Perhaps the chatty blond banter and making eyes at Bobby was to distract Mittie and put her on edge. And as the evening’s events replayed in her head, Mittie pressed her palms against the sheets to keep her hands from curling into knots. Seeing Calista prance off with Bobby bothered her more than she was willing to admit.