Thursday. It was almost halfway through the day, and tomorrow brought the end of the fair. Grant was running out of time. He rubbed the side of his head, where an ache had begun earlier, right after Sarah had said she was “too busy” to walk with him.
“If only my attempts at placating Sarah would go as smoothly as our balloon trips,” Grant groused to Lee, walking back to their stand. They’d stayed aloft, tethered by dual winches, long enough to satisfy all the customers, the skies blue and the wind even. Their hired assistants had experienced no problems with the extra ropes.
“Seems you’ve stepped in it real good, partner!” Lee’s laughter aggravated Grant.
Gritting his teeth, Grant ground out, “At least you get the joy of taking the DuBeaus up tonight. It’s your turn.”
“Ain’t that fine?” Lee whistled.
Grant sighed. “When we get back to the balloon, let’s make sure everything is perfect.”
“Any problems earlier?”
“No, but who knows what Stollen might try?”
“Ya think Heinrich really expected us to display our new engine and how it works on balloons?”
Men had died trying to accomplish exactly what he and Lee were aiming for. Today, for the first time, it had hit him what that meant for those who cared for him. He’d kept everyone at arm’s length since losing Jonetta.
“You know the ideas you had for better motors for our horseless carriage?” A breeze ruffled the autumn leaves, swirling them around the two men. “Perhaps we should focus more on those notions.”
Lee kicked his boot into the soil on the pathway, sending up a clump of dirt. “Yeah?”
Swallowing back guilt, Grant considered how every time Lee had an idea he’d wanted to pursue, he’d steered him back to the notion of a huge balloon powered by engine that could carry many people far distances. Was this an imitation of his father’s dream? Of an elaboration on Father’s foray into Virginia during the war? Was it to show him he could go farther, do it better than he had? That Grant would have stopped his mother from …
Something deep and dark welled up in him. He swiftly fled, weaving in and out of the crowds of people. His heavy burden lightened then lifted heavenward, like a balloon finally untethered.
The tension in the Home Arts Pavilion felt palpable to Sarah. Although the judges had listened to the Detroit quilters in private, rumors had quickly circulated as to what the consequences would be. The lead quilter, “Miss Mary” as Lee had called her, kept her head high as she and the other quilting-bee members strode from the building and their formal grievance meeting in silence.
Mrs. Burgi gave Sarah a gentle push. “Serve them now before they speak with that pretender.” The disgust in the sweet-natured registrar’s voice surprised Sarah.
After the AME Quilting Bee had been heard, another private meeting was to be held—this one with Miss DuBeau.
Sarah pushed her cart toward the pavilion’s center and the judges’ table. Earlier she’d decorated it with fall leaves, apples, and tiny pumpkins. Prior to the churchwomen’s arrival she set out cucumber sandwiches, pecan tarts, and miniature apple turnovers. Now she brought both tea and coffee service for the judges. Her hands shook as she set up afternoon tea for them.
Mr. Thomas, seated in the middle, presided over the group. He smiled at her when she poured his coffee. She continued serving each judge.
Mamie DuBeau, attired in a coral linen walking suit with a prominent bustle and French lace-edged blouse, moved alongside Sarah’s cart. Mr. DuBeau, looking more dapper than in newspaper photos, followed his daughter. He carried his top hat under his left arm and a black, silver-headed walking stick in the other.
Mamie tipped her nose in the air and avoided Sarah, but her father offered a gentle smile. The beautiful socialite nibbled her lower lip.
“Good day, esteemed judges.” Mr. DuBeau bowed toward the table. “I’m Cyrus DuBeau, here from Detroit.”
“We all know who you are, sir.” Mr. Thomas’s voice was gruff, despite the humble delivery by Mr. DuBeau. “State your business.”
Red crept across the man’s high cheekbones. Mamie’s face contorted, but then a mask of serenity replaced her livid expression. She stepped forward, clasping her hands. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Such as?”
“I was supposed to display the quilt I brought as a group submission from a local church. However …” She glanced down at her ivory kid, button-up boots. “I incorrectly completed the paperwork.”
“And submitted it as your own?”
She lifted her chin. “Nowhere on the form did it have a section for all the church members’ information.”
Mr. DuBeau touched his daughter’s shoulder. “I fear I haven’t trained my daughter how to complete paperwork. I’ve always done it for her. I take responsibility for that error in judgment.”
“So this quilt was to have been submitted on behalf of the church group?” Mr. Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Yes.”
Several of the judges simply stared at the DuBeaus.
“But it’s too late to be reentered for judging.”
Mamie’s shoulders edged up toward her ears, like a chastened child.
Mr. DuBeau tapped his cane. “I’d hoped to display the quilt at my flagship store in Detroit, as the winner of the blue ribbon.”
“A pity the churchwomen will suffer from your daughter’s mistakes.” Mr. Thomas fixed his eyes on Mamie, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Mamie shall make amends to them, I assure you.”
“We’re afraid we’ve also voted Miss DuBeau may not submit in any state fair category for two years.”
Mr. DuBeau stiffened. “She’ll be a married lady by then and too busy keeping household.”
Mamie raised her chin and glared past her father at Sarah, who only then realized she’d simply stood there like a ninny, listening in.
The socialite’s eyes narrowed. “I’m no longer engaged, Father. I fear Mr. Stollen’s fascination with those silly, boring balloons has come between us. I’ll not sit by for years while he works on an engine for them to become more than they were meant to be—a simple diversion. And I have no plans to begin quilting, either.”
Mr. DuBeau’s mustache twitched. “There you have it, esteemed judges. You shan’t be troubled by my blunders or my daughter’s in the future.”
A smirk settled on Mamie’s face.
Sarah hastily placed the last creamer at the end of the table and pushed the cart toward the alcove. Mamie and her father passed nearby, her father’s scolding words too low for her to hear at first, but then his voice raised a touch. “If all you want is excitement and a handsome face, you’ll only find sorrow. A marriage is based on sacrifice by both parties and mutual love and respect. You’ll never find that if you keep putting yourself first.”
After steering the cart into the quiet alcove, Sarah removed her apron. Had it only been yesterday that Grant had almost kissed her? Even though it was she who sent him away that day, his absence today rippled through her like physical pain. Would the sadness of losing him outweigh the anguish she’d experience if he died in a balloon crash?
“Trust Me,” a still, quiet voice nudged her.
I want to trust You, Jesus. I want to rely on You, but right now I can’t seem to get past myself. Like Mamie. Tears filled her eyes.
“Lean into Me.”
The sun began to dip in the autumn sky. Father and Mr. Thomas drew in closer as Grant commandeered the first winch, and his strongest assistant managed the second. Hired helpers clutched the additional safety ropes. They’d worked hard all week long. Might as well give the assistants a bonus, because Lee and Grant would, by no means, raise enough money to keep their engineering shop in Detroit going. Tethered.
Lee assisted Mamie into the basket. Her father drew in beside her. And Stollen, a sulky look on his face, stepped in, too. Soon, ballast was emptied, and Grant and his helper loosened the winch, as the balloon ascended into the air.
From the periphery of his vision, Grant sensed someone watching him. He continued to focus on the DuBeau contingent, not wanting to be distracted. A gentle breeze stirred the fragrance of autumn leaves and apples—and a distinctly feminine scent he associated with Sarah: lilacs and roses. He daren’t look around, though. They allowed the balloon to move higher into the cerulean skies. He looked up to see Mamie clutching not Stollen’s arm, but her father’s. Even from this distance, she appeared pale. Grant made a slashing motion at his throat and the other wincher also stopped.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, “Are you all right?”
Mr. DuBeau gazed down with obvious affection at his only child. He patted her arm. Mamie nodded and DuBeau jerked his thumb upward.
Breathing slowly in relief, Grant and his helper continued to unwind the tether rope. Once they reached about a thousand feet, a cheer went up from the crowd. He resisted the urge to turn and count how many observed. But from the sounds of chatter in the background, the numbers were growing.
Footfalls hurried toward him. “Sir?”
Grant didn’t stir as the ticket boy came alongside him. “Yes?”
“We sold out all the tickets.”
“All?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant could feel the boy’s smile, even though he didn’t look. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the DuBeaus.
“Folks said if Mamie DuBeau and her pa could go up, so was they!”
He almost cringed at the child’s grammar but didn’t correct him. “I’ll honor our agreement.”
“Whoopee!”
All the ticket sellers were promised unlimited drinks and food from the Italian boy’s cart if they sold out.
If they sold out. That meant they’d made enough to hold on to their lease. If they did a real aeronautical show, with a parachute drop, maybe they could finance their new prototype.
A stiff wind blew leaves up from the ground. Between the excitement of their sales, the strong breeze, and the sensation that Sarah was nearby, Grant struggled to keep his focus on the tethers. Tomorrow promised to be a long day. How could he make things up to Sarah?