“As long as our planes flew overhead, the skies of America were free and that’s what all of us everywhere are fighting for. And that we, in a very small way, are being allowed to help keep that sky free is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.”
—Cornelia Fort, 1943
April 1935—Inter City, Boston
“Write to him,” Bob told Nancy.
“But his mother is Eleanor Roosevelt, and you know, his father, the president of the United States.”
Bob’s smile appeared as he sat behind his small office desk, leaning back in his chair. “And . . . ?”
“And . . . I can’t write to J.R. Roosevelt just because Mr. Vidal told me to. I don’t know the Roosevelts.”
“It’s called networking, sweetie.”
Nancy huffed out a breath. “I know that, Mr. Love. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Bob shot up from his chair and stalked around the desk. She knew that teasing glint in his eyes, and she moved around the desk the opposite way.
“I don’t want to be a beggar,” she protested.
“That didn’t stop you from buttering up Eugene Vidal at the Boston Aero Club dinner last December. As the director of the Bureau of Air Commerce, if Mr. Vidal takes your conversation seriously, then you should too.”
Nancy bit her lip. That night at the Hotel Lennox had been surreal. She’d been included in a photo with Mr. Vidal, and aviator Mrs. Teddy Kenyon, which had appeared in the Boston Herald the next day. In 1933, Mrs. Kenyon had won the National Sportsman Flying Championship at Roosevelt Field, New York, besting twenty-eight men and eleven women. Nancy had also dared to tell Mr. Vidal of her desire to work at a government aviation job. It wasn’t that she wanted to leave Inter City. It was far from that. She’d spent her time over the past several months demonstrating and selling airplanes and being the all-around girl Friday. But airplane sales were slow.
She took another step around the desk. The most recent letter from Mr. Vidal had informed her that he’d spoken with Amelia Earhart and her husband, G.P. Putnam, about Nancy working with them on a project. Imagine! In January, Earhart had set a record by becoming the first pilot ever to fly solo from Hawaii to the mainland.
Earhart had also announced other plans to fly solo from Burbank to Mexico City, which would set another record. To be involved with anything Earhart had her hands in was breathtaking to think about. Vidal had also mentioned that Earhart was thinking about accepting a position at Purdue University as an aviation adviser.
Nancy could get on board with any or all of that.
“Write to J.R. Roosevelt,” Bob said again, stepping nearer. “Make the connection. You never know what might come of it.”
She’d let her mind wander too much, and now he’d caught her around the waist. She set her hands on his chest. “What if they offer me a job outside of Boston and I have to leave Inter City?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “You might leave Inter City, but as long as it’s not leaving me, I’m supportive.”
She tilted her head. “That’s magnanimous of you. Should I be offended?”
He grinned. “From the moment you first stormed out of my office and slammed the door, I knew there was no holding you back from what you wanted.”
Nancy patted his chest, enjoying the solid warmth there. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Love.”
“So I’ve been told.” He kissed her then, as she’d suspected he might.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into him, telling herself to only indulge for a moment. She had a letter to write. It would be at least a week before she’d hear back, she knew, but when it turned into more than that, she was positively jumping out of her skin.
Fourteen long days passed before she received a reply from J.R. Roosevelt. “He wrote back,” Nancy said, bursting into Bob’s office.
He stood immediately, pushing back his chair. “What did he say?”
“Here, read it for yourself.”
Bob did, then looked up at her. “This is excellent. Sounds like J.R. will get the wheels turning and see what he can do.”
“Right, and here’s a letter from Vidal.” Nancy held out the next letter.
Bob perched on the edge of the desk as he read the longer letter aloud. “I had a wire from James Roosevelt—his father is very well known in Washington—about you wanting a job.” Bob smirked. “Stating the obvious, I see.”
She moved to sit next to him at the edge of the desk, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind her doing so.
Bob continued reading. “There’s nothing for you to do but wait until P.W.A. funds are allotted to us for some interesting projects. For instance, we have an Airmarking Program with which we might send out a few girls in Hammond planes, touring the country.” Bob’s brows wagged. “That might be interesting. Airmarking?”
“Keep reading. It gets better.”
Bob finished reading, silently this time. “So, Phoebe Omlie and Amelia Earhart are at the helm of this.”
“They’re the ones trying to get John Wynne on board.” Phoebe Omlie was a veteran aviator—the first woman in the United States to earn her transport license. She also had an airplane engine mechanical accreditation. And John Wynne was the chief of the Airport Marking and Mapping Section of the Bureau of Air Commerce. “I could do it,” Nancy continued. “Traveling to various towns and getting them to approve the program.”
“What exactly would you be getting them to approve?”
“The government wants to make towns identifiable from the air. By painting the name of the town on the top of a barn roof or other building, small plane pilots would be able to identify where they are by reading the air markers below. If prominent buildings aren’t available, towns will construct ground markers out of rocks and paint them white, some with arrow formations pointing to the airports.”
“That would be a huge endeavor.”
Nancy only smiled. Since most small planes didn’t have navigational instruments, air markers would be useful. How hard would it be to convince others? “I could fly from town to town and meet with the government officials.”
“Alone?”
She elbowed him. “Don’t tell me you’d miss me.”
He set his hand over hers, his calluses familiar. “Of course I’d miss you.”
“I’ll make every minute away useful. I don’t think it will be too hard to convince mayors and town councils.”
He squeezed her hand and nodded. “Right. This program will create jobs to paint the markers, plus this will help private pilots and, really, all airways.”
Nancy slipped off the desk, turned toward him, then looped her arms about his neck. “Does this mean you approve, Mr. Love?” she asked.
“You don’t need my approval, Miss Harkness.”
She kissed him. Breaking her own rule of not kissing him at work, but this was an exception. When she drew away, she said, “I have letters to write.”
“Good.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “When you’re finished, come out and meet with Mr. Rogerson. He wants a Beechcraft demonstration. He should be here in about an hour.”
After Bob left the office, she settled into the chair and wrote a return letter to J.R. Roosevelt as a thank-you. She wrote a more lengthy letter to Mr. Vidal, in which she also requested the address of Phoebe Omlie. Nancy planned to take the chance and write the woman. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Over the next few days, Nancy felt like she was stepping on pins and needles as she waited for Mr. Vidal’s reply. Bob convinced her to take a half day off, and they went for a drive to appreciate the spring flowers, then to dinner at a place she’d never be able to pay for on her own.
“You need to stop spoiling me,” she told him as they sat together at the Boston restaurant in the North End that was filled with fine Italian restaurants. “I’m pretty sure this one meal will cost more than my commission on last week’s sale.”
“We’re celebrating your success,” he replied smoothly, setting the linen napkin on his lap.
“Sales are down,” she said. “I don’t need to see your ledger to know that.”
Bob picked up the glass of wine the waiter had poured. “Forget all that for now. We’re celebrating the progress of the Airmarking Program.”
They’d both read about it in the papers. It had been approved, and any day now, any moment, Nancy hoped to receive a letter to invite her to be one of the pilots. The program that Phoebe Omlie had constructed had recommended the use of female pilots, specifically. With Earhart off setting world records, Omlie had recruited Louise Thaden to help with the push.
“Okay, we can celebrate, then,” she said.
“And you’ll not comment on the menu prices?”
Nancy smiled. “I’ll try to hold back.”
Bob moved his glass toward hers, and she tapped it with her own. He winked, then sipped. Nancy did as well, feeling lucky that the man across from her didn’t seem fazed with her ambitions. They’d known each other a year now, and although their relationship continued to progress, he hadn’t pressured her into marriage. Oh, he’d brought it up once in a while, but only to say he was content to wait for her.
She loved that about him. And yes, she did love him. It had taken a while for her to realize it. They hadn’t spoken the words to each other, although more than once, Nancy had thought he’d been about to tell her. He’d get that intense look in his eyes, as if he were trying to read her thoughts, but then the conversation would shift.
Once dinner was finished, Nancy was anxious to get back to her living quarters—if only to check her mail, which she did every day in case Mr. Vidal wrote back. Or even Phoebe Omlie.
So, when Bob pulled up in front of her place, she said, “Come check the mail with me. The suspense is making me regret that expensive Italian food.”
He didn’t laugh or complain—probably because he was used to her quirks.
When she stepped into the hallway leading to her rented room, she paused at the row of postal boxes. Unlocking hers, she pulled out two letters. She held them to her chest before looking at them.
“What are you doing?” Bob asked, amused.
“Wishing.”
“They’re already written and in your hand. Just read them.”
Nancy puffed out a breath. “All right.” She turned over the letters. One was from Mr. Vidal. The other was from Ms. Omlie. “My golly. I can’t believe it. Which do I open first?”
“Now you can’t decide?”
Looking between the two, she finally made a choice. Hands shaking, she carefully opened Mr. Vidal’s letter first. She scanned the words, and her eyes filled with tears.
“The Bureau of Commerce has invited me to join the Airmarking Program,” she whispered. “The WPA funds have been approved through the New Deal Program. And with the approval, they’re hiring two more pilots. Me and a woman named Helen MacCloskey.” She blinked rapidly and looked up at Bob.
He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Congratulations, Miss Harkness.”
She laughed shakily and wiped at her cheeks. “Mr. Vidal really came through. That’s the only reason I got the job.”
Bob chuckled, his chest vibrating against hers. “That’s far from the only reason. They needed a talented pilot, and you happened to be standing in their path.”
Nancy held on for a few moments. She would miss him when she was gone, whether it was for weeks or months, she wasn’t quite sure. She had another letter to read.
Again, nerves zinged through her as she opened Phoebe Omlie’s letter. Bob leaned close and read with her, and Nancy couldn’t help but grin at the contents. “We’ll have a plane assigned to us. Imagine! And we’re getting paid twice a month.” She looked up at Bob. “No commissions for me.”
He smiled. “That’s a cushy government job for you.”
Nancy only smirked. She finished reading the letter, folded it, then tucked both letters into her handbag. “Will you miss me?” she asked Bob, meeting his blue eyes.
“You know I will.” His voice was low, soft in the empty hallway.
“How much?” she teased, although her heart had begun a slow pound. She’d come to rely on this man for many things, and she was rarely apart from him—only when she was in the sky or sleeping.
Bob’s hand slid around her. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want you to change your mind because of it.”
Setting her hands on his shoulders, she lifted up on her toes and kissed him. Drawing away a half inch, she whispered, “I won’t change my mind. You can tell me your secrets.”
“Which secrets are you talking about?”
“Well, if they’re secrets, then how would I know?”
Bob laughed. “I think you’re a vixen. Should we call you the flying vixen?”
“I like sweetie better. Coming from you, of course.”
“Of course. And it should be only from me.”
“It should?”
His gaze took on that intensity again. “You know I’m waiting for you.”
“So you’ve said.”
His brows shifted together. “Why else would I be following you around like a puppy?”
Nancy snorted. “You’re the farthest thing from a cuddly puppy, Mr. Love. But you do bark.”
“I’m not perfect.”
She smiled. “No, you’re not.”
“But perfect enough?”
She moved her hands behind his neck, grateful they were still alone in the hallway. “I can overlook your flaws, and I expect you to overlook mine.”
“Done.” He smiled before he leaned down to kiss her, but she drew away.
“Wait. I have flaws?” she asked. “What are they?”
He paused, his eyes alight. “I can’t remember right now.”
“Oh, that’s a good save, sir.”
“One of my strengths.” He did kiss her then, and she allowed herself to relish the moment. “I’m proud of you, Nancy,” he whispered when they drew apart to breathe. “You’ve gone after what you wanted, and now you’ll be part of a landmark program.”
“Thanks for telling me to write J.R. Roosevelt.” She smoothed a hand over Bob’s shoulder. “And for not telling me it was a fool’s errand. I’m grateful for your support—even though you’re going to lose an employee.”
“I’ll always support you, sweetie.” Bob moved his fingers along her jawline and slipped them behind her neck.
“I think I love you,” Nancy whispered. “Well, maybe I know I do.”
Bob’s gaze searched hers, his eyes turning a blue-gray in the dimness. “I definitely love you, Miss Harkness, and I hope that someday you’ll agree to add my name to yours.”
She moved fully into his arms, holding him close and pressing her face against his neck as his hand moved slowly down her back.
“I’m only twenty-one,” she murmured after a moment.
“And next year, you’ll be twenty-two, then twenty-three the year after—”
“I know my age.”
“Me, too, so why do you keep pointing it out?” His voice rumbled through her.
She lifted her head. “Maybe so you don’t get too many ideas in your head?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Too late for that.”