A Flying Affair (19 page)

The organ music started and the horses were announced. Gypsy was third to enter and received a hearty round of applause. Mittie never tired of watching the horses being put through their paces and mentally calculating—trying to outguess—what the judges would say. They made up their minds quickly. Gypsy won the class. And Ames had missed it.

When the stallion class entered, the woman in the hat giggled and grabbed her husband's hand. “Isn't this exciting, Henry?”

And it was. Toby sat tall in the seat of the cutback saddle guiding the sorrel stallion. The horse was magnificent and strutted like a peacock in mating season. He easily won his class, and his owners left to celebrate in the Owner's Club. Mittie's dad, though, thought they should watch the next event to see what Gypsy might be up against if she qualified for the championship.

The mares trotted out one by one, but it was the fifth horse that made Mittie gasp—April Showers. If the sorrel was a peacock, she was a haggard chicken. Mittie could scarcely believe it was the same horse that had won the World's Championship at the Kentucky State Fair. Her coat was dull, and her gait erratic. At first, it looked like it took all her effort to keep her head erect. Then she perked up, overcompensating, her movements energetic but jerky. The gentleman riding her had a strained look on his face as well, trying to coax April Showers but clearly failing.

Mittie was afraid to look at her daddy, but she knew he must have had the same sick feeling in his stomach as she did. Lamberson had lured Mr. Ford's horse away from them and then ruined her. Disgust blanketed Mittie.

A striking dapple mare won the class, and April Showers came in next to last, ahead of a horse that had skeletal ribs and a limp. It was a good evening for MG Farms, but when Ames slid into the seat next to her and asked what he'd missed, tears sprang to Mittie's eyes. She didn't know if they were for April Showers or because Ames had missed the show.

Mittie hovered around the stables the following morning, jittery over the possibility of seeing April Showers' owner and what words of consolation she could possibly offer. Ames, too, seemed on edge, not his usual carefree self. He'd finally talked to his sister and apologized for missing the performance the day before, but Mittie suspected he was also uncomfortable being thrust into the horse world. Gypsy's win the day before qualified her for the championship round, but it wasn't until later that evening, so Mittie asked Ames if he'd like to get away from the arena for a while.

Ames suggested going to see
The Patsy
, a movie someone had recommended to him. It was a comedy, and it felt good to laugh and hold hands with Ames in the theater. They took a long walk along the banks of the Mississippi River afterward and stopped in a coffee shop for a sandwich. It was nearly time for the championship show when they got back to the arena, just enough time to slip into their seats before the organ music and pageantry began.

The air was electric as the horses began their entry. The sorrel stallion won quite an ovation, and Mittie's heart swelled at the honor of having two horses from MG Farms in the championship. A win for either one would be a feather in her dad's cap. Three other horses entered and made their singular lap. Mittie tucked her hand into Ames' and asked if he was enjoying the show.

“I had no idea there was such pomp and circumstance.”

“Just wait for the one in Louisville. It's even better.” She turned her attention to the ring and watched for Gypsy. Her breath quickened, palms sweaty as she waited. And waited. Still, Gypsy didn't appear.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a hand for this year's championship judges.”

Mittie nudged her daddy and asked where Gypsy was. He shrugged.

The show steward approached the judging tables in the center of the ring and whispered something to the announcer. “Here you have it—a fine field of horses. Enjoy the show.”

Unease crawled from the pit of Mittie's stomach to her throat. She looked around for Rex and saw him hustling toward the exit. Her dad, too, was on his feet.

Mittie whispered to Ames, “Stay here. I'm going with Daddy.”

“What's going on?”

“That's what I intend to find out.”

She matched her dad's determined stride as they clipped down the steps and hurried toward the holding area, which swarmed with people. Mittie's dad elbowed his way through and nearly bumped into Rex, who said, “The steward says Gypsy didn't show. Let's go to the stall.”

Mittie turned and ran, panic rising in her chest.
Stay calm.
There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation Toby hadn't brought Gypsy to the ring. Guilt riddled her. She'd opted to be with Ames rather than come down for her usual preshow check with Toby. Mittie shoved through a knot of people blocking the path to the stall area, adrenaline pumping through her. The door to the stall was open, and inside she found Toby, bareheaded but dressed in his black tails, kneeling in front of Gypsy. He held a towel to her knee that was splotched with scarlet.

Mittie bit her knuckles and dropped beside him. “What happened?”

Toby looked up, his eyes wide. “She's been cut.”

“Nicked or something deeper?”

“Deep. She faltered…almost went down…I'm sorry.”

“Where did it happen? Here? On the way to the holding pens?”

Toby nodded, his eyes darting quickly from side to side. “I waited for you to come, like you always do, Miz Mittie. When the final call for the horses came, I had to hurry, but there was people and horses and carts and buggies coming and going after the harness show. Next thing I know, Gypsy knuckled and…and blood was dripping.”

“You should have called for help.”

“I shore enough did. Couple of fellas helped me bring her back. 'Tweren't more than a couple hunnert feet.”

Shouts bounced through the air. Her daddy yelling for the veterinary service. Rex telling people to get back. Bile rose in Mittie's throat. The air swirled with dust and sweat. A glistening string of drool from Gypsy's lips landed on Mittie's cheek. She rose, encircling Gypsy's neck, their cheeks touching. Through a veil of tears, she watched as her daddy took over. The show veterinarian shone a flashlight at the gaping flesh of Gypsy's knee and asked for water. As water mixed with blood, washing the area, the tangled fibers of tendon shone through. Mittie didn't need to hear his diagnosis. She knew. Gypsy's career was over. She would never compete in the ring again.

In the distance, frolicking trills of organ music played for the crowd, notes running up and down the scale, the
bum-bum-bum
of chords building to a feverish pitch. The champion would be announced soon, but Mittie's only thoughts were for her beloved Gypsy, and the weight of it felt as if her chest had been crushed.

Late Summer 1928

Nothing could be done to repair Gypsy's injury, the tendon fibers too frayed to hold sutures. The veterinarian cleaned and bandaged it and recommended further treatment when they got back to MG Farms. The vet shook his head. “What a shame. A horse like this damaged in her prime.”

Mittie's dad and Rex Kline surmised, along with the show officials, that it was probably a sharp object—a file or blade sticking out from an equipment trolley that the grooms were using to pack up and go home. They searched the area for the offending object but found nothing, and no one reported seeing it happen. It was merely an unfortunate accident.

Mittie recoiled when her daddy used the word. If only she'd gone to the stall as she always did, Toby wouldn't have been in a hurry. She might have even led Gypsy herself as she sometimes did. She'd failed Gypsy and her daddy.

The familiar shame shrouded her. If only she'd been more responsible, Dobbs Lamberson wouldn't be a cripple for life. If only.

Ames tried to console her, but his touch was like a hot coal. How could he know what it was like to have a living creature that you'd been with since she'd drawn her first breath now broken, her future forever ruined? And when he suggested that she ride back to Louisville in his roadster, she declined. She would be in the rail car with Gypsy. She owed her that bit of comfort.

Gypsy was seen by their veterinarian when they arrived back at MG Farms. He cleaned the wound and verified that the tendon fibers were too frayed to hold a suture. He carefully stitched the torn external flap of skin to hold everything in place and put on a heavy bandage that would protect the knee and give extra support.

“It's going to be a long process, and I don't want to get your hopes up, but with an extensor tendon injury, internal healing is possible. In rare instances, the fibers have been known to knit themselves back together. We can only wait and see at this point.” He gave Gypsy a tetanus injection and gave Mittie instructions for her care: rest in the stall with walking exercise four times a day to keep her limber and promote circulation to the wound. “Gypsy's lucky to have you. I know you'll take good care of the girl.”

“Gypsy can count on me.”

The next day a bouquet that covered half the dining room table arrived from the owners of the sorrel stallion. Their horse had won the championship. It was a small victory for what had been a terrible day.

Routine returned to MG Farms with preparations for the World's Championship show in Louisville coming in September, but unease stirred in Mittie's bones. Three, four, a dozen times a day she went to Gypsy, checked her dressing, brushed her coat, and led her up and down the promenade area of the barn for her exercise. But the fire was gone, Gypsy's eyes dull, the limp more pronounced.

One day as she combed the mats from Gypsy's mane and whispered sweet words of encouragement, she looked up and there was Ames, forearms propped on the Dutch door, watching her.

“Hey, how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that I've got an uphill climb before you pay that much attention to me.”

She walked over and offered him her cheek. “Try me.”

He pecked her on the cheek and said, “Carry on. It's mesmerizing to watch you.”

“I'm nearly finished. What brings you out?”

“It's been almost two weeks. You're never in the house when I call, and it's been so long since
Belle
has seen you that her bolts are starting to rust.”

“It's not been that long.”

“It has, doll.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't think I could leave Gypsy. And I've not stopped thinking about your sister and Lela. Are they all right?”

“Much better. Fern went back to work, and they are very appreciative of your help.”

“I'm glad.” Mittie gave Gypsy a pat on the hindquarters. “Can you stay for dinner tonight? Mother's gone on and on about how you entertained her and the owners' wives in St. Louis.”

“Good to know that at least some women still find me charming.”

Mittie wiped her hands on a towel and opened the stall door. “I know I've been preoccupied with Gypsy. Her old spunk is gone, withering more each day, it seems.”

“I'm sure it's just a matter of time. I believe what you need is a night out. Come away with me. Let's go somewhere, just the two of us.”

“Can you wait while I get dolled up?”

An hour later she found Ames with her dad, who waved her into his study. “Ames has just told me he got the final go-ahead from Fort Worth on his engine modification.” He clapped him on the back. “Proud of you, son.”

“That's wonderful news, Ames.”

“I was going to surprise you this evening, but I'm glad I got to tell your dad, too.” He offered his hand to her dad. “And once again, let me offer my condolences about Gypsy. I know it's got Mittie torn up, and I'm hoping that not all is lost.”

“Time will tell, but thank you for your sentiments. You kids staying around for dinner?”

“We're going into town, Daddy.”

“Have fun.”

It was a beautiful evening; they drove along the river and had a quiet dinner at the rooftop restaurant of the Brown Hotel. Stars above, the glow of Louisville below. Ames beside her only added to the warmth that nestled under Mittie's ribs.

Ames took the last bite of his Hot Brown and said, “I really would like it if you came back on the circuit with us. They've hired a couple of new mechanics out at Bowman, so it's getting harder and harder to pick up odd jobs when I'm not barnstorming.”

“It's very tempting, but I can't. Not now.”

“Because of Gypsy?”

“You saw her. She's not herself, and she keeps declining.”

“Aren't you a flat tire!”

“I'm only being realistic. If I left and something happened, I would never forgive myself.”

“What about you and me, doll? Your flying? Your big plans to set records? Madame Earhart's already flown the Atlantic, but she hasn't done it solo, and you won't either sitting in a barn stall.”

“I know that. And I'm not giving up. Sometimes life intervenes and you have to do the right thing.”

The warm breath of August that had enveloped them earlier was now stifling. She knew Ames was right, but she also had the feeling he was asking her to make a choice about him. For now, staying with Gypsy was the only choice she was willing to make.

 During dessert and coffee, Ames brooded, and when he took her home, their kisses were short, perfunctory. When she invited him in, he declined. “I need to round up my gear. We're all leaving tomorrow. I'm not sure when we'll be back.”

“Call me.”

“Sure thing.” His tone didn't give her much promise.

August turned into September. Ames sent a postcard from Virginia, another from Pennsylvania. He called once to tell her the first engine with his modification had come off the assembly line. A jazz song filtered across the telephone wires along with Calista's tinkling laugh. Longing for Ames and blue skies wrapped its fingers around her heart.

Ames said they'd be back at Bowman Field by late October. Mittie hoped that she could last that long.

The next day the vet paid his weekly call to check on Gypsy.

“The wound has healed, and I'm beginning to feel tension in the joint, which makes me think the tendon is also knitting back together. There's no physical reason for the melancholy you've noticed. Have you tried riding her?”

“I wasn't sure she could handle the extra weight, not with the limp still there.”

“Why don't you give it a try? Could be she's feeling like she's let you down, not doing what she was born to do. Performance horses have that in their genes, I'm inclined to think. Just take it easy.”

The idea terrified Mittie. She couldn't handle another disaster, but when her daddy agreed that it was worth trying, she and Toby saddled Gypsy in the stall and led her into the promenade area. Mittie stroked Gypsy's neck, spoke words of encouragement to her, and mounted. Gypsy's ears twitched, and Mittie thought she felt a shudder of excitement beneath her.

They stayed in the barn that day, her daddy watching from a distance, nodding and keeping an eye on Gypsy's injured knee. The next day they ventured out into the sunshine. Gypsy reared her head and sniffed the air, then dutifully walked between the pens of the paddock. The limp remained, but it didn't worsen. Day by day, they lengthened the time Mittie was astride, Gypsy's muscles growing stronger, her eyes now gleaming. It was time to let Gypsy take the lead.

A gentle September breeze tickled the air the day Mittie took Gypsy onto the hills beyond the paddock. Gypsy cocked her head as if asking for permission. Mittie let the reins go slack and held her breath. Gypsy lifted one foot, then another, and began to trot. Slow, but sure. Mittie didn't let her go too fast nor stay out too long, but Gypsy had done better than Mittie ever imagined.

“Someday, my friend. Someday.” She spoke the words to Gypsy, but they were for her, too. It was time for Mittie to also take the lead.

She called Weaver as soon as she got back to the house and asked if he'd have someone service
Belle
, that it was a beautiful day for a flight.

When she got to the airfield, it was Bobby who met her in the hangar.

“Gosh, I didn't mean for Weaver to send you out to get the plane ready.”

“I had some spare time, and all I did was top off the fuel tanks. She's been running like a top.”

“So you've spun the prop a few times to keep her from getting rusty?”

“No, once a week or so I've taken her up. I wanted to keep her ready for you. I knew it was just a matter of time.”

“You are the bee's knees, Bobby York. How can I ever thank you?”

“How about letting me ride along and going to dinner with me tonight?”

“I'd love that.”

“Then grab a helmet and let's go.”

Slipping into the cockpit was like putting on her favorite slippers. Loops. Stalls. Soaring. She lifted her chin and filled her lungs. Home at last.

Bobby asked her again about dinner as they walked back to the terminal.

“I'll need time to get ready. Why don't you come out to the farm and say hello to Mother and Daddy while I change?”

“It sounds lovely, but you're dressed fine for what I had in mind. I need to pick up a few things in the office, and then we'll go.” He raised hopeful eyebrows.

“You're very persuasive, you know.” Her curiosity was getting the better of her. “I'll call Mother and tell her not to expect me.”

Bobby held the door of his Morris for her. Odd, but all this time, she hadn't ridden in it. Calista had always beat her to it. Bobby slid behind the wheel.

“So where is this place where I can show up like this and not get thrown out for improper dress code?”

“You'll see.” He drove toward town, past Churchill Downs and the University of Louisville into the heart of the residential area where Victorian and Gothic mansions lined the streets.

“This is St. James Place. Victor Booth lives near here. Is that where you're taking me?”

He shook his head and turned onto a narrow street that led to one of the courts the neighborhood was known for. The homes here were closer together, but their iron gates and front gardens gave them a certain charm. He stopped the car before they got to the pedestrian-only court and said, “Here we are.” He didn't give her time to answer—just hopped out, ran around the car, and opened the door for her. With his hand at the small of her back, he led her up the walk and then up the steps to a gray stone house with window boxes. She felt like she did when she was little and she and Iris played the blindfold game. They'd take turns leading each other around in the house or outdoors, and you couldn't remove your blindfold until you'd guessed where you were. Only now Mittie didn't wear a blindfold, and she still had no idea where she was.

Bobby produced a key and opened a door that led into an entry hall. Walk-up apartments. Luxurious ones. A tingle rippled up and down her spine. Going to a gentleman's apartment unchaperoned would have her mother's friends' tongues wagging. Something about that was titillating. Dangerous and risqué, but she doubted Bobby had any sort of romantic intentions. Before she stepped across the threshold, she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone had seen them. The street was empty.

“My place is up two flights. I hope it's all right that I brought you here.”

“I had no idea this is where you lived.”

“You never asked.”

His drawing room was furnished with a pair of burgundy Queen Anne sofas, a hunter green wingback chair, and Persian rugs scattered across polished oak floors. The scent of cinnamon and something hearty filled the air.

“It's wonderful.” And it was apparent his flight instructor's salary didn't begin to cover the lease.

“There are certain advantages to being the son of Robert York.”

“Who is quite a lovely man, according to Mother and Daddy.”

“Without a doubt. Come—let's see what's for dinner.”

She followed him into the kitchen where a potpie rested atop the wood-burning stove and next to it, a bowl of steaming cinnamon apples.

“Let me guess. You also have a cook and a butler.”

He laughed. “Nothing as fancy as that. Just a woman who comes in and straightens up after me and leaves something for my dinner. She's done well tonight, I see. Shall we eat in the dining room or here at the breakfast table?”

“I'm rather fond of cozy suppers, so in here is fine. What can I do?”

He pointed to the cupboard where the china was, and while she set the table, he took a wedge of cheddar from the Kelvinator, disappeared into a pantry, and came back with a loaf of crusty bread and a bottle of sherry. “Wine would be more to my liking, but it's rather tricky to come by.”