Baroness (19 page)

“So, I won't do the ladder act.”

Rango took another sip of his milk, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and capped the bottle. “It's not just that. There's extra weight on the wings when a walker gets on them and it offsets the plane, not to mention that your foot could go through the fabric, and you could get tangled on the wing wires. If that happened, the pilot couldn't land—you'd crash for sure. And, don't forget, one slipped hold and you're flying off into air, no parachute.”

“Maybe I'd wear one.”

“They're too big for you. Besides, that's a surefire way to get tangled. Wing walkers go without the pack. But they don't have a long life expectancy.” He offered her the milk.

She shook her head, but his words sloughed through her now, lingering as she headed toward the truck.

“Hey, Lilly, there's a small tear on my wing—can you take a look?” Lucky Eddie intercepted her, tucking his helmet under his arm.

Apparently, she'd become a doctor as well. But repairs consisted of fabric, glue, and patience. She retrieved her belongings—a satchel that Moseby lent her, along with a pair of boots—
thanks, Rango
, and pants that Marvel's wife once owned. She didn't ask what happened to the wife. Then she headed over to Eddie's plane. A piece of fabric slapped in the wind on the top leading edge of the lower right wing, a tear that could compromise the entire wing under stress. She retrieved the glue from the supply truck and pasted it down. By the morning's show, it would hold steady, no more rips.

She found Moseby in the tent, stirring a pot of beans over a portable stove. On days when the takings were thin, Moseby and Beck would pull out their beans, spices, and some version of meat and make a stew that usually kept their spines away from their bellies.

Lilly squatted down opposite her.

“Marvel's in town, checking on the advance promotion. He came out here a month ago, set up signs. Says we're in for a record crowd tomorrow.”

“No more beans?”

Moseby smiled. “I was thinking of trying that outside loop Truman and I were talking about.” She offered Lilly the spoon. “Just to give them a thrill.”

“How close to the ground does he get?” Lilly slurped off a taste. “Needs salt.”

“About twenty feet. I figure there's room enough for my head.” Moseby adjusted the seasonings. She had elegant hands, the kind that reminded Lilly of her mother's. Piano fingers. Or maybe just strong hands.

“How do you plan to stay on?”

“I've rigged up another rope. I'll loop it around the front of me as I sit down. I'll hold tight to the other going up the backside.”

“Isn't what you're doing enough?”

“Not to compete with the Flying Aces. They have two wing walkers who actually change planes.”

“How?”

“They use a rope ladder.”

Lilly shook her head. “I heard about Bette. Does that happen a lot?”

Moseby capped the pot, turned down the flame. “Enough. Mostly with parachutists, though. Dropping from the sky like that? Not safe.”

Lilly's gaze shot of its own accord toward Suicide Dan. Sometimes, in an evening show, he would drop in the dark, shining a light on his descent and pulling his rip cord at the last moment. Lilly never watched to the end.

Moseby pulled out a burlap bag and from inside retrieved two loaves of bread. “Got these in our last town from a church lady who said I should probably stop my foolishness and get married.” She handed them over to Lilly to cut.

“Why don't you?” Lilly moved to the folding table, began to saw off pieces of the creamy bread.

“I haven't found anyone I could fall in love with, let alone stop flying for.”

Lilly glanced over her shoulder. “I thought you and Truman were—”

“Nope.” Moseby got up, dusted off her hands. “Truman is a distant cousin, so that puts me off right there. But more than that, he lives to fly. He lives for the adoration of the audience, the thrill of near death, the every-moment-could-be-his-last adrenaline. He doesn't have room in his life for anything else.”

“But he stays here, eats beans with everyone else.”

Moseby began piling the bread on a plate. “That's because Truman is also a realist. He knows he needs us to protect his reputation. Especially after the accident.”

“He wrecked a plane?”

“Killed his kid brother. He'd made a name for himself barnstorming across the Midwest, and returned home like some sort of celebrity. Took his brother out for a ride, and his plane caught fire. Flames and belching sparks from the exhaust ports are normal, but when you see it coming from the engine—well, he thinks one of the mechanics left an oily rag in the oil breather. The plane ripped apart before Tru could land. His brother died, Truman broke both arms and was in a coma for three days. But he lived. He's never forgiven himself, and it didn't help that the paper claimed pilot error. He got a job in Wichita, working on Jennys, and Marvel caught wind of him. He's the best flyer I've ever seen, but I'm afraid, if Tru could, he'd just set out for the heavens, doing loops and rolls until he ran out of fuel and deadsticked into the ground.”

“That's terrible. No wonder he's such a loner.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong, darlin'. Truman Hawk has no problem making nice with the ladies.” She winked. “Just be careful he doesn't make nice with you.”

Lilly pulled bowls out of a crate. “Don't worry. I fell in love with a flyer once, and—”

“He broke your heart?”

“Almost.”

“Those flyers are all alike. They promise you the stars.” She glanced up, and Lilly followed her gaze to Eddie, standing outside the tent talking to Rango. A soft smile touched her lips.

Eddie, with his curly blond hair, his aw-shucks smile, didn't have to work hard to win a girl's heart.

Moseby turned away, her face red.

Lilly lowered her voice. “Are you sure you haven't found anyone to love?”

Moseby shook her head. “Eddie told me that he wanted me to wing walk for him. That we'd make a great team.” She glanced at him again. “He brought me flowers last week after the show.”

“He's sweet on you.”

Moseby shrugged.

“Do it.” Lilly put her hand on hers. “It'll be good for Truman. Show him that he doesn't own you.”

Moseby gave her a wicked smile. “And that he might expand his horizons.” She held up the spoon.

Lilly blew on it and tasted the beans. “You're a good cook.”

“I think you're not too bad yourself.”

Lilly slept in her bedroll under the wing, waking to dew on the grass and the sound of buzzing in the air.

She climbed out from under the plane, cupped her hands over her eyes, and found Eddie's red and white biplane circling the field.

“Are you kidding me?” The noise must have awakened Truman because he scrambled out, standing beside her, his shirt flapping, his hat shadowing his eyes as he watched Eddie do a barrel roll. And then—

“I'm going to kill him.”

He stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head as Moseby climbed out of the front seat and toward the wings. He added a bit of color to his opinions, but Lilly said nothing, just watched as Moseby edged out onto the right wing, wearing the new red suit Marvel had ordered.

“She looks like a bird, a cardinal.”

“Birds can fly, Moseby can't,” Truman snapped. “Was this your idea?”

“You give me way too much credit, Truman. I just hand out tickets.”

“Sure you do,” he said, his jaw tight.

The plane circled the field then did a barrel roll, coming up late out of the turn.

“He's not ready for her weight on his wing.”

Perhaps Eddie had figured this out, because Moseby started to make her way back to the cockpit. He leveled out across the field.

“I'm getting some breakfast,” Truman said, his tone surly.

She ignored him.

Then, “Truman—stop.” She may have even put a hand on his arm as she watched Moseby's foot shatter through the right wing. She couldn't hear it, but she imagined a terrible, wrenching rip as the fabric separated.

For a moment, only Moseby's legs dangled through, a macabre dance as she tried to hold herself up. Then the fabric gave way and she dropped to the earth.

Lilly screamed. She ran toward the plane as Moseby hit the ground, crumpling.

Truman passed her, his long legs doubling her pace. He skidded to his knees beside Moseby. She lay at a cruel angle, one leg splayed, the other bent beneath her. A bone protruded from her thigh. Her eyes were closed and blood bubbled up from her mouth.

“She's still breathing. Get help!” Truman turned to her, his eyes wild. “Run, Lilly!”

But she didn't have to alert anyone. Marvel was already in the truck, barreling over the grasses. Eddie had managed to put the plane down, had started calling her name as he leaped out of the cockpit. She wanted to weep for him as he landed beside Truman, rocking back and forth, almost in a wail.

“She's still alive,” Truman said as Marvel pulled up. “Let's get her into town.”

Rango produced a blanket, and Beck and he slid Moseby's broken body onto it as Dan tossed out their remaining supplies. Oil cans and hoses, fabric, glue, signs, tires—everything that kept their fleet alive.

They loaded her into the cargo area, and then Lilly was standing alone, in the field with Truman as the realization slid through her like poison.

This was her fault.

* * * * *

Cesar Napoli made Rosie glitter inside. A hot sparkle that lit in her every time he met her outside the dressing room, bidding good night to the other chorus line girls. Often he held a single red rose between his sausage fingers, that too-cocky smile on his lips, as if he knew exactly the way her heart gave a little start when she saw him.

She might not be a headline yet, but on his arm, she felt like a star, shiny and bright. Sort of how she should have felt with Dash, if she hadn't always felt she had to keep up, impress him. With Cesar, all she had to do was smile.

“There's my gal,” he said as she emerged from the dressing room, pushing up from the wall and handing her the flower. He wore a three-piece suit with thin gray stripes and matching gray vest, his dark hair slicked back. “You were a smash tonight.”

“I was in the back row,” she said, adding a pout to her words. He responded best when she gave him a little drama. She sniffed the rose. “When is this show going to end, Cesar? When am I going to be your star attraction?”

He took her hands, met her eyes, his dark and with a magnetic power that could steal her thoughts. “Soon, doll. Soon.” Then he held out his elbow for her to slip her gloved hand through.

She hid her disappointment, sharp in her throat, as they walked through the club.

“A chorus girl is not a star,” she'd said after she discovered the role he'd landed for her. She'd watched the girls perform and her heart sank. How was she going to prove anything to her mother if she didn't earn top billing? Worse, on a chorus girl's salary, she'd never make enough to keep a room at the Algonquin, where she'd escaped after the Cotton Club, with Lexie.

“Don't you worry, kitty. I'll keep you in your digs.” Cesar had peeled out a wad of bills. Of course, she still had her last monthly allowance, tucked away in her bank, but she took the green anyway. He owed her for the broken promises. And, he still made her feel as if she might be made of tinsel, something to decorate his arm. Wherever they went, doors opened, gloved attendants handed her champagne, and men eyed Cesar with envy.

Perhaps being
treated
like a starlet would suffice, for now.

In the daylight, Valerie's looked worn, even drab: black tablecloths, an unlit bar, an empty stage, saggy velvet curtain tied back with fraying golden ropes. But at night, with the chandeliers lit, Mickey at the bar, the cigarette girls hawking goodies, and men drinking old-fashioneds, the crimson shine from the glasses like firelight, the place sizzled. She loved the hum of conversation, a thrill curling inside her stomach as she painted on her face in the dressing room before her performance. She was born for the stage, and if she had to room with Lexie and make her tidy up now and then….

At least she was on her own, her mother's matchmaking behind her. Hopefully the Duke of Lexington had already returned home. She could find her own beau—and besides, Lexie's words became truer every night. Rosie wasn't made for marriage.

She was made for Cesar's arm.

Outside, rain had washed away the day, leaving a murky smell on the street where his Rolls waited. He held open the door, and she climbed inside. He settled next to her on the velvet seat.

Cesar gave the address to his driver as she settled back in the pocket of his arm. It wasn't long before he began to smell her neck, press his lips to her skin. Different from Dash—who made her feel bold and independent—Cesar's touch drew her into a world of sultry danger, a feeling that could frighten her if she allowed it. She turned in his arms and let him kiss her, drawing some security in the fact that they were in the car and that he wouldn't dare soil her makeup before they arrived at whatever party he'd scheduled.

Still, when his hand moved to her décolletage, she caught his wrist.

“Cesar.” She pushed his hand away, adding a giggle. “No.”

He didn't smile, just touched her face. “Pet. You're so beautiful, it makes me lose my mind.”

She put her hand to his clean-shaven chin, something he must have done after her show. Met his eyes. “Later, perhaps.”

Indeed, a dangerous game she played, because later she'd have to find another ploy, something else to divert his attention.

In the back of her mind, she'd known there'd be a trade-off, something in barter for her role, despite his “no strings attached” declaration. But if she became his lead attraction, singer-dancer-actress, then she had something of a commodity from the deal. Maybe someday she could even land a role at one of the bigger theaters—the Hippodrome, or the Select.