Baroness (22 page)

She turned to look at Truman for the first time. She couldn't read his eyes, but his mouth pressed tight, his face white.

I can't land the plane until you're off the wing.
She remembered that part of the instructions.

Her words burned through her:
“I'm going to save your sorry hide.”

No, she was going to get them both killed. With one hand, she began to work the knot at her waist. He'd tied it tight, and thick, but she edged one loop out, then the other, her hand shaking, grabbing at the wire when she felt her body start to pitch off the wing.

She finally pried it free and the rope fell away, flapping behind her. Her eye on the cockpit, she ground her jaw to keep from screaming and stepped on the ribs, working her way back to safety.

At the spar, she stood for a moment, paralyzed. It was one thing to walk hand over hand across the wing. Getting back into the cockpit required her to throw her leg over the edge then let go with both hands and fling herself back inside.

Moseby had a good six inches of leg on her. No wonder she could dart in and out of the cockpit like a monkey. Lilly held tight and reached out her leg, clipping the edge.

It slipped, and she nearly plunged off the wing.

Oh, God, please.

She took a breath, threw her leg up again. Something caught her ankle.

Truman had reached up, grabbed her leg, was holding it fast. He maneuvered it into the cockpit enough for her to get a hook around the edge. Then, with a cry that the prop ate, she lunged for the opening, grabbing at the rope still attached to the cockpit. She tumbled in, not caring that she scrubbed her face on the seat, that it might not look graceful.

She righted herself then drew up her knees and curled into a miserable ball as Truman brought the plane down to a smooth landing.

The prop sputtered out, and for the first time she heard her sobs. Gulping and hot, they coursed through her, shaking her out.

She tore off her goggles, pressed her hands to her wet, windburned face.

“I'm sorry.”

She heard his voice above her and couldn't look up. Oh, he must be laughing, and she couldn't bear the mocking on his face, those stormy eyes that told her she was a fool.

“I guess the rope was a bad idea. Maybe we'll use a parachute next time.”

What—?

She peeled her hands away, looked up at him. He stood against the sun, staring down at her with an expression she couldn't unravel. A frown, but nothing of anger, more curiosity.

“I—”

“Don't beat yourself up, New York. The first time Moseby wing walked she threw up in the cockpit.” He leaned over her. “You're less messy, that's for sure.”

She sat up as he climbed out. Then he reached over and lifted her out of the cockpit. He didn't put her down. “I don't want you to collapse on me.”

She stared up at him, the kindness rattling her more than the wing walk. He held her as if she weighed nothing, and his smell washed over her as he walked her toward the tent, the scent of the air, wild and clean and free. As if he might be a piece of the sky.

He reached the tent and looked down at her, still something enigmatic, even intimate, in those blue eyes. “Ready to stand on your own?”

No. But she nodded.

He put her down. She clung to his arm.

Oh…uh… “Truman…I don't know if I can do that again. It's…”

“Terrifying?”

She drew in a breath. “I thought I was going to die.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “I did too, the first time I tried it. In my case, we nearly did. The pilot couldn't compensate for my weight, we nearly did a loop into the ground.”

“I just…I thought I was…stronger.”

He took his hands from her shoulders. Propeller ran up to them, his tail slapping against her legs. Truman bent and rubbed the dog around the ears. He didn't look at her. “You were the one who wanted to do this. It's your call, New York.” He rose and met her eyes. “I personally don't want to see you as a grease spot on the grass.” He said it like it might be humorous, but something of pain sparked in his eyes. “Let's get some grub.”

Beck and Rango were cooking oatmeal when she entered the cool tent. They looked up at her, and she caught the quick shake of Truman's head that clearly silenced any comment about her morning adventure. She took her breakfast outside, sat on the ground alone, and tried not to cry.

They packed the tent and the trailer, and Truman gassed the planes as Rango went to retrieve Eddie from his vigil at the hospital. Rango returned empty-handed, shaking his head. Suicide Dan slid into Eddie's cockpit.

“I didn't know he knew how to fly,” Lilly said as she gathered Moseby's belongings. She stood beside the plane, her pile of gear tied into a bag, and wasn't sure what to do.

“We'll come back after the Duluth show and check on her,” Truman said, and took the bundle from her, securing it in Dan's cockpit.

It took everything she had to climb into Truman's plane, the sense of nearly losing herself so fresh she could taste it. But she buckled in and hunkered down, wanting to cry again at the loss of everything she'd discovered in Paris.

Rennie was wrong. She didn't belong in the sky after all.

* * * * *

Lilly must have fallen asleep because it happened so fast. One moment they were flying blue skies, the next the sky began to weep, a slow drizzle that turned the air to a murky soup. Water bled across the windshield, and a trickle of wispy clouds turned into fingers of white, wrapping around the plane.

Fog. She'd heard Truman and Beck talk about it before as zero-zero. Zero visibility, zero ceiling. And often fatal, as airplanes misjudged their landings and slammed into the ground or buildings, or even simply ran out of fuel, looking to break free of the mist.

She glanced back at Truman. He shook his head at her, his lips tight, and she felt them descending. The fog thickened as they fell toward earth. He pulled up higher, but the rain only turned to icicles, shearing her face.

He dove again, lower and lower, the rain turning to mist off the wings as he tried to get under the clouds, to find the ground, but the fog only turned less milky.

“We have to land!” She barely made out his words and turned so she could see his mouth. “I can't see anything!”

She leaned over the side of the plane, wishing she could shoo away the clinging fog. If they were over a town, electrical wires and church spires would be fatal. Maybe if she…

A few extra feet of visibility might give them enough to find a landing. Moseby had told her a story of how, in exactly these same conditions, she'd guided Beck to safety.

If she didn't do it, they could die. Lilly glanced back at him. “I'm going out on the wing!”

If he heard her, she didn't know, because his expression didn't change.

She slipped a leg over the edge of the cockpit.

The plane dipped, as if he might not be expecting her weight, and she grabbed for the wires. Without her gloves they cut her hands, but she ignored the burn.

The rope that Moseby held for her stunts on the upper wing flapped in the wind. Attached to the trailing edge of the one wing, it looped forward and down around the front strut, across to the other, then back again to the trailing edge of the opposite wing. She'd seen Moseby climb up above the cockpit and use the rope to pull herself up. Now, Lilly mimicked her moves, hooking her leg around the upper strut, grabbing hold of the rope. Icy and slick, it slammed her fingers into the fabric of the plane, but she hung on and scrabbled to the top of the plane. Wrapping her legs around each rope, she lay spread eagle across the top of the wing, holding to the rope across the leading edge.

It gave her a few extra precious feet. But she'd have to sit if she wanted Truman to see her directions. She kept her feet clamped around the ropes and slid herself forward, to her knees, and then settled back into a sitting position, her hands white on the rope.

The rain spit on her, and the props buzzed right below her dangling feet. But this felt more secure than standing on the wing, her hands embracing a front strut. Here, she could tuck herself into the plane, be a part of it.

Grow wings.

And, it gave her even more of a vantage point. She gestured that he should descend, and Truman must have throttled back, because the plane sank down into the fog. She caught a glimpse of darkness and waved him to the right. A wire along their left, then a tree—which told her they might only be fifty feet from the ground.

Low enough to plow into hill, a building, a cliff.

He continued to descend, and she made out an expanse of gray blue. A lake. Looking back at him, she saw him glance at her, then over the side, then back. She directed him left, back toward toward the trees—maybe she could guide him through the forest until they found a field.

He obeyed her, and she took them through a winding, bumpy ride, even ascending up into the fog as she saw walls rise up before her.

Then, as quickly as it had thickened, the woolly fog dispersed. All at once they were through it, and below lay a thick tangle of pine and birch. And in the distance, carved out of the forest, a swath of pasture with a muddy landing strip and a wooden shack, the words Duluth Airfield painted on the roof.

She was going to turn around, to climb back into the cockpit, but Truman held up his hand.

Stay? She thought she recognized that.

She hung onto the rope, her heart clogging her breath as he brought them down to a smooth, albeit grimy, landing.

He taxied them into the grass. The prop fizzled out. She just clung to the rope and breathed.

Truman stood up in the cockpit just as she turned. He stripped off his goggles, and the look in his eyes turned her dumb.

“You saved our lives, New York.”

She managed a smile.

“That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen.”

Oh.

He climbed out of the cockpit and came around the front of the plane. Stared up at her. Then, suddenly, he turned away, his hands on his knees.

She thought, for a moment, he might lose his oatmeal.

“Truman.”

“Just…give me a minute here.”

He finally turned and held out his arms. She wasn't sure what—

“I'll catch you.”

He did, but didn't hold her, just lowered her to the ground. Then, he took his thumb and wiped her cheek. She looked at his hand. Mud.

He shook his head, and again that look—curiosity? Amusement? Yes, but something more too.

“What?” She wiped her hand across her other cheek. Oh, she'd need an entire bath.

“I guess the only question left is…what are we going to call your act?”

* * * * *

“No, you are absolutely not going.” Lexie grabbed the white slacks from Rosie's hand and threw them on the bed. “Have you lost your mind? One close call isn't enough?”

“It's just a baseball game—”

“To see Guthrie Storme play!” Lexie went to the window, looked out as if Cesar might be parked downstairs in his Rolls. “Maybe I need to remind you exactly who Cesar Napoli is.”

Rosie put her hand to her throat. Although the tenderness had subsided, she might never forget the pressure of his grip. “No. Actually you don't.” She sighed and stared at her closet, some dresses purchased with Cesar's money and some, her own, ferried to the Algonquin by porter from her mother's house. “But Guthrie's team is just back from a road trip to Boston—”

Lexie flopped down on the bed. “Why do you want to wreck a good thing? Cesar likes you.”

“Cesar likes himself. And if I make him look good, then he'll keep me.” Rosie shut the closet door then settled beside Lexie. “I can't believe that a week ago, Cesar actually made me believe…” She sighed. “Well, that I was special.”

“You are, baby,” Lexie said. “The world just hasn't figured it out yet.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “But they never will if you start missing rehearsals and attending baseball games.”

Rosie sighed. “But I actually enjoyed myself.” Indeed, that glorious day in the summer sunshine and stands of Ebbets Field, sitting with the girlfriends and wives of the players, seemed almost magical. She'd cheered Guthrie on, her cheeks heating when he waved at her, and she'd even managed to figure out the basics of the game by the end. But the magic didn't come from the game, or the crowd, the popcorn, or even the fact the Robins had defeated the Giants, their rival team from Manhattan. It was Guthrie, and the fact he'd made her feel, not glittery, but perhaps simply…enough. As if she didn't have to be anyone but herself for him.

He'd met her outside the stadium with cotton candy, and she'd eaten it while he walked her through the streets of Brooklyn, talking about the game with his hands, acting out his favorite moments, making her laugh with antics from his fellow ballplayers in the dugout.

When it came time for her to return to the club, he hailed her a cab, gave the address and a wad of bills to the driver. Then he leaned in through the window. “That homerun? That was for you, Red. You are my lucky charm.” He didn't try to kiss her, just touched the tip of her sunburned nose with his finger and patted the cab on its way.

The sweetness of his words, his actions, only churned the desire to see him again. And, after over a week on the road, the Robins had a home game tomorrow.

“What's with this guy anyway? What do you see in him that Cesar doesn't have?”

You are my lucky charm.
“Guthrie makes me feel safe. As if I don't have to try. He likes me. Just me.”

“Are you sure? You are a Worth, after all.” Lexie's question was serious.

“He doesn't care about money. Besides, he has no idea who Foster Worth is. He just wants to play baseball. Would you believe he hasn't even tried to kiss me?”

“And a good thing for you, if Cesar saw! But still, what a shame. He does have delicious shoulders.”