Chapter 2
At seven-fifty a.m., Millie climbed out of her little red Stutz Bearcat roadster in the dirt parking lot beside Heller Airport. Even after a restless night’s sleep and the long drive and ferry ride from Manhattan, she was still brimming with righteous anger.
Why were men so difficult? She was perfectly capable of flying the mail.
Pritchard thought he’d scare her with stories of fuel running out and mechanical failures as if she hadn’t lived through her fair share of near disasters learning to fly circus stunts.
She knew very well how to land without power.
She’d been doing it for nearly as long as there had been airplanes, probably longer than Pritchard.
Millie knew his type all too well—tall, handsome, convinced he was a god because he could defy gravity. Well, she could defy gravity too. She’d been doing it since she was fourteen.
Pritchard could go to hell with all his warnings. He was just one more man standing in her way as she carved out a life for herself. A life with no man by her side, thank you very much. She’d learned her lesson on that front.
Speaking of the devil, Pritchard drove up in a Model T just as she was pulling her bag out of her trunk.
“Nice car.” He sauntered over to admire her roadster.
What a show he put on with his too-long blond hair that he kept sweeping from his face.
He seemed to think his dark caramel eyes would charm her and leave her weak-kneed, like some schoolgirl with a crush.
Why should she care how lean and muscular he was beneath his leather flight suit?
She certainly wasn’t distracted by the curve of his shoulder muscles or by his rolled-up sleeves showing off a tattoo on his left forearm of a swallow in flight.
“Ahem. I said, nice car.”
She glared at him. It was a nice car, and she’d earned it the hard way. Not that she could have afforded it on her airmail salary, which was half what the men made.
You don’t have a family to support. It wouldn’t be fair to the men, the Postmaster General had said when she objected to the pay. It was just one of the many negotiating points she planned to bring up once she fulfilled the terms of their little deal.
“You know, we have to work together.” Pritchard crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, a hint of a smile twitching on his lips. For the love of God, the man had dimples. Did he have to have adorable dimples? “We might as well be civil.”
“Why should I be civil to a man who’s plotting to get me to quit? Personally, I’d rather you kept your mouth shut and did your job.” She slammed the car trunk down.
He raised an eyebrow and made a show of closing his mouth with an imaginary zipper. Then he walked away. Cad.
She could ask to learn from someone else, she supposed. But that would mean surrender, and she was never going to do that.
Following him into the breakroom, she poured herself a cup of coffee. Ugh. Who replaced the coffee with mud? But she drank it anyway. By God if the others were going to drink this sludge, she was too.
A tall pilot with cropped black hair rigid with pomade peered into the room, spotted them, and ambled in.
“Jack, come in and keep me company.” Pritchard beckoned. “Have you met Miss Aldrich?”
The man looked her up and down and shook his head, smiling. Or was it a smirk?
Pritchard slapped him on the back and nodded at Millie. “Jack, Miss Millie Aldrich. Miss Aldrich, Jack Thompson, one of my oldest friends. We grew up next door to each other in Brooklyn.”
Delightful. Another man who thought it was hilarious that she intended to fly the mail. Easy does it, Millie. Don’t let your temper get the better of you on your first morning.
“Miss Aldrich. A pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.” Jack held out his hand and smiled.
She bristled. If Thompson made a wisecrack about her former fiancé, she might have to kill him. But homicide was frowned upon on one’s first day at work.
“Only good things, I assure you.” Thompson’s smile fell a bit, but he kept his hand up.
Relenting, she took it and shook it firmly, forcing herself to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Thompson. I look forward to working with you.”
She braced herself for the inevitable questions about what it was like to be engaged to Barney Mason, famous Hollywood cowboy.
“I saw one of your shows last May. You’re one hell of a barnstormer. Where did you learn to fly like that?”
That wasn’t what she was expecting. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to get a compliment on her flying after all the nonsense with Barney.
“I learned in the circus. My father was in vaudeville, and my mother was an acrobat. When I was fourteen, a barnstormer joined the troupe, and I refused to stay away from his plane. I begged and begged until he taught me to fly, and by the time I was sixteen, I did so well that he added me to his act. It turns out folks will pay a lot of money to watch a girl risk her neck doing aerial stunts, so I kept at it.”
She brought in far more money than Mama and Papa, so quitting was never an option. To this day, she deposited half her earnings into their account every month. It was only because of her contributions that they’d been able to retire to Florida when Mom’s health took a turn for the worse.
Thompson poured himself a cup of coffee. “That’s quite a story! So what made you decide to fly the mail?”
Because the postmaster general had reached out to her agent with an offer she couldn’t refuse right after the disaster with Barney.
He wanted her to break a speed or distance record as an official U.S.
Airmail pilot by Christmas, bringing in good press for the Postal Service and winning over women voters.
If the positive press from her exploits got him the budget he was advocating for, he had agreed to open the airmail to more women pilots.
But he had two conditions. First, she had to keep the deal they made a secret.
Second, no fraternization. If she became a distraction or did anything that undermined the reputation of the airmail, she was out.
That was all fine by her. After the disaster with Barney, she wanted nothing more than to keep to herself and fly, especially if it furthered the cause of women pilots.
But since she’d promised not to talk about the deal, she simply answered, “I like a challenge.”
“Well, it certainly is challenging, but something tells me you’re up to it.”
She couldn’t help smiling at the compliment. “Thank you.”
Giving Pritchard a pointed look, she took a sip of coffee that tasted like tar. How did they drink this stuff?
Thompson turned to Pritchard. “So how are things going with Nancy?”
Nancy? Who was Nancy? Was there another aviatrix she should know about? Mr. Burleson had sworn she was the only one he was allowing, at least for now.
With a chuckle, Pritchard shook his head. “I broke up with her months ago. You’ve got to keep up, Thompson.”
Ah. They’d moved on to Pritchard’s romantic exploits. Lovely.
“Oh, right. Is it Kathleen?”
Pritchard shook his head again. How many women had this guy strung along? “Close, but no cigar. I’m seeing a gal named Vera now. I don’t think you’ve met her. Cute sassy little brunette. She’s just my speed.”
“Fast and loose?” Thompson smirked at his friend.
Millie had to clench her fists to keep from throttling them both. She had no desire whatsoever to listen to this conversation, and this poor woman! How could they talk about her like that?
Pritchard grinned and winked at Thompson like he was proud of it. “Don’t you know it. But I shouldn’t go into details. After all, we have a lady present.”
“Oh, you remembered me, did you? Does your girlfriend know you talk about her like this?” Millie stepped forward, hands on her hips.
Putting up his hands up in surrender, Pritchard took a step back. “Easy there. She isn’t my girlfriend. She’s just someone I go out with from time to time for a little fun. No commitments.”
As if that made it better. “So you’re toying with her?”
A flush crept up Pritchard’s neck. “I’m not toying with her. I’m just… I’m just…” He made an exasperated noise. “You know what? This is none of your business, and I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Good Lord! This Pritchard was almost as bad as Barney! Were there no good men in the world?
Thompson looked back and forth between them and backed away. “I should head out. I’ve got to make it to Boston by three.” He downed his coffee and turned to go.
“Break a wing,” Pritchard called after him.
“Same to you.” Thompson disappeared through the door.
For a long moment, she and Pritchard glared at each other in silence.
At last, Pritchard downed the last of his coffee with a grimace. “Time for us to get going, Miss Aldrich.”
He led her to a room she hadn’t been in, then motioned for her to pause. “Anyone in here?” he yelled, banging on the door with his fist. “I’m bringing a lady in.”
There was no answer.
“Come on. We keep the leather suits in the locker room. You’ll need one for today’s flight.”
As she entered, she was hit by the smell of dirty socks and aftershave.
The open wood cubbies had hooks for the aviators’ clothes and sundries with locked metal cabinets above.
In about half of the cubbies hung well-worn full-body leather flight suits with buttons down the front.
The others were draped with an assortment of men’s garments and ditty bags.
The walls were papered with a mix of old army aviator recruitment posters, newer Postal Service ones, and the occasional half-naked burlesque dancer. Lovely.
Pritchard brought her over to a tall, metal cabinet that was twice the width of the cubbies and opened it. Inside were a variety of leather flight suits. He picked the smallest one and handed it to her.