Read Online A Flying Affair by Carla Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carla Stewart
Ads: Link
she was an angel. Then he came to the barrel where Mittie stood and offered her the first swig and asked if she was having a good time.
“Wonderful. The only thing that could make it better is if I were flying with you.”
Ames signed an autograph for a freckle-faced boy in short britches and took a sandwich the boy’s mother handed him.
“Regular price five dollars, but for you”—he wiggled his eyebrows at Mittie—“I’ll make an exception and only charge ten.” He inhaled half the sandwich as a bead of sweat tracked a line from his temple to his jaw.
Mittie swiped it away with the back of her finger. “Spoken like a true businessman.”
One of the pilots hollered for Ames.
“Be right there, Lester.” He took the last bite of the sandwich and said, “You’re in for a thrill you’ve never experienced before.”
He turned and, with a long stride, joined his team.
Mittie found a spot on the grass and sat down, eager for the show to begin. Ames was right—once the performance started, her heart did stalls and rollovers and spirals right along with the Patriots. Once, she counted four revolutions before Ames pulled Trixie out of the spin and nosed her upward as the crowd erupted in a cheer and hollered, “More! More!”
The three planes headed away from the crowd, and when they returned, it was only the Oriole and the Canuck, flying so close together it looked as if their wings could kiss. Ames circled away from his partner plane as a man dressed head to toe in a light-colored tuxedo that looked remarkably like the one Ames had worn to Iris’ wedding emerged from the forward seat of the Canuck. He grasped the strut separating the wings of the plane and, with the agility of a gymnast, swung himself up to the top wing. He took a bow, then inched along the wing toward the outermost tip. The crowd held its breath as the stuntman waved, then raised his hands in a victory stance.
Yes, it was the same tuxedo. Before Mittie had time to ponder, though, Ames in his cheery red Oriole appeared alongside the wing walker, the two pilots lining up their wing positions. Then for a moment, the man in the tuxedo seemed to float on air as his feet went from one plane to the other.
“Did you see that?” A woman sitting next to Mittie fanned herself. “I don’t know about you, but I think those guys up there are plain nuts. If God meant for people to walk on air—”
A gasp went up from the crowd. The man in white teetered, his body whipping like a cornstalk in the wind. His feet slipped as if on ice until all Mittie could see was a pair of legs dangling over the Oriole’s wing. She jumped to her feet and shielded her eyes, her heart in her throat. The swath of legs moved frantically through the air, the upper body obscured from view.
“He’s falling! He’s not going to make it! Catch him!” Shouts reverberated in the air. Then as the crowd flooded the field below the plane, arms outstretched, the wing tilted and Mittie detected the stuntman’s hands on a bar or handle of some sort, hanging on like tiny leeches. In the next instant, legs heaved onto the wing, the man in the light suit erect, one hand on his heart, the other waving an American flag.
A woman swooned and dropped to the ground as men, women, and children streamed past, cheering with shouts of “God bless America” and “Best dadburn sight I’ve witnessed in all my born days.”
Mittie’s own chest felt as if it would explode, the heat of the day and the terror of what might have turned into a disaster meshed together in a volcanic swirl.
As she explained her reaction to Ames after the last airplane ride had been given and the sun glowed crimson and peach and violet on the horizon, he draped his arm around her and said, “That’s the general idea—give people what they came for.”
“But slipping off the edge of the wing was surely not intentional.”
Ames just smiled and raised one brow. “Buster likes to ham it up—not a timid
“Wonderful. The only thing that could make it better is if I were flying with you.”
Ames signed an autograph for a freckle-faced boy in short britches and took a sandwich the boy’s mother handed him.
“Regular price five dollars, but for you”—he wiggled his eyebrows at Mittie—“I’ll make an exception and only charge ten.” He inhaled half the sandwich as a bead of sweat tracked a line from his temple to his jaw.
Mittie swiped it away with the back of her finger. “Spoken like a true businessman.”
One of the pilots hollered for Ames.
“Be right there, Lester.” He took the last bite of the sandwich and said, “You’re in for a thrill you’ve never experienced before.”
He turned and, with a long stride, joined his team.
Mittie found a spot on the grass and sat down, eager for the show to begin. Ames was right—once the performance started, her heart did stalls and rollovers and spirals right along with the Patriots. Once, she counted four revolutions before Ames pulled Trixie out of the spin and nosed her upward as the crowd erupted in a cheer and hollered, “More! More!”
The three planes headed away from the crowd, and when they returned, it was only the Oriole and the Canuck, flying so close together it looked as if their wings could kiss. Ames circled away from his partner plane as a man dressed head to toe in a light-colored tuxedo that looked remarkably like the one Ames had worn to Iris’ wedding emerged from the forward seat of the Canuck. He grasped the strut separating the wings of the plane and, with the agility of a gymnast, swung himself up to the top wing. He took a bow, then inched along the wing toward the outermost tip. The crowd held its breath as the stuntman waved, then raised his hands in a victory stance.
Yes, it was the same tuxedo. Before Mittie had time to ponder, though, Ames in his cheery red Oriole appeared alongside the wing walker, the two pilots lining up their wing positions. Then for a moment, the man in the tuxedo seemed to float on air as his feet went from one plane to the other.
“Did you see that?” A woman sitting next to Mittie fanned herself. “I don’t know about you, but I think those guys up there are plain nuts. If God meant for people to walk on air—”
A gasp went up from the crowd. The man in white teetered, his body whipping like a cornstalk in the wind. His feet slipped as if on ice until all Mittie could see was a pair of legs dangling over the Oriole’s wing. She jumped to her feet and shielded her eyes, her heart in her throat. The swath of legs moved frantically through the air, the upper body obscured from view.
“He’s falling! He’s not going to make it! Catch him!” Shouts reverberated in the air. Then as the crowd flooded the field below the plane, arms outstretched, the wing tilted and Mittie detected the stuntman’s hands on a bar or handle of some sort, hanging on like tiny leeches. In the next instant, legs heaved onto the wing, the man in the light suit erect, one hand on his heart, the other waving an American flag.
A woman swooned and dropped to the ground as men, women, and children streamed past, cheering with shouts of “God bless America” and “Best dadburn sight I’ve witnessed in all my born days.”
Mittie’s own chest felt as if it would explode, the heat of the day and the terror of what might have turned into a disaster meshed together in a volcanic swirl.
As she explained her reaction to Ames after the last airplane ride had been given and the sun glowed crimson and peach and violet on the horizon, he draped his arm around her and said, “That’s the general idea—give people what they came for.”
“But slipping off the edge of the wing was surely not intentional.”
Ames just smiled and raised one brow. “Buster likes to ham it up—not a timid
Similar Books
