Read Online On Wings Of The Morning by Marie Bostwick - Free Book Online Page B

lid of a battered old fruit crate that was sitting in the corner. “I keep all that in here.” He pulled a check ledger out of the box along with a lidless cigar box overflowing with old pay stubs. “I thought it’d be a good idea to keep them separate from that stuff on the desk.”
    â€œIt was,” I said and took the checkbook from his outstretched hand. Roger grinned, apparently pleased by my approval. He really is a sweet man , I thought to myself. He reminded me of a big, gamboling puppy—always cheerful and eager to please.
    â€œWell,” I said. “You’d better leave me alone with all this for a while. I’ll see what I can make of it.”
    â€œSure you don’t need me to stay and help?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine. Thanks.” He looked a little disappointed but took the hint.
    The office door led right into the hangar, and when he opened it the smell of fuel and engine grease filled the room. “Georgia?” He turned back to me as he was leaving. “After you’re done—say, in a couple of hours—you want to go flying?”
    I put down the folder I was holding, rested my chin in my hand, and smiled at him. “I’d love to.”
    Roger grinned and raised and lowered his eyebrows a couple of times in a comical expression, and tossed me an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal. Later, I would come to think of it as his “all-systems go” face, a small ritual that he performed whenever we made a date to fly, or just after he’d given the propeller a powerful yank and the engine caught hold, or anytime the exhilaration and anticipation of being airborne again was just too much to contain. The look on his face was pure joy and boyish enthusiasm, and I thought to myself, Here is a man who will never grow old. His excitement was contagious, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
    â€œAll right, then! I’ll see you in two hours.” He nodded his head. As he left he said, “Big day! Think of it, Georgia!—Your first flight! You’ll never forget it.”
    The door closed behind him. Leaning back in the desk chair as the worn springs creaked in protest, I let his words wrap themselves around my mind like an embrace.
    Your first flight. Amazing. Finally, after all these years, I was just two hours from my dream. I’d never been farther off the ground than my own feet could lift me, but I already knew Roger was right. It was a day I’d never forget.
    What Roger didn’t say, what I learned on my own was this: that the amazement and the yearning never fades. If anything, it becomes stronger. From that first moment I touched the sky, each moment I spent on the ground was a moment spent waiting to leave it again.
    Every day I’ve ever flown is a day I’ll never forget.

6
    Morgan
    Oklahoma City, Oklahoma—December 3, 1941
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    â€œ M organ! You’re here already,” Mr. Wicker said with surprise as he slammed his car door closed. “I wasn’t expecting you until nine-thirty. How long have you been waiting?”
    â€œOh, not long,” I lied. The truth was I’d been there since six that morning, hoping Mr. Wicker would show up a little early. I’d waited, crouched down with my back resting against the cold wall of the hangar, so I’d have a good view of the Jenny and could admire the clean lines of her as the sun rose, glinting red and silver against the new paint I’d labored to put on her during every hour I could spare from studying. My calculus grades hadn’t been much to write home about, but mine was the best-looking plane on the field and, to me, that was what mattered.
    I’d been sitting there so long my legs had cramped up under me. “I just thought I’d get here a little early,” I said and heaved myself to my feet, fighting the cramp that suddenly took hold in my left leg.
    Mr. Wicker smiled a little as he watched me struggle to get up.