“Looks to me like he’s leaving. Hurry, and you can catch him.”
Though Darcy gave her friend a scathing look, Beattie was right. If she was going to learn to fly, she needed money. The only way to get money was to act. She scooted across the room, arriving just as Devlin grabbed the door handle.
“Mr. Devlin.” Darcy slipped between him and the door. “I wonder if I might have a minute of your time.”
“Not now, Shea. I’m on deadline.”
She pressed her weight against the door. “All I need is one minute.”
He glanced at his watch. “Sixty seconds.”
“I have a stupendous idea. Imagine this headline: ‘Local Woman Learns To Fly.’”
Devlin snorted. “No news there, Miss Shea, though I’ll consider an announcement in the ladies’ column when you pass your licensing exam.” He reached for the door.
“It’s not just about learning to fly,” she said, searching for something that would impress him. “I plan to go for a record.”
“Sure you do. Record for what? First woman over Baker’s barn?”
“First woman to cross the Atlantic,” she blurted out. Never mind she still needed to learn. Jack had mentioned something about a transatlantic attempt. She’d convince him to do it and take her along. “That’s where you come in. The Prognosticator can sponsor me.”
“Transatlantic?” Devlin nearly choked on his cigar. “You?”
“Yes me,” she said with growing confidence. Fulfilling a dream first required believing in it. “Of course, I need to take lessons.”
“Aha, we’re back to that. And I suppose you want me to pay for those lessons.”
“In exchange for stories. Every day.”
“No, Miss Shea.”
“The readers will love it, and when I make the transatlantic attempt, the Prognosticator will have an exclusive.”
“No, no, and no.” Devlin spat a flake of tobacco on the floor. “Your sixty seconds are up.”
“But I can do this. I can take lessons in New York—”
“No, Miss Shea. That’s my last word.” Devlin pulled the door open and left.
That man didn’t have an iota of common sense. No wonder the Prognosticator hadn’t increased its circulation in ten years. It takes risk to succeed.
“Darcy?” Mum walked up and gently touched her sleeve. “What did Mr. Devlin say to you? You seem upset.”
She shook her head though her heart was breaking. When would she ever see Jack again?
“I thought I heard you say something about New York,” Mum said.
Darcy steeled herself. “It was just talk.” Mum would never understand her need to fly. Long ago, when Darcy was young, Papa would have understood. He might even have encouraged her, but that all changed when she grew up.
Mum looked ready to burst. “I know how much you love to travel, dear. That’s why your father and I have been talking.” Her eyes shone.
“About New York?” Darcy hardly dared to believe.
“We think it might raise your spirits.” Mum brushed a lock of hair from Darcy’s forehead, as if she were still a little girl. “You do so love the museums and shows.”
“We’re going to New York City?” Hope rose from the damp ground of despair.
“New York City? Heavens no, we’re going to visit your aunt in Buffalo.”
Buffalo? Darcy’s spirits instantly deflated. She couldn’t learn to fly in Buffalo. Jack lived hundreds of miles away. Buffalo got her no closer to her dream. She might as well stay home.
“Now?” She struggled for an excuse. “But don’t you want to be here for Amelia?”
Mum patted her hand. “Bless you for thinking of your sister, but Charles’s sister can help, should anything arise, which is unlikely. She is only four months along. Now is the perfect time.”
Darcy knew better than to argue. It was settled. They would go to Buffalo, and Darcy’s plans had to be postponed again.
Buffalo in November chilled to the bone. The wind blew constantly off Lake Erie, rattling the bare elm branches. The constant drizzle threatened to turn to snow.
The war’s end raised Darcy’s spirits briefly. With no army pilots to train, Jack might return home. She checked the street in front of Aunt Perpetua’s overstuffed Victorian twenty times a day. Though the odds were slim he’d walk that neighborhood, it was possible. Darcy dwelt in the faintly possible. She volunteered to go to the market. She rode the streetcar, she walked downtown—all in the hope she’d see Jack—but when the days turned to a week, hope dwindled.
One afternoon, she looked out the parlor window while Mum and Aunt Perpetua took tea. The streets were lifeless. Barely one motorcar had passed in the last half hour.
“A dinner party would be just the thing,” Aunt Perpetua unexpectedly said, the enormous feather on her scarlet turban bobbing up and down. “I realize this is more to Amelia’s tastes, but a grand party, with all the finery, might cheer even Darcy.”
“I don’t need cheering.” Darcy ran a hand across the steamed pane to clear her view.