“Like Darcy? Oh, Jack, no matter how hard you try, you can’t protect those you love. Illness, injury and death happen. That’s why we need God so desperately. He grants us the strength to go on.”
He turned away to hide his bitterness. “How can you talk about God, when He took away your life?”
For a long time Sissy didn’t speak. He’d finally gone too far. Even the squirrels scolded him. He began to apologize, but she spoke first, and with a quiet assurance that stunned him.
“I have my life. This is where I’m meant to be. I’m surrounded by people, many of them dear friends, and yes, I have a purpose here. I’ve spent long days and nights with the inconsolable. I’ve prayed with families at bedsides. I do my best with what God has given me, and He has rewarded me richly.”
Jack struggled with her words of faith. He could understand it. He could admire it. But he couldn’t summon it in himself. “I don’t know how.”
“Go to her. Go to Darcy. God put her in your life for a reason. See where that path leads. And trust, Jack. Trust.”
Jack trudged across town from the Pearlman train depot, shoulders hunched against the wind. The last of the snowbanks had melted, and the sun shone, but it wasn’t warm by any definition of the word.
“Hello there, Mr. Hunter,” someone said in passing.
“Same.” Jack glanced up to see the newspaperman, Devlin, coatless and in shirtsleeves. Clearly, the people here were made of tough stuff.
So was Jack Hunter.
It was time to assess the damage to his plane and figure out what, if anything, could be salvaged. He owed a fortune to the Kensingtons. If the plane could be repaired, he could fly exhibitions. It’d take years to pay off his debt, but he’d do it.
He’d also have to face Darcy. She wouldn’t be happy with his decision. She’d try to talk him out of flying exhibitions, or even beg to go along, but he’d made up his mind. Despite Sissy’s arguments, he was flying solo now.
He bitterly kicked a stone along the dirt road. He’d need to convert the plane to single engine. It would take time, but it could be done.
The breeze chapped his cheeks. Jack huddled deeper into his jacket and headed across the field to the barn. Strange. Half a dozen motorcars were parked between the barn and the house. Baker must have guests. Odd for a Monday.
When he drew near, he noticed the barn door stood ajar. What on earth would guests be doing inside the barn? In a flash he put it all together: Kensington was salvaging Jack’s plane and selling off the pieces to the highest bidder.
Jack barged through the door. “What do you think—?” The sight made him freeze. A dozen people worked on, around, and alongside his plane. Some he recognized, like Blake Kensington and the Simmons kid, but most he didn’t. Moreover, they weren’t disassembling the plane, they were rebuilding it.
The people of Pearlman had stepped up to help him, Jack Hunter, a man who had given them nothing. He rubbed his eyes. He must be dreaming.
“Jack! It’s about time.”
Darcy. His gut turned over.
“Everybody, it’s Jack,” she called out. “He’s here.”
The work crew all stopped and looked at him. Some nodded or waved. Everyone smiled.
“Uh, hello.” He waved awkwardly. “Thank you.” He struggled against emotion. “I’m, uh, overwhelmed.” He sounded like a fool. Why were they doing this?
He searched for Darcy. The dark-haired beauty, dressed in greasy overalls, stood in the rear cockpit. He went to her.
“You’re not shipping this plane to Buffalo,” she said as he drew near. She had a pencil shoved behind her ear and a dab of grease on her nose. She’d never looked so beautiful. “Excuse me?”
She cocked her head in that wonderful way. “Considering the cost of repairs and all the time we’ve put into it, the citizens of Pearlman have decided that the plane is ours.”
Jack could find no rational response.
“Meet your new partners. Blake and Beattie and Simmons you know.” She then proceeded to introduce him to everyone there. Each smiled and nodded at him.
What was he supposed to do now? “I…” His voice trailed off as he surveyed his machine. He could barely tell it had been damaged. The twisted left wing had been replaced with a brand new one, gleaming with fresh paint and pungent from doping compound. He ran his hand along the smooth leading edge.
Simmons was reattaching the engine. Scraps of wood, old canvas and wire sat in a pile to one side, along with sawhorses, saws, nails, screws and tools.
“What did you do?” he said, unable to comprehend what was happening. Why would they help him? These good people had taken time from their work and families to help him on a desperate venture certain to end unsuccessfully. “Darcy, what? Why?”
“We’ll have it ready in no time,” said that most exquisite object of loveliness as she shimmied down from the cockpit.
She showed no ill effects from the crash, other than a yellowish bruise and scab on her forehead. Somehow, even that made her more attractive.