high.
“Hmmm.” Dwight scratched his head, then patted his stomach. “Anne, now I’m hungry. What were you going to have Cook make for dinner?”
“Dinner?” I stared at my brother.
“Well, Anne, you were just asking me—”
“Oh, go ask Cook to make you a sandwich.” Finally sliding off the desk, I brushed past my brother. “I can’t help you; I must find something to wear!”
“But he’s not coming until tomorrow morning!”
“I know! I hardly have any time!”
I left Dwight standing in the hallway, still scratching his head and saying, in a disgusted tone, “Women.”
“Men!” I called over my shoulder, already mentally going through my closet.
But I paused once, on my way to my room, to shake my head in wonder at my brother. How on earth could he think of food at a time like this?
“HELLO,” I SAID, opening the door. Then I looked up. Charles Lindbergh was standing before me, blocking out the bright morning sun. I’d forgotten how tall he was.
He had changed. He didn’t look like a boy any longer; he had a slightly wary look in those piercing blue eyes, and he appeared much more comfortable in civilian clothes—tweed trousers and a white shirt and tie, although he did have that battered leather jacket over his arm. In place of his helmet, however, he wore a fedora that was just like every fedora I’d ever seen on any banker, my father included.
He also had a pair of sunglasses in his pocket; he donned these quickly as he led me to his car.
“I’m afraid it’s a bit strange,” he explained, as he held the door open for me. Once I was settled, he went around and slid into the driver’s seat; as he did so, he pulled his hat brim low over his eyes.
“What is?”
“This—this getup.” He gestured to his face. “Sometimes I can manage to fool the press, if they’re not already on my tail. I don’t think they are today, fortunately. The moment they see you with me, they’ll have us engaged. I’ve been engaged to any number of women lately.”
He then appeared to think about what he had just said; his hand, poised to flip the ignition switch, froze. “I didn’t mean—”
“That’s all right,” I said hastily. “I understand.”
“Yes.” He nodded, then started the car; with a roar he drove down the circular driveway to the private road that led to the main street. We were in a new cream-colored Ford open roadster, so I pulled my cloche hat farther down on my head, holding on to it, praying it wouldn’t fly off. His hat remained mysteriously tethered to his head.
He did not drive fast, much to my surprise. For a man who loved to fly, he appeared cautious and careful on the ground, constantly looking over his shoulder in case cars approached from behind. Nor did he talk; after a few minutes of total silence, I began to feel as superfluous as the small green spider that had hitched a ride on the windshield. And so, as we drove through the city, then out into the country of Long Island, down roads I’d never before discovered, I had a long time in which to wonder if, indeed, he had called the wrong Morrow sister. Half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes, and still he spoke not a word to me, nor even looked my way. Months had passed since we’d seen each other, but obviously he did not feel compelled to explain what he had been up to, and so, out of defiance and a prickly sense of pride that made me set my mouth a certain way, neither did I.
I glanced at my wristwatch, then at the immobile face beside me, the eyes hidden by those round smoky lenses, the brow obscured by that magical hat.
But if he didn’t talk, neither did he give any indication that he expected me to. So I gave myself over to the purity of simply being, with him, on a fine summer day. Only once did I break the silence; it was when we drove along a lane bordered on either side with young birch trees.
“Oh, look! It’s like they’re bowing to us!” I couldn’t help but laugh, pointing as the tops of the trees shimmied ahead of us, bending in the light breeze. Charles nodded but kept his eyes on the road, and so I retreated once more, embarrassed by my outburst.
Finally we turned down a long gravel road that led to an open field. There, two planes were waiting; an enormous white French Normandy–styled house rose up in the distance, along with several barns and smaller dwellings.
Charles braked the car, and the engine sputtered off. He turned to me.
“Well, that was fun,” he said with a sudden, surprising grin, and I had to laugh.
“You like to drive?” I fingered the leather upholstery, dusty now. But it was certainly a fine automobile.
“I’m afraid I do. I used to have a motorcycle—an Indian—back when I was barnstorming. She was an extraordinary little machine, but I sold her to pay for my first plane, a Jenny.”
“Do you name all your machines after people?”
“I—oh, no. A Jenny is a type of plane—war surplus, they were used overseas and then refitted. We used them to fly the mail.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway.” He removed his sunglasses and his hat, and ran his hand through his sandy-colored hair. “Here we are.”
“Where are we, exactly?”
“Friends of mine happen to have a private airfield. So far, none of the press has found it out.”
“Oh.” I could see the water of the sound glittering in the distance, beyond a thicket of slender trees. “It’s lovely.”
“Yes. The Guggenheims have been good to me in all—this.” He waved his hands vaguely, and I understood him to mean everything that had happened to him
Then he cleared his throat and got out of the car. “It’s a good day for flying,” he said, pausing for a moment to survey the sky before he walked around to open my door. “Clear sailing, as far as we might want to go.”
“Good.” I scrambled after him as he strode toward the two airplanes, both silver and gleaming in the sun. He did not shorten his stride for me, and so once again, I had to run to keep up.
“You’ve not been up since I took you?” We reached the larger of the two planes, an enclosed monoplane with a longer wingspan. It was already pointed toward the flat airstrip.
“No.” And then I remembered that I had. I wondered why that memory had escaped me. Was it because it didn’t count, without him? Or because I felt oddly disloyal for flying with someone else?
“This is different than what we went up in before—more comfortable. For long-haul passenger flight, this is the type of plane we’ll be using, only even bigger. You don’t have to wear goggles.” And he opened a small door and helped me climb up into the cabin. The interior was hot—baked, actually, from sitting in the sun, and so I slipped out of my jacket, grateful for the short sleeves of my cotton blouse. I needn’t have worn jodhpurs; there were four wicker chairs bolted to the floor, two in front, two in back, all cushioned. I took my place in the front passenger seat as daintily as if I were at a tea party.
Charles climbed in on the pilot’s side and took a quick look at all the controls, pushing a few buttons, playing with some toggles and pedals on the floor. Then he handed me a stick of gum—that awful spearmint, but I accepted it gratefully, and started chewing away. He started the engine and it sputtered, the propeller whirling, but this time it seemed so far away; not at all like my first flight, when I could feel the choppy air on my face. Enclosed as we were, I could see only out the front and a limited bit to either side. The whine of the engine was muffled, although still loud; already my head was pounding with it.
“Here we go,” Charles said, and moved the control stick gently; the plane taxied down the field, picking up speed bit by bit until, once more, I felt suspended in a grand leap—before the wind caught us and propelled us up, up, up.
The moment we took flight, I noticed that Charles looked quickly out the side of his window, did a double take, and looked again. His hand gripped the stick, muttering something under his breath.
“What?” I asked, trying my best not to squeal in delight as we skimmed the tops of pine trees, so close I
