Nina almost groaned. “Why?”
“You killed that German and saved my life,” he said simply. “You’re no coward. And if you can’t bring yourself to desert a stranger like me, you wouldn’t desert your regiment unless you had to.”
Nina did groan then. “I can’t believe someone as trusting as you has managed to live this long, Englishman!”
He smiled. “My friends call me Seb.”
Chapter 42
Jordan
August 1950
Boston
Well, Jordan thought, this is awkward. In fact, you could take a snap of this group standing here on the airfield and caption it Ex-Fiancés: A Study in Awkwardness.
“Hello,” she said as cordially as possible, considering she hadn’t seen Garrett Byrne since she’d handed his diamond back and he’d told her to take her advice and shove it. And now they’d bumped into each other at the tiny airfield outside Boston where Garrett had first taken her flying, which wouldn’t have been so bad had Jordan been alone, but she had Tony at her side, standing there with eyes that danced hilarity at all the things that weren’t being said. For a man who had spent years interpreting the spoken word, Tony was remarkably good at interpreting the unspoken ones. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Garrett.”
Her former fiancé wore oil-stained coveralls, very different from the summer-weight suit he wore to work beside his father. “I work here full-time now, helping in the hangar and piloting the joyrides. I bought a part share,” he emphasized. “I’m looking to make something of the place, eventually buy out Mr. Hatterson. Dad wasn’t too happy at first, but he’s come around some.”
So you took my advice, after all, Jordan thought. Garrett looked far more natural in coveralls than in a suit. She managed not to say I told you so! but he could probably tell she was thinking it.
“What are you doing here?” Garrett folded his arms across his chest, eyes drifting to Tony, who had slung an arm around Jordan’s waist. “We’ve met, haven’t we? Timmy?”
“Tony. Rodomovsky. Nice to meet you again, Gary.”
“Garrett. Byrne.”
“Right.”
Jordan shook Tony’s arm off. Really, men. “I wanted to take some shots of the mechanics, if they’re willing.” A Mechanic at Work—her shots of the local boys at the Clancy family garage hadn’t come out, there just wasn’t much visual grandeur in car engines. “Would anyone mind if I went into the hangar and snapped a roll?”
Another man, she thought, might have been spiteful and said no. Garrett just gave a stiff nod, eyes drifting past Tony to the person hovering impatiently behind. “Are you going to introduce me to your other friend?”
Jordan opened her mouth, but Nina Graham ran right over her. “You have planes?” she asked in her strange accent, coming forward in a clack of boots. “Let’s see.”
Jordan had been rather startled to see a blond head in the backseat of Tony’s Ford when he came by the house to pick Jordan up. “I’m sorry to say we have a third wheel,” Tony said with a glare at his passenger. “Jordan McBride, may I introduce Nina Graham, Ian’s wife. The moment she heard me mention this morning that I was driving you to an airfield, she invited herself along.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Graham—” Jordan began, but an impatient flap of the hand cut her off.
“Nina. So you’re the girl Antochka likes.” She looked Jordan over, speculative, and Jordan murmured pleasantries even as she was thinking, Rats. A third wheel in the backseat—there was definitely not going to be any pulling over on the way to the airfield for kissing. With Anneliese still in Concord, Ruth gone every afternoon to a neighbor’s house to play, the shop safe in the capable Mrs. Weir’s hands, and with Ian Graham and his wife absent on some sort of driving tour for the past few weeks, Jordan and Tony had had the freedom for quite a lot of kissing. Jordan had been looking forward to more today, because Tony kissed like a man who actually enjoyed it, not a man who hurried through five minutes of it as a prelude to unbuttoning a girl’s blouse. Only now there was this woman in the backseat who Jordan hadn’t met before, though what she’d heard had certainly been interesting.
“Ian’s Red war bride,” Tony had said. “Don’t ask.”
Jordan had envisioned an exotic beauty in sables, not this compact bullet of a woman in shabby boots. Now, Nina Graham was shaking Garrett’s hand in business-like fashion, firing off questions. “You have what, Travel Air 4000 there? What else? Stearman, Aeronca, Waco—”
“Mostly American craft.” Garrett straightened, listing aircraft, and Jordan was amused to see his most charming smile wink on like a searchlight. “You’re an enthusiast, Mrs. Graham?”
Nina smiled modestly. “I fly a little.”
“Well, let me show you a few things while Jordan and Timmy here look around . . .”
“Holy hell,” Tony whispered in Jordan’s ear as Garrett sauntered off with Nina at his elbow, looking up earnestly as he expounded. “He’s flirting with her.”
“He’s trying to make me jealous.” Jordan smiled as she dug in her bag for film, relieved to realize she didn’t feel jealous. The last bit of proof, if she’d needed it, that it had been right to call off the wedding.
Garrett’s voice floated over. “. . . this Travel Air here, her name’s Olive. Pilots like to name their planes, did you know that? I could take you up for a quick spin, go easy on you—”
Tony spluttered laughter. “She’s going to eat him alive.”
“Enjoy the show,” Jordan said, laughing too. “I’m going to get my shots.”
Tony carried her bag into the hangar, looked around for the mechanics, backed her unhurriedly into the shadow of a decrepit crop duster, and gave her a long kiss. “For later,” he murmured, “when we lose the third wheel, after she’s eaten Gary boots, bones, and coveralls.”
Another kiss, even longer. Jordan pulled back eventually, trying to remember why she was here. A Mechanic at Work. Right.
She found the mechanics and introduced herself, chatted lightly, flattered them, and got them laughing—she’d picked up a few things from Tony, the way he got subjects to relax. She waved the mechanics back to work, asking admiring questions, scolding when they tried to meet the camera’s eye, clicking away once they got absorbed. Two rolls of film, no fuss. I’m getting better at this, she thought, thanking her subjects. Her photo-essay was taking wonderful shape, the centerpiece of the work she’d have to show when she began job hunting in New York. Soon she’d have to begin thinking about an apartment, job interviews . . .
And breaking the news to Ruth that yes, her sister really was going away, but she’d be back every month to visit. Jordan grimaced. Ruth knew about the New York plan, but wouldn’t acknowledge it—and lately, she was so obsessed with music that she barely noticed anything that wasn’t violin shaped. Every evening, without Anneliese here to sneak around, Jordan took Ruth to practice at the closed shop; she’d play clear through supper if Jordan didn’t drag her home. “Ruth’s doing very well,” Jordan said carefully over the telephone when Anneliese called from Concord.