Free A Flying Affair by Carla Stewart

bone in his body. You should see what he does with the ladder we sometimes drop from the underbelly of the plane.”
    “Seriously?” A chill raced over Mittie’s bare arms. She’d seen jockeys who took terrible chances, and if they were skilled, it paid off. Her eyes met Ames’. “I want to learn to do that. Can you teach me? Or get Buster to show me?”
    “Would love to, doll, but we’re headed up to French Lick this evening.”
    “Going to take the healing waters at the mineral springs?”
    “No, meeting someone interested in my air intake invention.”
    “Well then, how about next week?”
    Ames shook his head. “We’ll be in Wichita by then.”
     “Ah, Amelia Earhart’s state. If she were joining you, I’d hop on the next train.”
    “Don’t think she’s from Wichita, but you’d be welcome if you showed up.”
    “What kind of death-defying acts are you going to do there?”
    “Stunts, my sweet, not acts. And it depends on what the others have lined up. We aim for variety. You serious about coming?”
    “Next time, maybe, if I had a little advance notice.” It was tempting. The whole day had been exhilarating, but Bobby York had danced in the back of her mind as well. Weaver had hired him to give lessons at Bowman Field, and Mittie had asked if she could be his first student. She wanted to surprise Ames with her skill when he returned.
    “Like you gave me for the wedding.” His voice teased the air, and when she offered to take him to town to his hotel or wherever he was staying, he shrugged.
    “My night to sleep under the stars and watch the planes. Could use your company.”
    “And with that line, I’m leaving. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
      
    A chime sounded when Mittie pushed open the door to the Nightingale’s Song Hat Shoppe. Her cousin, Nell, was busy with a customer and said she’d be with her in a tick, her British accent reminiscent of Bobby York.
    “No hurry. I’ll make myself at home.” Mittie tossed the togs she planned to wear to the horse show in West Virginia on a nearby chair and ambled about.
    Nell had made improvements to the little shop on Bardstown Road. A settee covered in a divine cabbage rose print was angled in the corner. Vogue and Everylady’s magazines fanned out across a coffee table that had once belonged to Nell’s grandmother in England—not the grandmother they shared, but Lady Mira, who had bequeathed Nell and her sister some of her things when she died. The shop could pass as a British cottage, which was probably why it was one of the most popular salons in Louisville. Nell’s talent for putting people at ease was almost as remarkable as her millinery skills. The latest hat designs were scattered throughout the shop, and on the far wall a glass jeweler’s case displayed fashion baubles everyone was raving for—tasseled brooches, over-the-elbow gloves, beaded bags, long ropey pearls.
    The door chimed as the customer left, leaving Mittie and Nell with the shop to themselves.
    “So business is still good, I see.”
    “Lovely, as a matter of fact. Once the newspaper ran the story about the Lindbergh visit, I’ve had a flurry of clients.”
    “See and be seen—the mantra of every fashionable woman in America.” Mittie pointed to a mother-of-pearl cigarette case in the glass display. “Mother would love that. She’s been mopey lately with Iris gone and not having to wait on Daddy so much. Can you wrap it?”
    “Absolutely. Nice choice.” She asked about Iris.
    “All we’ve had is a postcard from Niagara Falls.”
    “I know you miss her.”
    “More than you can imagine. I’m thrilled for her, but it’s not the life for me.”
    “You said you needed a couple of hats for next month.”
    “The horse show in West Virginia. I’m driving Grandmother over. Daddy wants to go in the worst way, but Mother had a conniption when he mentioned it.”
    “Actually, your grandmother came by and picked out the most adorable hat to go with a heather