Free A Flying Affair by Carla Stewart Page A

suit she’s wearing. Let’s see what you have.”
    Mittie held up a boxy chocolate-colored dress with a short fawn jacket piped around the cuffs and collar with the same chocolate. “There’s a scarf, too, which I forgot to bring. Coral and turquoise, and I have shoes like the ones Clara Bow wore in Dancing Mothers. Did you see that?”
    “No, there’s not much time since Quentin has taken that little church.”
    “And you’ve been busy making babies. You doing okay?”
    “Better than at first. Still dragging around by evening, but Mama says that will soon pass and I’ll be a mass of energy.” She eyed Mittie’s dress and pulled a cloche from a stand. “How about this in the jacket color, and I’ll add a tiny MG Farms insignia in the coral and turquoise? Your grandmother was pleased with the one I did for her.”
    “Perfect.” Mittie tossed the dress aside and held up the other outfit—a navy trouser suit.
    Nell’s eyes widened and she inhaled with a sharp intake of air.
    “Go ahead and say it. You think I’ve flipped. Mother thinks so, but I wear jodhpurs for riding and flying, so why not elsewhere? I’ve heard Coco Chanel is mad about wearing trousers herself. Who knows? Maybe they’ll catch on and everyone will be dashing out to get them.”
    Nell sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Mittie. Only you would be so bold.”
    “Brazen is what Mother said.”
    “So that’s really why you’re getting her a present?”
    “You know she drives me mad.”
    “And you do things to exasperate her.”
    “How else would she know I love her?”
    Nell put a hand on her hip. Truly, to be so mild-mannered, Nell had a way of getting to Mittie that neither Iris nor her mother could do.
    Mittie pressed the linen trousers against her body and held up the jacket. “So what do you think? A navy bowler to match the jacket?”
    Nell scrunched her lips. “No. If you’re going to make a statement, then let’s go with scarlet. It would add a patriotic touch.”
    “That’s me—the all-American troublemaker.”
    “That’s what makes people love you.”
    “Ha! Ames loves me so much he went to Kansas. Goodness knows when he’ll be back.”
    “But you’ve still got that cute newcomer from London, Bobby something.”
    “Grandmother must’ve talked about more than the horse show. York. His name is Bobby York, and while he’s charming, I’m convinced it was a setup, a little ploy by Mother and Daddy to push me toward a proper suitor like you Brits are so fond of saying?”
    “You’re a fright, Mittie Humphreys. His name has a nice ring to it, though. Are you going to see him again?”
    “As a matter of fact, I am, but not like you’re thinking. It turns out he’s a flying instructor with all the credentials, and I’m going to start taking lessons from him when he gets it all set up. Maybe as soon as next week.”
    “Just what you’ve been wanting.”
    “It is.” Mittie checked her watch. “Gotta dash.” She turned to leave as the door chimed, and Wilma Lamberson waltzed into the shop.
    Mittie swallowed hard and kept the smile on her face. “Mrs. Lamberson, how nice to see you. How’s Dobbs?”
    Wilma, a stout woman with mousy hair and a dour disposition, blinked. “Oh, well, if it isn’t Mittie Humphreys. I’d heard that some kinfolk of yours had this shop.”
    “My cousin Nell, and you will love her. She can do anything you can imagine with hats.”
    “The way you do with pony carts, I suppose.”
    Mittie’s neck burned with the insinuation. And she probably deserved it, but she wouldn’t let the woman get to her. “No, Nell is patient and gentle and kind as well as talented.” She turned to Nell. “I’m not aware if you two have met. This is Wilma Lamberson. Her son Dobbs took horse showing instructions from us when he and I were fifteen.”
    A flicker of understanding crossed Nell’s face. She extended her hand. “I’m Nell Bledsoe. Welcome to my shop.”
    Mittie waved and started toward