A Flying Affair Read Online Free

fluffed out Mittie’s dark curls, tucking a few wisps behind each ear before arranging the hat at a flattering angle.
    “What do you think?”
    Mittie gasped at her reflection. “I think you’re a living doll—that’s what!” Simple, yet elegant. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel like she was the object of a safari after all. In the mirror, she saw her mother approach and nod in approval.
    “I simply do not know how Louisville survived without you, Nell. Every one of the bridesmaids’ hats are perfect. Just think: someday you’ll be making Mittie’s bridal veil.” She dabbed at the corner of her moist eye.
    “Mother, don’t start getting sappy. Let’s get Iris married first.”
    Her mother waved a hand. “Your day will come.” She draped an arm around Nell and said she had some questions about Iris’ trousseau.
    Mittie thought of her visit to Nell when she lived in New York, the visit where Mittie had met—and flown with—Ames. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Four years, and Ames had shown up in Louisville. Her skin was still tingling with the thought when Martha Vine declared the fittings complete and said the dresses would be delivered by the following afternoon.
      
    Cornelia Humphreys, Mittie’s paternal grandmother, in a suit the color of a new buffalo nickel, greeted them when they arrived at the Brown Hotel. She patted the chair next to her for Mittie to have a seat. Her marcel-waved hair beneath a charcoal silk hat matched her outfit exactly. A tuft of netting at the front skimmed her thin, arched brows. Mittie idolized her—her no-nonsense manner, the way she didn’t give in to the conventions of style but still managed to pull off a surprisingly fashionable look, even at age seventy-four. Widowed since Mittie was three, she lived in a grand but small stone home at the back of Morning Glory Farms property—one with a view of her beloved saddlebreds and in the perfect location to keep an eye on everything that went on.
    Her grandmother leaned in and whispered, “You and Gypsy were having quite a frolic this morning.” She patted Mittie’s hand, liver spots dotting the weathered hands that had handled horses and weren’t afraid of hard work. Hands that offered a firm shake when sealing horse agreements and yet were tender enough to caress Mittie and Iris when they’d come to her with strawberries on skinned knees, bee stings, and broken hearts.
    While Mittie and her grandmother talked about Gypsy and how she’d progressed with her gait training, conversation bubbled around the table. They nibbled on shrimp “fresh from the gulf and trucked in special for y’all,” the waiter had said.
    Mittie’s gaze caught Nell’s, and she thought her cousin looked a bit wan. Perhaps the wedding trousseau questions from Mittie’s mom had been too much, the pinch of last-minute changes. Nell bit off a corner of cracker, her shrimp cocktail untouched.
    Soup followed and then the main course: a luncheon portion of Hot Brown, the chef’s specialty that had caught on like wildfire with the locals. Mittie took a bite and wondered if they would serve it to Charles Lindbergh at his Louisville banquet. She would suggest it on the typed notes she took to Gordon at the mayor’s office tomorrow. Tomorrow. She’d told Ames Dewberry she was too busy to see him, but if she worked it just right, maybe she could squeeze in a stop at Bowman Field after seeing Gordon. She wanted to know more about the barnstorming. She’d read about it in the papers, how planes buzzed over farms and put on shows with aerial tricks, but she hadn’t ever met anyone who actually did it. Her skin tingled.
    “Mittie!” Her mother’s voice drew her out of her rambling thoughts, and from the look on her face, it wasn’t the first time her mother had said her name. “Mittie, dear, as the maid of honor, wouldn’t you like to propose a toast for Iris?”
    “Oh, sure. Don’t know what got into me.” She rose and hoisted her water glass.