Elizabeth Lane - On the Wings of Love

Alex watched her mother go, sorry now that she had been so difficult. Maude’s life was hard enough without a contrary and willful daughter adding to the burdens of it. Alex knew. She knew it all too well.

She remembered her first year at boarding school. She’d been only fourteen at the time, and racked with homesickness. On a dreary November Saturday she had impulsively caught a train home, arriving at the station just after dusk.

Alex would never forget the look of the house that evening as she walked up the drive—strangely dark and brooding, with just one light, dimly flickering in the window of her parents’ bedroom. Buck’s dark green Cadillac was parked at the foot of the front steps.

The door was unlocked. Alex stepped into the cavernous foyer. “Mama? Papa?”

No one had answered, not even the servants. Alex had been close to tears before she remembered that this was the night of her mother’s big charity ball. Not only would she be busy running the affair at the country club, but Mamie, the cook, and Cummings, the butler, would be helping as well.

That was when she’d heard it—the creak of a floorboard in an upstairs room, and faintly, the rumble of her father’s laughter.

“Papa!” she’d whispered eagerly. She was not alone after all. Grabbing her satchel, she’d raced up the stairs.

At the landing she’d hesitated. The upstairs hallway had been dark, the door to her parents’ bedroom closed. Only a sliver of yellow light had shone through the crack at the bottom.

Trembling, Alex had listened and waited. At last her hand had crept to the doorknob, then hesitated as she heard another sound, a rhythmic creaking that sounded like a bedspring.

Then, from beyond the door, a high-pitched laugh—a woman’s laugh, certainly not her mother’s—had shattered the darkness.

Alex had never told anyone about the experience. It remained imbedded in her soul like a splinter, as sharp and painful as the day it had happened.

Now, gingerly, she explored the tender area. She had to understand it. Sooner or later she would likely be married. She would be vulnerable, open to the same hurt and betrayal her mother had suffered. And she was afraid.

But surely she’d have the sense to fall in love with someone kind and decent, someone who would cherish and respect her. Not all men were like her father, Alex reassured herself. Or like Rafe Garrick.

She caught her breath, stunned by the force with which the young pilot’s image had entered her mind. Impressions rushed over her—standing in the surf with her arms around him, his head heavy against her breast, his dark, wet lashes lifting to give her the first glimpse of his eyes. She remembered afterward, undressing in her room, standing naked before the mirror, then picking up the sodden purple gown to touch the spots that were stained with his blood.

And only a short time ago she had come up from the beach and gone into his room. He had been sleeping—or so she’d thought. She had stood beside his bed, her eyes tracing the strong, stubborn lines of his face, the oddly attractive twist of his broken nose, the wave of dark chestnut hair that tumbled onto his forehead. A warm sense of possession had stolen over her. After all, hadn’t she been the first to reach him? Hadn’t she saved him from the sea? It was almost as if part of his life belonged to her.

Then Rafe Garrick had awakened, banishing all her illusions. He was not the kind of man to be possessed by her or by anyone. He was arrogant. He was quarrelsome. For all she knew, he could be out of his mind. And she would be out of her own mind as well, Alex told herself, if she had anything more to do with him.

“Alex!” Maude’s stricken cry from the upstairs window shattered her thoughts. “Telephone Dr. Fleury quickly! Mr. Garrick has fallen! I fear he may be dead!”

“He’s coming around.” Dr. Henry Fleury, a portly man in his sixties with small, neat hands and a mustache like William Howard Taft’s, waved a vial of ammonia under Rafe’s nose. “You needn’t have worried, Maude. It looks like he just fainted. Probably tried to get up too soon. He’s lucky he didn’t crack his skull on that armoire or do more damage to those broken ribs.”

“Thank heaven!” Maude sighed. “He was so white and so still. I really feared for a moment—”

Rafe moaned sharply and jerked his head as the ammonia vapor nipped into his senses. Alex hovered over them both, bobbing back and forth in an effort to get a closer look.

“Is he going to be all right?” she asked, truly anxious.

“Don’t worry, he’s a strong lad. He’ll mend as good as new. But I’d recommend you keep him in bed for a few more days.” Fleury glanced at Alex. He’d been the family doctor for as long as she could remember, and there was little about any of them that escaped his notice. What was he seeing now as he looked at her?

Rafe moaned again, his eyelids twitching as he inhaled the pungent spirits. Maude had found him facedown on the floor. Cummings had managed to hoist him back onto the bed, where he lay sprawled, his rangy frame filling the length and breadth of the mattress.

“That’s it,” said Fleury. “Wake up, lad. Let’s hope that fall knocked a little sense into you. You’re in no condition to be strolling about.”

“Oh!” Alex gave a little gasp as Rafe’s eyes opened, staring not at her but at the doctor.

“Who…who the bloody hell are you?” he muttered groggily.

“Mind your tongue. There are ladies here.” Fleury scowled in mock severity. “I set your leg yesterday, and I’ll thank you to stop trying to undo my good work.”

“Yesterday!” Rafe struggled to sit up. “What’s happened? Where’s my aeroplane?”

Fleury braced an arm against Rafe’s chest and used his considerable weight to keep the younger man down. “Not a word,” he said firmly. “Not until you lie back and promise not to move.”

Rafe’s breath eased out as he lay back on the pillow. “All right,” he said, grimacing with the pain in his ribs. “You’ve got me. I’m not going anywhere. Now somebody tell me what’s going on.”

“Simple enough.” The bedsprings creaked as Fleury sat down on a corner of the bed. “Your aeroplane crashed offshore yesterday afternoon. You were pulled out of the wreck, barely conscious. I set the leg and gave you a sedative to make you sleep. If I’d known you’d be rash enough to get up, I’d have strapped you to the bed.”

“My aeroplane—” He lifted his head, straining to sit up again.

“My good man, I’m a doctor, not a mechanic. I only know that you have some cracked ribs and a nasty fracture that won’t heal unless you’ve the patience to rest.”

“Damn the leg! Damn the ribs! How badly damaged is my aeroplane?”

There was a short silence. Maude glanced warningly at her daughter, but Alex spoke anyway.

“They just brought it off the beach. It looks like a kite that’s been stomped on by the town bully,” she said, her eyes watching his face.

Rafe’s breath hissed out as he sank back onto the pillow, looking weary and vulnerable. “Naturally,” he said in a bitter voice. “One doesn’t ram an aircraft down nose first and expect it to bounce back like India rubber. Damn! If only I could have leveled it out in time!”

“You ought to be grateful you got out alive,” said Fleury. “Aeroplanes can be replaced. People can’t.”

Rafe scowled. “People heal. Aeroplanes don’t. This was the only one I had. I designed and built it myself, and there’s not another like it in the world.”

“The wings look all right.” Alex’s tone had gentled. “It’s the front end that’s smashed the worst. The engine’s hanging loose, and the rear parts are out of kilter—”