Page 2 of Soaring Sweethearts

“Jack, I could use your help,” she said, trying to sound professional instead of like the kid sister she knew he considered her. “I need a ride to Moishe’s Deli to get Mr. Dickson. There’s been an accident.”

His smile dropped. “Who?”

“Al Hoffman.” She was proud of how steady she kept her voice as she said it.

Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Still holding onto her arm, he squeezed it. His touch soothed and reassured her, even as it stirred up an unwelcome warmth that made her blush. It was embarrassing how comforting she found his presence.

“Can you drive me to the deli?” She made herself look into his eyes, collected and calm.

“Of course,” he said, releasing her then patting her shoulder.

She was his honorary kid sister once again. That was all she’d ever been to him. Which was why it was a good thing she’d gotten over the shock of his proposing to someone else after the war and moved on.

Grabbing her light spring jacket and her purse, she followed him out to his Model T. He opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed in while he cranked up the car.

Soon they were driving along the streets of Newark, past factories and warehouses, until they reached a row of shops and restaurants. Neither of them spoke as they sped to their destination.

There was the sign for Moishe’s above a scalloped blue awning. As soon as Jack parked, she rushed inside, past the glass deli case to the tables in the back. Mr. Dickson sat at a café table with half a sandwich on his plate, reading the New York Times. The smell of pastrami and pickles pervaded the air.

“Pardon me, Mr. Dickson,” she said, making him jump.

“Miss Pritchard, what are you doing here?” He patted his handlebar mustache with a napkin.

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. The words were too horrible. Her throat tightened, and her eyes prickled. She had to force herself to breathe.

Chin up. You can deliver this news without breaking. You’re a professional.

“There’s been a fatal accident near Bellefonte.” There. She’d said it with only the slightest wobble in her voice, even though her knees wanted to give way beneath her.

“Who?” Mr. Dickson demanded.

“Al Hoffman.” Her voice cracked as she said his name, but Mr. Dickson was too busy leaving a few coins and abandoning his half-eaten sandwich to notice.

Brushing past her, he said, “Thank you, Miss Pritchard. I’ll return immediately.”

Letting out a trembling breath, Constance hurried back to Jack, who was waiting in the car.

“I see you found him,” Jack said, glancing at Mr. Dickson’s retreating back. “Are you heading back now?”

“Yes.” The last thing she wanted to do was return to her little desk and wait for more terrible news to arrive. How was she supposed to function for the rest of the day after a shock like that? But she had no choice. This was the job.

She started to open the car door, but Jack gave he a warning look.

Getting out, he rushed to the passenger side to open the door for her.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, climbing in. Really, he was too much sometimes. As if chivalry mattered at a time like this.

As they drove back to the airport, the full weight of the accident began to sink in. It wasn’t Ernie or Jack, but it could have been. They took too many risks. All the airmail pilots did.

A tear dripped down her cheek, despite her efforts to hold it back.

This is what you signed up for, remember? You knew this sort of thing could happen when you took the job.

It paid too well for her to pass it by. Her family needed the money so that they didn’t need to rely so much on Ernie, who had enough on his plate with a new wife and a new house.

And if anything ever happened to him, she didn’t know what would happen to the family. They relied on him so much. Ever since Pop’s accident in the factory, Ernie had supported them all. Her new job would help lighten his load, but it wasn’t enough to set him free.

“Constance, are you all right?” Jack asked, glancing away from the road and taking in her face.