“I just made a phone call,” he muttered. Then he patted the tail of the airplane fondly. “Check this one out really well before you go. We haven’t taken it up yet, so it hasn’t run since… my dad died.”
Only a slight hesitation let me know he felt a stab of pain as he said the words. I felt the stab too and wished he’d left the sentence hanging. But I was impressed that he’d gotten it out.
He slipped back into the shadows of the hangar.
With a sigh, I turned to my airplane. And immediately cheered up. I was about to fly again.
But first I had a lot of things to check. I walked all around the plane, running my hand along the fuselage, looking for anything broken. I checked the oil. I pulled the towbar on the back of the plane, checked the ropes and hooks for towing the banners, and brought the hooks into the cockpit so I could throw them out the window at just the right time. I went back into the hangar, my eyes straining in the dark after the bright sunlight, and felt blindly in a toolbox for a dipstick. Grayson was in a far corner of the hangar, rummaging around the red Piper, and didn’t say anything. I went back out and checked the gas. Then I hopped up into the seat and started the engine—my pulse raced with the roar—and taxied over to the gas pumps.
One of Mr. Simon’s Air Tractors was parked there already. I hoped Mark wasn’t in it. But of course he would be. That was my luck. As I drove closer, I saw I was right. Mark climbed out of the cockpit very slowly, like he was hungover. No surprise there either.
He glanced over at my plane. I faced the sun, and I hoped he hadn’t seen me behind the glare off the windshield. He might not know I was flying for Grayson. I could shrink behind the controls and let him pump his gas and taxi away before I got out, thus avoiding another shitstorm altogether.
Settling back to wait, I pulled off my shirt and opened one of the windows to circulate the air in the already hot cockpit. Even though it was only the middle of April, it was summer. The trees across the runway were in full leaf. The grass where Zeke wrestled with the banner was green and long, waving in the breeze like it was tapping its foot, waiting for somebody to wake up from a long winter’s nap and cut it. Really the summer lasted here from April until October, at least. It was strange that the town filled with spring breakers in March, when the weather was so fickle, warm one day and wintry the next. It was strange that the town cleared of tourists in the warm September and October, when the gray tide rolled onto the tan beach under a blue sky without giving it much thought, unimpeded by drunk college students and dangerously sunburned children and obese tattooed exhibitionists. Summer in Heaven Beach went on whether people noticed or not.
I opened the other window. Along with warm air, the heavy scent of honeysuckle rushed in, and the growl of Alec’s plane. He dropped out of the sky and dipped low over the grass, headed for the banner pickup between the poles. The sight was frightening. He looked like he was going too slow to remain airborne. But I knew from experience that this was what a banner pickup looked like, and there was no getting the human eye used to it. The nose pitched up sharply. The engine groaned. The plane slowed even more, perilously close to losing lift and dropping like a stone. The banner, which had been all but invisible sleeping in the grass, protested being roused. It wiggled and thrashed and finally, when it couldn’t resist any longer, unfurled to its full length and height in a diagonal line behind Alec’s still-climbing plane: 4$ COCKTALLS LIV BAND CAPTAN FRANKS LOUNG.
Wow, Zeke couldn’t spell. If that episode back in the hangar was a sample of how Grayson would act for the rest of the week—an awful lot like his father—he was going to blow a gasket.
I turned back to Mark, who was knocking his head repeatedly against the gas pump. Something wasn’t right—something other than Mark. I had pumped enough gas into airplanes that I could tell. Then I realized what it was. I jumped out of the cockpit. “Mark, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
He kept his forehead on the gas pump but turned to look at me. “Back so soon? I knew you’d change your mind.”
I stopped the gas pump, carefully took the heavy nozzle out of Mark’s gas tank, and hit the button for the electric motor to coil the hose back up. Quickly I checked the area for sparks, small fires, anything else unusual. While Mark watched, I uncoiled the grounding clip, pulled it across the asphalt, and attached it to the tailpipe of the crop duster. “Didn’t your uncle teach you never to pump gas without grounding your airplane first? You could cause a spark and blow the whole place up.”
“That never happens,” he said.
Which was true. But only because everybody was grounding their airplanes before they pumped gas, except him.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I insisted. “A spark that ignited the underground gas tank would take half the airport with it.”
He grinned and shrugged. “Some way to go. Boom! At least it wouldn’t hurt.” He cocked his head to one side, then closed his eye like moving his head had hurt. He eased his head back to its normal position. “What are you doing in that dead guy’s plane?”
The confrontation was inevitable now. Better to have it while nobody was watching. “I’m flying for Hall Aviation.”
“No!” he shouted.
I shrank back at the violence of his reaction.
The next second, the violence was gone, and he gave me a charming smile. “Come fly for my uncle! I’ll take you up…”
“When?” I prompted him.
“Soon. Patrick’s having a party tonight. Come with me and we’ll talk about it.”
“Take that ‘blond’ friend of yours.” I made finger quotes around her bleach-blond hair with black roots. “I have to get to work.”
He must have been in a lot of trouble with his uncle and very late, because with only a few more pointed looks up and down my body, he taxied back to Mr. Simon’s hangar.
Standing in the cockpit doorway and hauling the heavy hose on top of the wing, I gassed up my own plane on the Hall Aviation account, then carefully retracted the hose and the grounding wire. My heart sped faster and faster as I cranked the engine again, slipped on the headphones, and taxied to the end of the runway.
Here I paused, going through Mr. Hall’s checklist in my mind. The hand controls and foot pedals moved the flaps and the rudder the way they were supposed to. I put my finger on every dial in the instrument panel in turn, making sure each was working. The meter confirmed I had a full tank of gas. The altimeter worked. Finally I ran up the engines and checked the magnetos. The plane vibrated like it would shake to pieces, but all three Pipers were like that. There wasn’t much else I could do to find out whether the plane was working properly short of flying and crashing.