Hattie Ever After (14 page)

“Is that chair taken?” I stopped at the table for two where
Charlie sat by himself. Seeing him was like taking a long sip of cold water on a hot, hot day.

He stood and pulled the chair out for me. “I wasn’t sure that fellow would give you my message. He didn’t seem to think much of me.”

“Raymond wasn’t impressed with your dirty nails.” I sat down. The waiter saw me, held up the coffee carafe, and waggled it, as if to ask if I wanted a cup. I nodded. I didn’t really need any, but it would give me something to do with my hands.

“If he did anything but flit around behind that desk, he’d get his nails dirty, too.” Charlie glanced down. “Guess they are kind of stained. But it comes with the territory.”

I settled my dress. “That looks good.” Charlie’s breakfast of hash browns, eggs, bacon, and pie reminded my stomach that I’d skipped my wee-hours lunch to type another copy of my working-girls article.

When the waiter came with my coffee, Charlie ordered a second breakfast. “Eggs over medium this time,” he told the waiter. “That’s the way you like them, right?”

“Oh, I don’t need all that,” I protested.

“Yes, you do.” He pushed the sugar bowl my way. “Perilee keeps fussing, worried that you’re not eating. ‘She’ll be green-bean skinny,’ she says.” He looked me over. “You eat that breakfast or I’ll tell her she’s right.”

I
had
been scrimping on meals so the coins in my cold cream jar would multiply faster. There had been a lot of saltine and butter sandwiches lately. Time to change the subject. “I read that Eddie Hubbard was coming to town.” I
thought it best not to mention that I knew the writer of the article. Or that I knew why he was in town.

“It’s something a bright young reporter like you might be interested in.” His eyes twinkled in that wonderful Charlie way.

The waiter placed my breakfast in front of me. My stomach clenched at the sight of it. I’d told Charlie about my job at the paper but had never gotten around to telling him what that job was. He had assumed I was a reporter. It was time to fess up.

“Charlie …”

“Don’t you want your eggs?”

I took a bite. “Delicious.” I might as well have sampled the tablecloth.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Charlie’s face lit up like a starry night sky. “You’ve heard of Luisa Tetrazzini, the opera star, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s in town. Singing at some fancy theater.” He gobbled down a biscuit in two bites. “And she’s paid for an aerial tour of the city. Wouldn’t have any pilot but Eddie Hubbard.”

I poked at my fried eggs. “Your boss.”

“And
he
wouldn’t have any mechanic but me, so here I am.” He pushed his empty plate out of the way and slid the piece of pie in its place. “Seemed like a great story in it for you.”

Oh, this was awful. Here he was thinking about how he might be able to help me, and I hadn’t even been honest with
him. I cleared my throat to make sure I could trust my voice. “If the Great Tetrazzini’s going up in the air, some newshound has probably already sniffed it out.”

“Maybe.” Charlie cocked his head. “But maybe you’ll sniff out something another newshound doesn’t.” He reached over and forked off a piece of my uneaten peach pie. How could I have forgotten about that scar over his left eye that dimpled when he smiled? “Cancel that. There’s no ‘maybe’ when Hattie Brooks is on the case. Or whatever you call working a story.”

I didn’t deserve his faith in me. I set my fork down. “Charlie. I have to tell you something.” Everything spilled out.

“You stayed here to be a charwoman?” he asked when I’d finished. “You could have done that in Great Falls.”

“I’m doing more than that,” I said. “The research. And I do have the one baseball article. That’s something I wouldn’t have had in Great Falls.”

He shook his head. “I gotta hand it to you. You really are going after this, aren’t you?”

My heart melted at his kindness. His support. “I’m trying to,” I told him.

“You done with your food?” When I nodded, he opened his wallet and threw down a dollar bill to pay for our breakfasts. “I suppose you’d already planned to be at the airfield.”

“Yes.” I stood up. “I’ll see you there.”

At the door, he took my hand. When his palm slid next to mine, it was like a key slipping into my heart. I squeezed.
One-two-three
. Like I used to do with Mattie. Charlie didn’t know what that signal meant. Just as well.

“I have to say one thing, Hattie.” He squeezed back, then looked right at me with those mesmerizing eyes. “I wish you’d been straight with me about the job. I think I deserved that.”

I couldn’t disagree with him. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

He tugged me close, and I filled my lungs with his clean smell. “If a guy wants to be your fellow, he’d best learn to watch out for those snake balls you keep throwing.” His lips brushed my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

After we parted company, I walked back to the hotel, his words of forgiveness buoying me up as if I were a zeppelin. If it hadn’t been for my sturdy brown oxfords, I might have floated right away. How could I have forgotten how good Charlie smelled? How strong his hard-working hands? Or how being with him was like dipping into a beloved book? Maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe I should go to Seattle.

I stumbled over a stone on the sidewalk, jarring myself and my thoughts back to earth. My heart had no right to take over like this. It was a hammer making crooked nails out of all my plans to be a writer. Not a wife. I shot a cranky prayer heavenward, demanding to know why the good Lord had given Charlie Hawley eyes that made a girl forget everything she was working toward.

Back in my room, I pulled the covers over my head, aiming to get a few hours of shut-eye before the afternoon’s event. There was little shut-eye but much tossing and turning. Finally I gave up and got dressed to go out again. Ned and I had planned to meet in the newsroom. But he was nowhere to be seen when I arrived. The minutes ticked past and still no Ned.

“Aren’t you going to the airfield?” Miss D’Lacorte shrugged into a chiffon cocoon jacket.

I looked around. Was she speaking to me? Stunned at this attention from the Tiger Woman, I stammered out a reply. “I—I was supposed to go with Ned.”

She opened her pocketbook, pulled out a set of car keys, and jingled them. “I’d say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Ride with me.” She started for the elevator.

I hesitated. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d miss the flight. But what would Ned think when he arrived to find me gone? If he arrived. Besides, did one dare turn down an invitation from a tiger?

“Wait!” I hurried after her, one step behind the whole way to her car.

“Got your notebook?” she asked as she cranked the ignition.

I was glad I could answer affirmatively. “I keep it in my pocketbook,” I told her. A car honked as she lurched out into the street. I kept my eyes straight ahead. I hated to admit it, but Miss D’Lacorte made a good case against women having licenses to drive.

She took the next corner too sharply and sent a pedestrian scurrying back to the curb and me sliding up against the passenger door.

I pushed myself back to an upright seated position. “Are we late?” I hoped she’d hear the hint to slow down in my words.

“A reporter can never be too early.” She shifted gears and we rolled down O’Farrell. “Or too well prepared.” She glanced
over at me. “I suppose it’s hopeless to think you could write anything about Tetrazzini.” The Tiger’s claws unsheathed.

Thank goodness I’d thought to jot down some notes about the opera star when I’d been poking around in the morgue that time. I fished out my notebook and improvised. “Luisa Tetrazzini, called the Florentine Nightingale, was born June 29, 1871, and began singing opera as a child. She made her San Francisco debut in 1905.…”

Miss D’Lacorte held up one hand and gestured with the other. “Dry as—”

“Look out!” I flattened against the seat, steeling against a crash. She clasped the wheel and miraculously avoided hitting a jitney head-on.

“—dust,” she continued, unfazed by the mayhem she was causing. “You need to add some frosting to those facts. Help them go down sweeter.”

“She’s large.” I remembered her photograph in the paper. “Very large.”

“Hattie.” Miss D’Lacorte clicked her tongue. “And here I thought you actually had an imagination. What you mean to say is, ‘The Florentine Nightingale is full-figured, attesting to a life lived with verve and passion.’ ”

I continued. “The neighbor’s dog began to howl when I played one of her recordings on Maude’s Grafonola.” When it came to opera music, I sided with the dog.

“Her voice inspires each who hears to join the heavenly song,” Miss D’Lacorte paraphrased. A long, heavy sigh escaped her. “You’re not even trying.”

I sat, chewing the end of my pencil as we rattled pell-mell
to the Flying Field at the Presidio. It was hard to think clearly when facing certain death due to either an auto wreck or the sharp tongue of Marjorie D’Lacorte. I thought about how dramatics defined Miss D’Lacorte’s driving as well as her writing style. “How about this for the headline? ‘Florentine Nightingale Soars Over San Francisco.’ ”

That earned me a quick glance. “Not bad. Now, give me the lead.”

The lead? For a story yet to unfold? “I haven’t met her yet. Haven’t seen the flight!”

“Swizzle sticks. Never hurts to have a lead ready to go. Just in case.” She double-clutched. “Sometimes we record history, but sometimes we make it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Me? Make history?

“I’m dead serious.” She waggled her finger at me. “And you should be, too. I want one hundred words by the time we reach the airfield.”

“A hundred!” I nearly dropped the pencil.

“This job’s about quality
and
speed.” She honked at the driver in front of her. “Now get cracking.”

Okay. Okay. So what did I know? A fat—rather, a full-figured opera diva was going to go for a spin with Eddie Hubbard in one of Mr. Boeing’s seaplanes. It would hardly do to comment about whether the plane would get off the ground with such a passenger. Opera singer. Airplane. Opera singer. Airplane. Opera singer … famous pilot! I began to scribble. With that germ of an idea, I was able to knit together words, then sentences, faster than Perilee could knit a pair of baby booties.

“We’re nearly there.” Miss D’Lacorte extended her arm to signal the last turn. “Whatcha got?”

“It’s not very good,” I started.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “Give.”

“Here goes.” I cleared my throat and then, hesitantly, began to read. “Each night on the stage, the Florentine Nightingale, Luisa Tetrazzini, sends her listeners soaring with her cultivated tones. Each day, from far-flung airfields, Eddie Hubbard sends airplanes soaring with his piloting skills. Today, history was made when opera singer and pilot soared together over our fair city, allowing Madame Tetrazzini to hit the highest note of her grand career.”

The last word barely out of my mouth, I glanced over at Miss D’Lacorte. There wasn’t any reaction right away. Then, one corner of her lipsticked mouth curved up. Ever so slightly. “You might not be worthless after all.” With that pronouncement, she hurled the car into a parking spot near the airfield alongside a brand-new Packard. She turned off the engine, then shoved her door open, smacking it into the Packard. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Now the mayor will have one more thing to complain to Monson about!” She pulled out her handbag and shut the door. “Come on. That rat from the
Call
is already here.”

I followed her, feeling very much like a lamb trotting after a shepherd. I was tempted to grab the hem of her cocoon coat so as not to get separated. A knot of people, mostly reporters armed with notepads and photographers with flashes at the ready, stood near an airplane. I jotted down the model number, pleased with myself that I’d remembered Charlie’s
aeronautics lessons. Painted yellow, the plane looked like an oversized kite awaiting a good gust of wind. It sported a pair of red pontoons, like giant-sized clown shoes. Three wavy stripes of red, white, and blue adorned the tip of the tailpiece.

A photographer stood on one of the pontoons for close-up shots. He was of average height and yet he was tall enough to look over the top of the plane’s body. Could this flimsy machine really hold two people? Especially if one of them was the generously sized Luisa Tetrazzini?

There weren’t many familiar faces in the crowd. At least, not familiar to me. Miss D’Lacorte seemed to know everyone. That must be Mr. Boeing, shaking hands with the mayor. Near them, Flash and another photographer jockeyed around one another for the best shots of the scene. The man off to the side, smoking and talking to Charlie as he worked on the plane, must be Eddie Hubbard. I weaved around a clump of reporters for a better view of Charlie at work.

There was no chance of my disturbing his endeavors. If he was occupied with a job that tickled his fancy, like working on planes, a body could dress like Helen of Troy and ride a mare backward, all the while singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Charlie would pay no never-mind. Of course, I had no room to talk. How many times had I headed to the morgue, intent on finding out something about Uncle Chester, unaware I’d worked through my midnight meal until my stomach put up a terrible ruckus? I had no idea what Charlie was doing with those tools over there, but he was doing it with fierce intensity.

My attention was diverted by a caravan of touring cars gliding toward the airfield. As soon as the first car came to a stop, a man wearing a top hat and evening jacket hopped out and scurried to the second. He opened the door and offered his hand. From that second car a very large woman emerged. She seemed to get stuck in the opening, but the man in the fancy dress gave a firm tug and she popped out, like a fat pickle from a small jar.
“Buon giorno!”
She waved a riding crop to the crowd. “Hello!”

This Florentine Nightingale had no trouble making herself heard. Two photographers ran at her, flash powder flaring in their Victor pans. “Oh, fine. That’s Three-Alarm Dooley,” Miss D’Lacorte said over her shoulder. “Let’s hope he doesn’t set the Great Tetrazzini on fire.” She followed the rest of the reporters, far at the back, but soon she had grapevined her way through the crush, and there she was, right out front, right next to Luisa Tetrazzini.