The Invitation Read online

  This is heaven, Jackie thought. Next to fifteen snap rolls one after another, this was as good as life got. She was on her pretty couch, doing the best she could to keep her mind on the radio program that William had on, but the truth was, she was watching him as he polished a foot-high stack of shoes, both his and hers. She complained and she hated his presumption, but maybe it was rather nice to open a sewing basket and take out a pair of scissors instead of a stapler. And it would be nice to put on shiny shoes.

  It was raining outside, so William had built a fire to take the chill off the cool mountain night. He’d insisted that Jackie stretch out on the couch, a thick blanket draped over her, and she was to do nothing but be quiet and listen to the radio. And watch him, she thought. Who would have thought that seeing a man do something as domestic as polish shoes could have such an effect on her? In a way this simple action made her think more of love than all his kisses did. As Jackie well knew, it wasn’t passion that made for a good marriage, it was the little things. If something needed to be assembled, could one of you read the directions while the other constructed? In Jackie’s experience, a man didn’t like to take orders from a woman for anything at all. Did the two of you bicker? That petty arguing could ruin evenings and afternoons.

  Jackie had learned that it wasn’t enough for two people to fall in love; they had to get along on a day-to-day basis, had to be able to live in peace and harmony.

  And that was her problem with William. He was very easy to live with. Forget that he had really stupid ideas about organization and was obsessed with putting things into what he thought of as the proper order. Day by day he was very easy to be with. When he was hungry, he didn’t look to the nearest woman to produce hot, delicious food as though it were a gland secretion. Nor did he expect her to do everything on earth for him. Right now he was polishing Jackie’s shoes, something she’d done only a couple of times in her life. After all, who was going to notice whether her shoes were polished or not? The other pilots? Charley? The airplanes?

  His voice made her head come up. “Jackie,” he said, and the innocence of his tone immediately put her on guard. He sounded as though he had done something he shouldn’t or was about to do something he shouldn’t.

  “Yes?” she said with what she hoped was just as much innocence.

  “While I was straightening your desk, I came across something rather interesting.”

  “Oh? And what was that? A pair of scissors half an inch out of line?”

  He ignored her sarcasm, so she knew he was after bigger fish. “I found a letter from a national magazine asking you to please write something for them about flying.”

  “Oh,” she said and tried to think of some way to get him onto another topic. But she knew that his main goal was to put her into the history books, and if he couldn’t do that by making her win races, maybe he could do it by turning her into a writer.

  “I think that’s a splendid idea,” he continued innocently. “What you know about airplanes is invaluable. You could help a new generation of young women learn about flying, make them want to fly. You could share your skills and inspire a whole nation.”

  “True, but if I were that good, I wouldn’t ever need to get inside a plane again. I could just sprout wings and fly myself straight to heaven.”

  Again he ignored her. “Look at this. The magazine has sent a sample article: ‘Nita Stinson, the Flying Typist, talks about her first flight.’ ” Looking at the article, William gave a snort of derision. “Flying Typist, indeed. You are a real pilot.”

  “For your information, Nita happens to be a friend of mine, and she’s an excellent pilot.” There was some hostility in her voice, as though she were ready to fight for her friend.

  “I apologize. I meant no offense. Forgive me if I happen to think that you are the best pilot, male or female, in the world. Your flying could make the Angel Gabriel sick.”

  When she glanced at him, he gave her a smile that let her know he was paying her back.

  “So,” he said, “why don’t you try writing?”

  With a helpless look on her face, she held up her bandaged hand, showing him that she was incapable of such a task.

  Instantly William grabbed pen and paper. “Tell me what you want to say and I’ll write it.”

  “Flying is fun. I like it. You should try it.”

  “Come on, Jackie, be serious. You must have something you’d like to say to the millions of young women out there who wonder what it’s like to be a pilot.”

  She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, there is something I’d like to say to the world. Got your pen ready?”

  With a smile of satisfaction, William began to write as Jackie spoke.

  “Whatever is the lowest occupation a woman ever has, that’s what she is for the rest of her life. Even if she becomes president of the world, people will say, ‘Miss Jones, a former receptionist, is now president of the world.’ The implication is that she is getting above herself, because we all know that deep down inside, Miss Jones is really only a receptionist. On the other hand, if a man becomes president of the world, people say, ‘Mr. Jones, who used to work in a mail room, is now running the world.’ The implication is that Mr. Jones is magnificent for having pulled himself up from his lowly position. The difference between the two is that Miss Jones is a receptionist pretending to be a world leader while Mr. Jones was a world leader in the making even when he was sorting the mail.”

  Before she had completed the first sentence, William put down his pen and stopped writing. When she’d finished the whole statement, she smiled at him in a smug way. She wasn’t about to write a bunch of sugar-coated, violet-scented articles to try to make young women enter aviation. A woman needed to have all the conviction in the world to fly an airplane, because the flying world was tough. It was tough facing men who felt certain that you were going to fail merely because you were female and therefore, in their opinion, not intelligent or competent.

  “Is that what you had in mind?” she asked sweetly.

  “It’s what I had in mind, but I don’t think it’s what the magazine wants. Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s go argue about who cuts up your food. I love the way I get to win.”

  Laughing, she allowed him to help her into the kitchen.

  When Jackie awoke the next morning, it was to a delightful sense of well-being. She was still sick, wasn’t she? Well, not really sick, but incapacitated enough to feel that she did not have to make a decision about William leaving. When she was well, he would, of course, have to leave, but for now she could put off that decision with a clear conscience. He was a friend and he was helping her. That’s all there was between them.

  What a glorious Sunday morning it was! William made blueberry pancakes and served them smothered in butter and syrup, and they laughed together like children. It was odd how childish two adults could be when they were alone. Everything either of them said seemed to be brilliant or funny or both to the other one. She didn’t remember their laughing this much when they were children. Jackie had always considered life a challenge, something that had to be conquered, and William had seemed to think that Jackie was his challenge. Whatever had been in the past was now different, for they fit together easily and happily.

  After breakfast William washed the dishes while Jackie, with a great show of pain that she didn’t really feel, dried them. When the dishes were clean they went into the living room where William offered to read her the comics from the newspaper. It was the most natural thing in the world that she should sit in the circle of his arm so she could see the pictures. And she was eating an apple, so she’d take a bite, then give him a bite, then take one herself. It was a scene from paradise.

  The sound of a horn and the crunching of gravel at the approach of a car sent a look of horror across Jackie’s face.

  “It’s Terri,” she said in fear, as though the worst possible thing had happened. The next second she had thrown William’s arm off her shoulders and she was standin