association with his blazer. She took her legs off the desktop one at a time.
“You can toss all those papers on the floor if you want a chair,” she said.
He moved the pile, sat down, leaned forward, and handed her a business card.
“Sure is hot,” he said.
“Air conditioning’s out again.” She bent down under her desk, unplugged the radio, and connected the table fan. She aimed the little blower right at the stranger. “That ought to help.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m burning up.”
She noticed the sheen on his remarkably straight nose. Then she saw the gilded crest on his coat pocket. Pretty slick.
“We’re a little busy today, Mr. Keeper of the Records,” she said, reading from his card. “Got a paper to close, and I’m short on time. What do you need?”
She reached across the desk for her water bottle. She could feel his eyes on her and wished her hands weren’t stained with ink, that her nails were polished like women in the city. She pulled the rubber band from her braid and shook out her hair.
“I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I heard you might be able to help me with the man eating the plane.”
“Who told you that?”
“A man never reveals his sources.”
“A woman never reveals her information,” she said.
They both laughed. A standoff. Then she saw him glancing down at her blue cotton dress.
“I met Wally Chubb this morning,” he said, “and he wasn’t very helpful. In fact, no one seems very helpful. Thought since you’re with the press, maybe you’d—”
“What kind of world record is this, anyway?”
“Personal aviation. We’ve got a whole section on people and planes. Eating a 747 would go right next to the category we call ‘plane pulling.’ A few years ago, a guy named David Huxley in Australia pulled a 747—all by himself—298 feet 6 inches in 1 minute 27.7 seconds.”
His face was alive with his statistics. She liked his voice, rich and deep, probably a baritone.
“The team record,” he continued, “was set by 60 people in London who pulled a 747 a distance of 328 feet in 59.13 seconds.”
“You think that’s impressive, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“No. Rattling off all those statistics.”
“It’s my business,” he said, fiddling with the pen in his hand.
“Don’t mean to be rude,” she said. “But I’m not impressed. Don’t think anyone around here is looking for your kind of attention.”
She saw his gentle eyes sadden. Did she really have to be so harsh? This guy with a nice nose and good voice was just doing his job. Still, after Mr. Odysseus, it had become an involuntary reflex. She had to be on guard. For the town. And, yes, for herself.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Why is Wally eating the plane?”
“Did I say anyone was eating a plane?”
“Look, Miss …” He blinked at her.
“Willa,” she said. A peace offering.
He smiled, a fine dimple on his left cheek. “Willa, Isaw what he’s eaten of the plane. I know what’s happening out there in that field. Seems like a pretty big story.”
“Not really,” she said.
“A man eating a 747 isn’t news around here?”
“No, in these parts that’s not news.”
“Seems more important than what I read this morning in your paper about Mrs. Bodkin going to see Mrs. Toppin for coffee Sunday afternoon.”
“Spare me the journalism lesson,” she said, standing up from behind her desk. “I’m sure you can find the door.”
He stumbled out into the sun and, for an instant, thought he might fall over.
She was a vision, that Willa Wyatt, with her wild blond hair, caramel eyes, and long tanned legs. From the moment he walked through the door and saw her leaning back in the chair, he felt the surge of dopamine in his veins. The table fan only accelerated the buzz, shooting pheromones through the air between them right into his hypothalamus.
He could barely stay on target during their meeting. He needed information about Wally Chubb, but all he
“You can toss all those papers on the floor if you want a chair,” she said.
He moved the pile, sat down, leaned forward, and handed her a business card.
“Sure is hot,” he said.
“Air conditioning’s out again.” She bent down under her desk, unplugged the radio, and connected the table fan. She aimed the little blower right at the stranger. “That ought to help.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m burning up.”
She noticed the sheen on his remarkably straight nose. Then she saw the gilded crest on his coat pocket. Pretty slick.
“We’re a little busy today, Mr. Keeper of the Records,” she said, reading from his card. “Got a paper to close, and I’m short on time. What do you need?”
She reached across the desk for her water bottle. She could feel his eyes on her and wished her hands weren’t stained with ink, that her nails were polished like women in the city. She pulled the rubber band from her braid and shook out her hair.
“I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I heard you might be able to help me with the man eating the plane.”
“Who told you that?”
“A man never reveals his sources.”
“A woman never reveals her information,” she said.
They both laughed. A standoff. Then she saw him glancing down at her blue cotton dress.
“I met Wally Chubb this morning,” he said, “and he wasn’t very helpful. In fact, no one seems very helpful. Thought since you’re with the press, maybe you’d—”
“What kind of world record is this, anyway?”
“Personal aviation. We’ve got a whole section on people and planes. Eating a 747 would go right next to the category we call ‘plane pulling.’ A few years ago, a guy named David Huxley in Australia pulled a 747—all by himself—298 feet 6 inches in 1 minute 27.7 seconds.”
His face was alive with his statistics. She liked his voice, rich and deep, probably a baritone.
“The team record,” he continued, “was set by 60 people in London who pulled a 747 a distance of 328 feet in 59.13 seconds.”
“You think that’s impressive, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“No. Rattling off all those statistics.”
“It’s my business,” he said, fiddling with the pen in his hand.
“Don’t mean to be rude,” she said. “But I’m not impressed. Don’t think anyone around here is looking for your kind of attention.”
She saw his gentle eyes sadden. Did she really have to be so harsh? This guy with a nice nose and good voice was just doing his job. Still, after Mr. Odysseus, it had become an involuntary reflex. She had to be on guard. For the town. And, yes, for herself.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Why is Wally eating the plane?”
“Did I say anyone was eating a plane?”
“Look, Miss …” He blinked at her.
“Willa,” she said. A peace offering.
He smiled, a fine dimple on his left cheek. “Willa, Isaw what he’s eaten of the plane. I know what’s happening out there in that field. Seems like a pretty big story.”
“Not really,” she said.
“A man eating a 747 isn’t news around here?”
“No, in these parts that’s not news.”
“Seems more important than what I read this morning in your paper about Mrs. Bodkin going to see Mrs. Toppin for coffee Sunday afternoon.”
“Spare me the journalism lesson,” she said, standing up from behind her desk. “I’m sure you can find the door.”
He stumbled out into the sun and, for an instant, thought he might fall over.
She was a vision, that Willa Wyatt, with her wild blond hair, caramel eyes, and long tanned legs. From the moment he walked through the door and saw her leaning back in the chair, he felt the surge of dopamine in his veins. The table fan only accelerated the buzz, shooting pheromones through the air between them right into his hypothalamus.
He could barely stay on target during their meeting. He needed information about Wally Chubb, but all he
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