But Jake was more pragmatic about it, and more realistic. Patrick McKenna—Paddy to his friends and grandchildren alike—hadn’t minded the side show aspect of the fair and air show circuit, and had made enough doing them to just barely maintain Betty Sue and, along with his old war buddies, get her race ready each year. Jake didn’t really have a love for that part of the flying culture. He just wanted to fly. He loved the history of the planes, and the restoration work was very fulfilling for him. That it all culminated once a year in a week filled with heart-pounding racing…that was enough. And, for all that, he wanted to win, dammit. He knew she could do it. And now, he finally had a chance to put Betty Sue at the front of the pack. With a little—okay, a lot—of help from Roger and his investment banker–stockbroker frat buddies.
“I miss you, Paddy McKenna,” he grumbled. “I hope I do you proud. But enough already with this crap.” He understood now more than ever why his grandfather had balked at allowing others to dictate anything having to do with Betty Sue’s upkeep. Before he’d begun sticking with the show circuit as his only funding, Paddy had organized fund-raisers and even taken on one of the local banks as a partner for a short, ill-fated time way back when Jake was in grade school and the annual race had just been created in Reno. Paddy had naturally wanted to show off his baby, and Jake couldn’t blame him. He’d bought the beat-up World War II fighter in 1955 and had spent almost every second of his spare time, along with all of his spare money, restoring it. Taking on his two grandchildren hadn’t helped his hobby, but he made up for it by instilling the same love he had for flying, and old planes, in his grandson.
It had been his grandfather’s dream to win the Gold Medallion race in Reno pretty much from the year they’d introduced the event, and given the dreams he’d made come true for Jake, it was the very least Jake could do to see it through. But after five long years spent just getting back in the race, and another five trying to do it Paddy’s way, and failing, Jake had caved and finally looked to outside sponsorship as the only way to put Betty Sue in real contention. “And goddamn, Paddy, you’re right. They’re a major pain in my ass, but I’m trying.” He shoved away from the small desk crammed into the makeshift office in the corner of the secondary McKenna Flight School hangar, the one Paddy had built to house only one plane, and walked back over to Betty Sue.
“You are a pretty, pretty lady,” he said, still just as in awe of her now as he’d been at age six, when he’d gotten his first close-up look at her. “And every bit as high maintenance as one, too,” he added as he bent over to start throwing tools back into his tool chest.
“Well, on principle alone, I should argue that, or the Secret Society of Women Who Can Take Care of Themselves might revoke my membership.”
Jake was fighting a smile, even as he tossed the last wrench into the drawer and turned around. “If I said present company excepted, would that keep me from having to register for the Misogynists of America Club?”
She braced her hands on the handlebars of the pinkest bike he’d ever seen and tilted her head, as if giving serious assessment to the question. “I’d have to get to know you better before I can make a judgment like that.”
“Well, at least only one of us is making sweeping generalizations.”
She smiled, and suddenly the frustration over the phone call with Roger was forgotten. “True,” she said. “Someone needs to keep things grounded in reality.” She glanced at the plane as she slipped her helmet off. “Clearly, that wouldn’t be you.”
“Probably not.”
“I’m sorry to barge in. Or roll in, as the case may be. I rented a bike.”
“Yes. I can see that. Hope you got a really good deal on it.”
“Now, why do you say that? And, be careful, your membership application might ride on your answer.”
“It’s just…not surprising that it was available.”
“Nicely done,” she said with a wry smile. “The people I work with would be impressed with your…mediation skills. Do you want a job? I hear one is available.”
“I’ll pass. Actively involving myself in politics of any kind gives me the hives. My apologies.”
“Apology accepted. I understand the reaction.”
“How did you get interested in politics?”
Her smile spread. “You mean, for a girl?”
“No. I actually adore women, by the way. Especially women who know their own minds. My curiosity was straightforward. I honestly don’t know why anyone is drawn to it.”
“For all the altruistic reasons that a person who really thinks they can make a difference is drawn to.”
“And now?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’d still like to make a difference, but I decided to focus my energies a bit differently.”
“Such as?”
She paused, then said, “My policies and new strategies are still in the developmental stage.”
“Ah,” he said, the epitome of nonjudgmental. “Nicely done.”
She did a little curtsy, which sent her straddled bike bobbling and its rider hopping on one foot as she tried to keep it, and herself, upright.
He moved swiftly forward, reflexively reaching for her, but she righted herself and the bike before he got to her.
“I’m really not a menace to society,” she assured him. “But perhaps they should at least make you do a little course or something before letting a person loose on the streets with this thing.”
He was standing much closer to her now and was disappointed to see her freckles had vanished once again beneath a thin veneer of makeup. In fact, he rather liked the bedraggled, foggy-framed, sodden version of Lauren Matthews to the freshly showered and expertly made-up version.
“What?” she asked, making him aware that he was staring. She patted her head. “Helmet hair, right? Come on, you’ve seen me worse.”
Her hair was perfect. Too perfect, all sleeked back in a shiny ponytail. Yeah, messy and makeup free was definitely better. More…her. Which made no sense since, clearly, he was looking at the “real” Lauren Matthews. “No, not a hair out of place.” More’s the pity. “I wouldn’t have picked you for a fan of girly colors, that’s all.”
“Why wouldn’t you have thought me a girly-girl? Because of the lovely raccoon-mascara eyes and stringy wet hair I was sporting when we first met?”
“I really haven’t the faintest clue why. Maybe it’s knowing your Washington background and making subconscious assumptions. I’m not usually the type to jump to conclusions. But, it…surprised me, that’s all.”
“So…liking pink and being girly is a bad thing?”
“Not at all.”
She laughed. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying. A woman being feminine is great. Who doesn’t enjoy a very feminine female?”
“You, I think. I’m guessing you prefer your women outdoorsy, natural, with a few tomboy tendencies thrown in for good measure.” He paused just long enough for her to laugh again. “Nailed it in one,” she said, sounding smug.
“We all have preferences. Doesn’t mean I think the alternatives are a bad thing.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not much of an athlete, and although I’d be willing, you really wouldn’t want me anywhere near a power tool. Not if you value your extremities and keeping your arterial flow strictly internal.