April Joyce was compelling.
She compelled him to act.
No matter how irrationally.
He knew all the details except for one: how he’d ever succeed.
The prop coughed a hacking flam fire, belching soot-gray smoke from the piston engine. Clyde Corrigan cocked an eyebrow at the thought of piloting the old lady today. He’d be lucky to make the trip in one piece, let alone leave the ground alive.
The gray morning fog, smell of leather and the hopelessness of winning her heart kept him distracted from the potentially fatal pre-flight checks. Forgetting as he always did that the chill of her stares could ice his wings in mid-flight.
A few gauge-checks and switch-flips in, the first shots gnat-whizzed by, sharpening his mind but not his wit.
Competing against the engine he continued, “I’m for Ireland!”
“Long Beach, Cali,” he corrected, making his lurching arc skyward. She wouldn’t hear him anyway.
If she ever loved him before or thought she could in the future, she’d have to start with forgiveness.