Hey, everyone - thank you for the reviews – it's always a bright spot in my day when one pops up! I'm glad you're enjoying this story and hope it provides a little escape from reality. Those of you who know me, know I am absolutely infatuated with Robert Conrad in the role of Greg Boyington. It's not been easy putting him in the background and letting Jim Gutterman have the spotlight this time but A) I've always been intrigued by Jim's character and wish he'd stayed on the show longer and B) making him the male lead in this story has been a self-inflicted writer's challenge. It's not quite so easy to build interest from a girl's point of view without those blue eyes and dimples to carry the scene. Jim is not a ladies' man like Greg, but this chapter sees the first hint that things between him and Alex may be heading in a new direction.

Chapter 4

With sleeping arrangements sorted out, we went through the motions of getting ready for bed. I've always found those rituals to be a calming end to the day but tonight they weren't. I took Greg upstairs and showed him where he'd be staying. I'd been in such a hurry after oversleeping that morning, I'd left my modest flannel sheets in a tangled mess.

"Give me a second and I'll change the bed," I said, yanking at the quilt.

"It's all right, Alex, don't bother. I've slept in worse places." Greg sat on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed and pulled off his boots. He looked tense with worry and there was nothing I could say to make things better. He and Jim were the unintentional travelers but the impact of their situation would touch my family for generations if they didn't get back where they belonged. The weight of it sat on me like a stone.

"I don't have any idea how to get you guys home," I said, abandoning the quilt. I hated that I sounded so helpless but I was flat-out scared.

Greg stood and put a hand on each of my shoulders. The quiet confidence radiating from him was almost tangible.

"You don't have to figure it out right now," he said. "Your great-grandfather might not be one of the best pilots I've ever met but he's resourceful in other ways. He never backs down from a fight and he never gives up, no matter how rough things get. You remind me of him in that respect. We'll figure something out and until we do, you're calling the shots."

"All right," I said, feeling marginally better. It felt good to think he had faith in me although I was getting tired of being put in charge of things I knew nothing about.

Either way there was no sense borrowing trouble. They couldn't leave until Jim's plane was repaired and that would take at least a day, minimum. Until then, we'd act as if everything was fine. I was fine. They were fine. We were all fine. Oh dear God, I was going to end up in the bottom of a Scotch bottle before this was over, I could just feel it.

In the meantime, both men expressed consternation regarding the toothbrushes I'd bought that afternoon. They had neon green and purple bristles.

"What's the point of that?" Jim asked.

I told him people liked bright colors and assured them both yes, the toothpaste was supposed to be green and white striped. I'm not sure they believed me on either account.

I darted into the second-floor bathroom to brush my teeth and change into a hoodie, sweats and fuzzy socks. That's not what I usually sleep in but I was not waltzing around the house in my normal T-shirt and panties.

Greg wished Jim and I goodnight from the top of the stairs and disappeared into my room. He'd refused to let me change the sheets or make the bed. I think he just wanted to crash but I felt like a complete failure as a hostess, as if neatly made beds were our biggest problem.

In the living room, I sealed the intake valve on the self-inflating air mattress, which had plumped itself to the requisite two inches, added a blanket and pillow, then turned off the lights except for a table lamp.

Jim sat on the couch and pulled off his boots and socks. Then with a complete lack of self-consciousness, he tugged off the flannel shirt and shucked out of the jeans. I tried to pretend I didn't notice.

Guess I needed to do a better job of it because he caught me.

"What's the matter, darlin'?" he drawled. "Don't tell me you ain't ever seen a guy in his skivvies before."

"That is none of your business," I said. Of course I had. But none of them looked like him. He wasn't attractive in the chiseled Hollywood sort of way but there was a quality about him that encouraged my eyes to linger. Maybe it was because he was my age or maybe it was because in between the sarcasm and short temper, he had that good old boy charm I find so damn irresistible. I turned away before I created a problem where there wasn't one with and fussed with the air mattress.

That was an optimistic description. Mattress implies some degree of softness. This thing had been bought out of necessity at a garage sale back when I was cleaning out Aunt Eleanor's museum of the twentieth century and living in the house without any furniture.

Jim looked at it skeptically. "That don't look comfortable. You sure you don't want the couch?"

What a gentleman. "No, it's not bad once you get used to it. You've had a rough day. You deserve a good night's sleep."

"If you get cold down there, come join me." He patted the couch next to him. I must have looked properly scandalized because he laughed and rolled up in the blanket. "Or you could go snuggle up to Greg if he's more your type. I expect he'd make room for you."

I rescinded my opinion of him as a gentleman. I turned off the lamp and padded back to my questionable accommodations. I tried not to be conspicuous as I wiggled around, trying to get comfortable.

There's something about the dark that inspires confidences. Slumber parties, camp-outs, college roommates, lovers. I've said things in the dark I'd have never said in the hard light of day.

"Tell me about TJ. What's he like?" The words were off my tongue before I could stop them.

Jim didn't answer immediately.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," I added hastily, thinking maybe the fact he was separated not only from his wingman but from the world as he knew it would not be something he cared to dwell on.

Instead, he laughed. The sound was warm and honest in the darkness. "He strafed my plane the first time we flew together. Ended up crash landing on La Cava."

I blinked in surprise. "What happened?"

"God only knows with Wiley, and maybe even He don't." In spite of the sarcasm, I heard a solid underlying affection. "He hit a tree the next time and sheared a couple of feet off his starboard wing. He shot Greg down a few missions later, twice."

"You've got to be kidding," I said, incredulous. It sounded like my great-grandfather was a complete menace.

"He's getting better," Jim allowed. "Hasn't shot down any American planes for a while. I reckon if I can keep him in the air long enough, he'll come around. He's got good instincts, they just need a little fine tuning."

"Was he really facing court martial when Greg recruited him for the Black Sheep?" I rolled on my side to face Jim. I couldn't see him but felt the echo of his voice.

"Your great-grandpappy is a scoundrel, just like the rest of us. We were all on Espritos, waiting for court martial. I don't think any of us gave a damn anymore. It was clear nobody gave a damn about us, until Greg."

"Why did Greg want the lot of you?" I'm no expert on military procedure but forming a new unit out of troublemakers didn't sound like a solid start.

"We were available, plain and simple. He was forminf a squadron and he made us an offer – join it or sit in the brig."

"What had you been charged with?"

"Slugging a superior officer. I may or may not have been entirely sober at the time."

"Sounds like Greg took a risk on all of you."

"That man can look at a bunch of separate parts and see the big picture. He knew if he could get us into the air, we'd be something good."

I let those words sink in. Something about seeing the big picture resonated with me. There was something I needed to see, some big picture, that would help me get the men back to their proper time and place.

"You mind if I ask you something?" The tone of his voice indicated it was something that wasn't any of his business and he knew it.

"Go ahead," I said. He'd ask whether I agreed or not.

"How come a girl like you ain't married?"

"What kind of girl is that?" I couldn't help throwing it back.

There was a long pause, then he said, "You're a knockout, darlin'. You're a little bossy but you could have any guy you wanted. What are you waiting for?"

I ignored the bossy comment.

"There's no rush. Girls don't marry as soon as they get out of high school now." I chose my words carefully. "Lots of women go on to college, then have a career. Having a family comes later. Women are, um, a lot more independent."

"A career." He pondered the word. "That mean you're not interested in having a man?"

I wasn't sure exactly what he meant by having and decided to take it at face value.

"It's more like I want an identity that isn't based on being someone's wife."

"Huh."

"I'm not saying I won't get married someday," I said cautiously. "I just haven't found the right guy."

"And what kind of guy is that?"

I'd braced for more sarcasm but he sounded genuinely curious.

"He has to be able to take care of himself," I said firmly. "I don't want someone who's just looking for a cook and housekeeper with benefits."

"Benefits?"

"You know." I blushed, feeling awkward even in the dark. "Sex."

"Oh." Jim chuckled. "Never heard it called that before. What else?"

"He needs to love animals and the outdoors and have a sense of humor. Wouldn't hurt if he looked like Harrison Ford."

"Who's that?"

"A movie star. Kind of old now but a serious hottie when he was younger."

"A serious hottie?"

"Very good looking. A heartthrob."

"Those are some pretty high expectations." Jim sounded doubtful. "No wonder you're still single."

"Looking like Harrison is optional but the sense of humor isn't. If I'm going to spend fifty years with a guy, he'd better know how to laugh." I paused and asked the question I'd avoided earlier. "Do you have a girl waiting for you back home?"

"Nah."

"Why not?" I was probably overstepping boundaries but two could play this game.

"You're as nosy as you are bossy."

"You didn't answer my question." I was enjoying this more than I expected.

"Damn, woman. You sure you're not with the press corps?"

"Sorry. It's none of my business."

Jim was quiet for a minute, then said, "I didn't want anyone sittin' around waitin' for me. Didn't seem right. Ain't no guarantee I'll get back home." I knew he wasn't talking about just getting back to the right century.

He didn't say anything else and a minute later I heard the slow, rhythmic breathing that indicated he'd dozed off. I sighed. I would have liked to continue the conversation but I didn't begrudge him his sleep.

My thoughts tumbled in freefall as I tried to get comfortable on the thin mattress. The men. The repairs to their planes. The opening of the air show tomorrow. The weather. The warmth of Jim's hands around my waist as he lifted me down from the wing of his plane. The hurricane in the gulf. Nick's forecast for storms early in the week. Jim's comment about Greg seeing the big picture when he'd formed the Black Sheep from a group of troublemakers - an idea that had flown in the face of logic. An idea of my own danced just beyond my cognition. I was still trying to catch it when I fell asleep.

Saturday, Oct. 30

I woke before the sun was up. Jim sprawled on his back on the couch, one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling slowly. I eased off the air mattress and left for the bathroom, where I changed into leggings and a sports bra. Thirty minutes of yoga would help me get my head screwed on straight for the day. I eased through the door onto the screened three seasons porch at the back of the house. Setting earbuds into my ears, I thumbed up my favorite playlist on my phone and started my workout.

My body was on auto pilot as I mentally ran through the day's to-do list. Confirm the parking lot shuttle stop had the correct signage. Check the battery charge on the staff walkie-talkies. Make sure the gate workers selling tickets had enough boxes of wrist bands and printed programs. No matter how many other details I thought of, my biggest responsibility was keeping track of two warriors time had misplaced.

From what I'd seen last night, they were both capable of bullshitting their way through the weekend. I'd meant it when I told them all they had to do was tell war stories. People came to the show to be entertained. They'd eat whatever Jim and Greg served up without question.

The air was chilly but it didn't take long for me to break a sweat as I ran through my routine. I couldn't clear my head and the familiar motions weren't as relaxing this morning as usual. I was concentrating on my balance and breathing when I felt someone watching me. I turned to see Jim lounging against the doorway. Surprised, I nearly toppled to the floor.

"Don't let me interrupt," he said. "What's that you're doin'?"

"Yoga." I collected myself and stood. I pulled the earbuds out and shut off my music.

"Yoga," he repeated. "Sounds like some weird shit Anderson would do."

"Who's that?"

"Bob Anderson, guy in the squadron. Great pilot, just a little more enlightened than most of us." Jim's eyes slid up and down my figure. His gaze was like the stroke of a hand, leaving a warm tingle behind.

"You always walk around outdoors in your underthings?" he asked.

I thought this was a bold statement from a guy standing there in his boxers and said so. He chuckled, still as un-self-conscious as when he'd stripped down in front of me the night before.

"It's called workout gear." I silently cursed the Lycra and Spandex that covered the essentials while leaving little to the imagination at the same time. I grabbed my water bottle and turned back into the house. "Let's get this day started."

I showered and dressed in jeans and a powder blue polo shirt embroidered with the airshow logo, the silhouette of a Corsair coming in on approach, surrounded by colorful autumn leaves. I took that as a good sign. I dried my hair and threaded my ponytail through the back of a baseball cap. My mind was still pursuing the elusive train of thought that danced out of reach as I'd fallen asleep last night. Weather. Something to do with the weather.

"It's all yours," I jerked my thumb toward the bathroom as I came out and Jim slid past me in the narrow hallway. I glanced at my watch. "We need to roll by 8 a.m."

"Yes, ma'am." He sniffed appreciatively, then inclined his face toward my neck and inhaled. "You smell nice."

The compliment was so unexpected I froze.

"Good morning to you, too, Captain," I managed and squeezed past.

I was updating the show's social media feeds when Jim strolled back into the kitchen a few minutes later. He was still in his boxers and had shed the T-shirt somewhere along the way. If it didn't bother him, it didn't bother me. I closed the lid on my laptop. The view was better than anything on Facebook.

"Hate to be a nuisance, darlin', but do you have a razor I could use?"

I drug my mind back from places it didn't need to be. A razor. Damn it. Amidst the haste of the previous day, I hadn't even thought about buying a razor along with the clothes and toiletries. I was an amateur at playing hostess to men.

Jim followed me back to the bathroom. I handed him my disposable shaver and a can of spring rain scented sensitive skin shaving gel.

"This will have to do," I said. "Sorry, I don't happen to have a straight razor and a shaving mug lying around."

He turned the object over in his hands. "You use this on your legs?"

"Yes." And for tidying up a few other places that were absolutely none of his business.

"It's pink."

"And my shave gel is turquoise. Deal with it," I said and left.

It didn't take both men long to shave, once they got over using a pink razor crafted for women's legs. Their flight suits had come through the modern washer and dryer in fine shape and once again, the Black Sheep's CO and his executive officer had that recruiting poster look. I grabbed my dark blue jacket with STAFF emblazoned in white on the back and we were off.

"I hope you're okay with fast food for breakfast," I said as we piled into my pickup. Along with having nothing in the fridge, my kitchen lacked even the basic amenities of cereal or toast. Greg looked like he was going to say something, then thought better of it. Jim just raised his eyebrows and asked, "How fast is it?"

I pulled into my favorite drive through and ordered for all three of us without even asking the men what they wanted. It was too early in the day to try explaining the concept of McBreakfast.

"Hi, Alex," the teenage cashier said cheerfully as she took my money. "This a lot more than your usual order. Looks like you've got some company this morning, huh?"

"Thanks, Megan." I took the food and my change and moved out of the drive-through lane before she made any more comments on my dietary habits or the men commented on her purple-tipped hair.

"There you go again," Jim said as I turned back onto the street. "Paying people to bring you food. And you're on a first name basis with them. Do they even put kitchens in new houses these days? Seems like the women are all too busy having careers to cook anything."

I leaned around Greg to give him the stink eye. He just laughed.

"Shut up and eat," I said.

Jim didn't listen. "What that?" He pointed to my plastic carry-out cup filled with caramel colored liquid and ice.

"Iced coffee, nectar of the gods." Impulsively, I passed it to him. "Try it?"

He took it cautiously, pulled the liquid up through the straw and made a face that matched the one he'd pulled when I gave him my pink razor. He handed it back. "Why'd they go and ruin good coffee?"

"There's no accounting for taste," I said and offered it politely to Greg. He declined.

The airport hummed with the promise of a spectacular autumn day. I left Big Red in staff parking by the office and with the men flanking me, cut through the building to grab my clipboard and two walkie-talkies off the charging station in the maintenance office.

"Here." I handed Jim one of them. "If you need anything, push this button and call me. All the show staff is on this frequency - if I'm out of range, someone will relay your message." The walkies were supposed to be for staff use only but it wasn't like he and Greg had cell phones and I felt guilty at leaving them without a way to contact me. I couldn't sit around holding their hands all day. Not that they needed it.

Jim turned the small radio over, examining it, then clipped it to his belt. "You going to brief us on this mission?" He looked over my shoulder where traffic detail was directing the steady stream of cars already entering the gates.

"There's an opening ceremony at 9 a.m., then people will start wandering around, looking at the planes. Talk to the spectators, answer their questions, tell any stories you like but keep it clean if there are kids around. This is a family event. The show closes at 4 p.m. Happy hour is at 6, back here at the hangar. The banquet's at 7 and there's a dance afterward."

Jim opened his mouth to ask a question but I cut him off. "Yes, we'll be attending. It's kind of expected." I had to be there and no way I was leaving the two of them alone at my house or anywhere else.

Jim folded his arms across his chest and scowled. "Anyone ever tell you you're a bossy little thing?"

I gave him my best smile. "Not since last night. You're really not used to taking orders from a woman, are you, Captain?"

This got another scowl in response.

Outside the building, a trumpeter blew revile. There was a round of applause from spectators already gathered by the flagpole and the strains of Stars and Stripes Forever drifted on the crisp autumn air. The high school jazz ensemble was right on time. I looked at my watch. "Come on. I'll run you out to your planes after the national anthem."

We exited the building and I shepherded the men toward the group of exhibitors and their crews gathered near the flag pole.

"Miss Remington? Where would you like us?" A boy's voice caught my ear. Cody and Heather, the two soloists from the Cedar Junction High School choir approached. Cody wore dress pants and a white shirt with a black tie. Heather wore a flowery dress and cowboy boots. Their hair was neatly combed, the faces freshly scrubbed and they couldn't have looked more wholesome if Normal Rockwell himself had painted them. I directed them to the podium where Randall would make a few announcements, followed by their duet.

"So they don't all have purple hair?" Jim observed after the two left.

"No," I said. "And even the ones that do are good kids. This show runs on volunteers. The FFA chapter is helping with parking and a couple of local 4-H clubs are on clean-up detail. The athletic boosters club works the admission gate. The high school band is playing this morning and they'll play again tonight before the dinner."

"All volunteer? None of them are getting paid?" Greg asked.

"Yes," I said proudly. "The show is community run. Local businesses sponsor the advertising and the meal this evening, that way all the proceeds from ticket sales go to area charities." This was the America I wanted them to see.

The sound of the microphone crackling got everyone's attention. The band finished its number and the crowd applauded. Randall Schraeder stepped to the podium. I didn't listen as he began to speak. My eyes lingered on Jim and Greg. They blended perfectly with the other exhibitors who were dressed in everything from civilian attire to faded fatigues to similar flight gear reflecting the era of their planes. I felt the weight ease off my shoulders. I still didn't know how I was going to get them back where they belonged but with a bit of luck, I could get them through the day without it getting too awkward.

I saw Nick, one camera in his hand, another dangling from around his neck, and waved. He waved back. A sudden jolt of memory shot through me. Weather. Storms. The hurricane targeting the Gulf Coast. I'd been thinking about that last night as I fell asleep.

The thought was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the realization Randall had just said, "Let's hear a round of applause for our show manager, Alexa Remington. When our former manager got hurt earlier this week, she stepped in to take over and she's doing a super job. Of course, we wouldn't expect anything less from the great-granddaughter of the American hero this field is named after, Thomas Joseph Wiley, ace of the South Pacific!"

I stepped forward and raised my hand, acknowledging his praise. Behind me, both Greg and Jim chuckled. The crowd applauded and the two teenagers stepped up to sing the Star Spangled Banner. Their rendition was lovely, their young voices perfectly matched. As the last notes echoed off the building, Randall reclaimed the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, many of our exhibitors today are veterans. Take the time to thank them for their service. Enjoy yourselves and have a grand day."

"Thomas Joseph Wiley, ace of the South Pacific?" Jim muttered. "He didn't say for which side."

He dodged me before I could elbow him in the ribs and we took Lily out to the end of the flight line. The light breeze made the morning air chilly and both men scrambled into their planes to retrieve shearling-lined leather jackets.

"You two sure you're good with this?" I asked. I was worried in spite of their cavalier attitudes. It was one thing for me to tell them all they had to do was spend the day shooting the breeze with aviation aficionados. It was another when it came down to doing it. Still, the weekend's emphasis was on the past, not the present, so their cover as diehard re-enactors should hold.

"We're fine, Alex. Run along and do whatever it is the press corps does at these shindigs," Greg said.

"I am not the press corps. And remember you agreed to an interview with my friend Nick today," I reminded him.

Greg grimaced, then brightened when Rob rolled up in one of the air field's pickups. She killed the engine and got out. She was back in her mechanics' coverall and had various bits of scrap metal and a portable acetylene welding torch in the back.

"Hey guys!" she called cheerfully. "I did some research last night and I think I can fabricate a new rudder and fix that stabilizer."

Both men blinked. I couldn't tell if it was in relief, admiration or something else. Greg in particular seemed to be struggling with the conflict of a skilled mechanic in a woman's body.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" boomed Preston Aldrich's familiar bass. I turned to see him approaching with two tall foam cups bearing the logo of the local coffee house. "Thought you boys might like a little bean juice to start the day."

Both men accepted the cups with relief. They hadn't been impressed by the fountain Cokes that had accompanied their drive-through value meals. Jim suspiciously pried the lid off his cup but relaxed when he saw the steaming black liquid inside. He shot me a look. I smiled and lifted my iced coffee in mock salute.

"Morning, Alex," Preston nodded cheerfully. "I'd have brought one for you, too, but didn't think you'd have time to drink it."

He was probably right. "Morning, Preston," I said cheerfully. It was impossible not to like the man. "That offer still stand to let these boys borrow your mechanics? Robbie thinks she can get Jim's plane put back together again."

"Sure thing. I reckon folks will be wandering down the line to check things out pretty soon and that'll give 'em something to watch. No doubt your boys'll have a fine story to tell about how the mechanics in their unit could patch up the planes with whatever was at hand."

No doubt, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. My walkie crackled and Randall's voice came through, requesting I report to the main hangar where the caterers needed direction setting up for the banquet.

"Copy that." I clipped the radio back on my belt. "Gotta run, guys, I'll catch you later."

Jim and Greg were deep in conversation with Preston and barely acknowledged me.

I caught Rob's elbow and drew her aside. "I have to go play manager. Can you, uh, keep an eye on them?" I jerked my head toward the men. "Since it's their first show and all?" That was the truth. As far as it went.

"Happy to." She grinned and cast a meaningful glance at the men, who had their backs to us. While Jim's flight suit hung loosely on his lanky frame, Greg's fit snugly over the lean muscle of his backside.

"Stop it." I backhanded her arm but joined her for a moment's admiration.

"Don't tell me to stop," Rob hissed. "They spent the night at your house. How'd that go?"

"Greg took the bed, Jim slept on the couch and I slept on the floor." I grimaced and rolled my shoulders.

"You're such a martyr."

"I am not. I only have the one bed and it would have been rude to ask one of them to sleep on the floor."

"You could have –"

"Stop it. Seriously. They didn't want to sleep with each other and am not sharing a bed with a guy I just met so you do the math," I finished. "Just keep an eye on them." For half a second I thought about telling Rob who they really were. No. She'd never believe me and there was no need to make things any more complicated than they already were.

"Not a problem." She winked and went to join Charlie and Ben for a conference about Jim's plane. Reluctantly, I got back in Lily and left to deal with the caterers.

At noon, I bought pulled pork sandwiches and potato salad from the Holy Smoked food truck and ran them out for the men's lunch. While the other exhibitors came supplied with well-stocked coolers, I knew those two had literally nothing but the clothes on their backs. No doubt Preston's crew would feed them if they looked hungry but I felt personally responsible for their wellbeing. Their connection to my great-grandfather wove the three of us together like threads in a tapestry.

When I got there, Jim was talking to a family of four. The parents and two young boys of middle elementary age listened with rapt attention. I got out of Lily and leaned against the hood, listening.

"Air-sea rescue came along and fished me out eventually," Jim said. "My wingman, he flew around overhead until they got there to make sure I knew someone was coming for me, but until then, it was just me and the sharks. And they was hungry."

"Sharks!" Both boys squealed in horrified fascination.

"Yeah," Jim said. "Wanna see where one bit me?" He pulled up the leg of his flight suit, revealing a long white scar that ran the length of his calf. It didn't look like a shark bite to me but what do I know? The boys' eyes grew wide. And that is how a lifelong interest in history or zoology is born, I thought.

"Thanks for the story, Captain," the father said and herded the two boys back down the line.

"See, Kyle, I told you this would be more interesting than anything you'd find in a video game," the mother said. As she passed me and saw the manager's badge on a lanyard around my neck, and said quietly, "Those guys are great. They talked to my kids for twenty minutes." She paused. "I'm not sure I believe half of what they said but they're really good actors." She took off after her husband and sons.

Jim sauntered over. "Hey, darlin'."

I thought about reminding him I had a first name but decided to pick my battles.

"I brought you guys lunch." I hefted the bag. "Did you really get bit by a shark?"

"No." He took one of the sandwiches, peeled back the foil and inspected it. I'm not sure he'd forgiven me for the McBreakfast.

"Then what's the scar from?"

He took a bite and made an agreeable face. "I got tossed out of the officers' club on Espritos a few months back."

I raised my eyebrows. "But how did you get the scar?"

"I said I got tossed out. There was a set of French doors in the way when those Navy clowns did the tossing."

When my face registered disbelief, he added, "TJ got chucked out first and his hard head broke the glass. I cut my leg when they heaved me through after him. You can ask Greg."

"Ask me what?" Greg joined us. I handed him a sandwich.

"R and R, time before last. The night before TJ hooked up with that pretty little Aussie nurse, the one he said could -," Jim glanced at me and broke off. "Sorry."

"It's okay." I was more amused than embarrassed. Clearly my great-grandfather had been a connoisseur of female company but those weren't the stories that had been told around the dinner table when I was growing up. "Did this happen often? The, uh, getting tossed out of the officers' club?"

"More than you might expect," Greg said drily.

The walkie at my waist crackled.

"Alex, the musicians are here." It was Aimee, Randall's ever-efficient office manager. "They want to go over the play list for tonight. I guess Derek got hurt before they got things finalized."

"Duty calls," I said to the men. The banquet was turning into a bigger job than the air show itself. "You guys good out here? Where's Rob?"

"She welded in the framework for the stabilizer, then went back to the mechanics' shed to build the rudder," Greg said.

"Girl's got talent," Jim said. "Says she'll have it fixed by tomorrow."

And then what?

XXX

Meeting with the four-piece jazz ensemble who would play for the dinner dance took longer than it should have. By the time they were satisfied with the evening's playlist, I had 1940s era Big Band music spinning in an endless loop through my head.

"Alex, wait!" Aimee called as I walked past her desk. "Randall asked me to make sure you don't forget those." She gestured toward three garment bags hanging on a coat tree.

"What's that?"

"I picked up your dress for tonight."

"My what?"

"Didn't Randall tell you? Staff always wears vintage costumes for the banquet and so do a lot of the attendees, especially this year, since it's so close to Halloween."

I groaned. No, Randall hadn't told me but my ignorance was no one's fault but my own. I'm sure that little gem had been somewhere in Derek's myriad of notes. Banquet tickets went for $50 a pop as a fundraiser for the county historical society and while I'd attended the air show faithfully all through high school, I'd never gone to the Saturday evening meal. My parents always went but they'd never dressed in costume. Or maybe they had and my teenage mind had blocked it out.

The only saving grace was that Aimee had picked out whatever I'd be wearing. She is always dressed to the nines, so whatever she'd chosen for me would undoubtedly be in good taste. If not, I would have to poison Randall's coffee when this was all over.

"I heard the two guys who came in late yesterday didn't get here with their luggage so I found just the thing for them, too," Aimee continued.

Wordlessly, I looked at the garment bags. Each bore the small, gold label of The Third Avenue Costume Emporium, another of Cedar Junction's success stories. The business was run by a pair of retired Broadway actors who'd made a second career of collecting vintage clothing and renting it for special occasions. Whatever was in those bags wasn't likely to be a costume in the kitschy Halloween sense of the word. It was probably the real damn thing.

I thanked Aimee, carried the bags out to Big Red and hung them inside. On impulse, I unzipped the one labeled Women's Size 8 Blue Floral. Inside was a 1940s-style cocktail dress in a colorful print. The nipped-in waist fell to an A-line, knee-length skirt. The neckline was modest, the style both simple and elegant. The cut reflected the decade's emphasis on giving a woman an hour-glass figure whether she had one or not. Lucky me. I had one, even though I hadn't worn a dress in years.

Aimee had thought of everything. There was even a pair of shoes wrapped in a separate bag at the bottom. The brown leather T-straps with low, kitten heels looked charming and actually comfortable. At five-seven, I didn't need to go tottering around on high heels all evening. I closed the zipper, relieved.

On a whim, I opened one of the men's bags. The garments inside looked authentic enough to have come out of a museum. I recognized the crisply starched shirt of a circa WWII Marine Corps khaki field uniform from the photos on Aunt Eleanor's wall. Well then. Thanks to Aimee's resourcefulness, the three of us would go into this evening with a degree of realism no one else there could even start to imagine.

The gates closed at 4 p.m. I drove back out to the line to find Jim and Greg sitting in borrowed lawn chairs, talking to Nick, who was scribbling furiously in a notebook. By the time his story hit print, the boys would be gone. My heart gave an odd little lurch at the thought. I liked these guys.

"Hey, Alex," Nick said. "You won't believe the stories these two are telling me."

Oh yes I would. I hoped they'd focused more on the patriotic aspect and less on the behavior that got them evicted from the officers' club. But since Nick thought they were acting, he wouldn't care either way.

"Are you about done?" I asked. I didn't want to rush but we needed to get home, cleaned up and back to the field by six.

"I've got so many angles to this story, I don't know where to start." Nick flipped the cover of his notebook shut. "Thanks for your time." All three men stood up and did the ritual of handshaking. I wondered if Greg's attitude about the press had changed any. Nick's a good guy. He's a bit of a nerd but he's honest and I trust him.

He turned to me. "Thought you'd want to know the Hazardous Weather Outlook is forecasting a system coming in Monday, backlash from that hurricane in the Gulf. Looks like it might be another rough one. What time do all the planes leave?"

"They start taking off at noon tomorrow," I said. "The departures are part of the show."

"What about us, boss lady?" Jim asked.

Good question. They weren't on the departure schedule because they hadn't been on the arrival schedule, either. And even if they did take off, where would they go? Jim held my eyes and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

"I don't know," I said brightly. "Let me give it some thought. Will Robbie have you guys airworthy by tomorrow?"

"She thinks so." Greg slapped the fuselage of his plane. "Jim's needs the most work. She said a few new hoses should fix my oil leak."

"I'll tell Randall you're delayed due to mechanical problems. He can't force you to leave if you can't get your planes off the runway."

Or if you don't know how to reach your destination. I didn't say it but both men looked at me like they'd heard it loud and clear. Nick gave me a quick WTH look, then gathered up his cameras and notebook.

"See you guys at the banquet tonight," he said and left.

XXX

"Havin' to wear a tie to dinner is startin' to feel like the officers' mess on Espritos all over again," Jim grumbled, yanking at the offending accessory. We were back at my house. The men had showered and dressed and were ready to head back to the airport. I'd expected more of a fuss about the rented costumes but they hadn't blinked. Aside from Jim's tie crisis, they seemed more relaxed than they had in the jeans and T-shirts from the previous evening.

"Come here," I said. "You're making things harder than they need to be."

Jim slouched across the kitchen and stopped in front of me. I surveyed the mess he'd made of it, firmly removed his hands and started over. I doubted this was what my mother had in mind when she taught me how to tie a man's tie at some point in my misspent youth. "Didn't they teach you how to do this in boot camp?"

"There's a chapter in the Marine Corps Manual," Greg said, straightening his own tie as he entered the room. "Or so I'm told."

I know they say women love a man in uniform but oh. My. God. The two of them in the same room was doing things to my heart rate that couldn't be healthy. I'd never seen khaki look so good.

I maneuvered the cloth, biting my lip in concentration. Jim turned toward Greg and the fabric pulled out of my fingers. I grabbed his shoulder and twisted him back to face me. "Would you hold still!"

He reached up to pull the tie off. "Maybe I'll just go without."

"You will not," I said. "Keep your hands out of my way." I shouldn't have been surprised when he settled them lightly at my waist. He could have stuck them in his pockets but he didn't and I was concentrating too hard to suggest it. I re-adjusted the tie and started over. A few deft twists and tucks later, I slid the knot up and flattened the accessory neatly against his shirt, then turned his collar down.

"Don't you even think about taking that off," I told him.

"Yes, ma'am." His lazy grin said he'd do as he pleased. He didn't move his hands from my waist although there was no particular reason for them to still be there.

"I have to get changed," I said.

"Don't let me stop you."

He wasn't stopping me. Not exactly. The warmth of his fingers resonated through my shirt in a way that made me want to return the favor. If we hadn't been on a schedule, I might have. Instead, I took a deep breath and pushed Jim's hands back to his sides.

"Behave yourself, Captain," I said. I heard his quiet chuckle as I fled for the bathroom.

I took a fast shower and overhauled my hair. If I insisted Jim wear a tie, I couldn't justify a simple ponytail. Besides, the dress demanded more.

I slipped it over my head and was mildly surprised at how nice it felt as I tugged it into place. The fabric was dark blue with lavender and coral flowers. It accented my curves with a subtlety I hadn't expected from a seventy-five year old style. I made a mental note to thank Aimee for picking it out.

Thank God the outfit's authenticity level didn't extend to silk stockings with garters, although Randall's office manager had included a pair of nylons with the iconic seam running up the back of the legs. I eased them on and had a hell of a time getting that seam straight.

Surveying myself in the mirror, I implemented an off-center part in my hair and used a dab of gel to pull my curls into soft waves like I'd seen in an old photo of Lauren Bacall. There wasn't time to attempt anything as elaborate as victory rolls, even if I'd had the curlers and the skill to make it look like something other than a raccoon had tried to nest on my head.

I was running on auto-pilot with eye shadow and mascara and blinked at my reflection when I realized I'd created more of a smoky eye than I usually wore. In for a dime, in for a dollar, I thought and applied the scarlet lipstick left from promotional swag bags I'd arranged for the show's sponsors. Red lipstick had been wildly popular during the war years, as women were encouraged to wear it to "keep their spirits up." Not bad, I thought, looking at the 1940s version of myself in the mirror. I finished with a pair of silver Celtic knot earrings that fell to teardrop hoops. I wasn't sure how period authentic they were but they made the dress.

There was only one problem.

I couldn't get the dress zipped. No manner of contortion would all me to grasp the zipper pull. There was nothing for it but to ask for help.

When I walked into the living room, both Jim and Greg stood up.

"You should wear a dress more often," Jim said.

"Would one of you gentlemen zip me up?" I asked, wondering how many times either of them were likely to have heard that. I didn't wait to see who volunteered but turned my back to them, making it obvious what needed to be done. I heard footsteps cross the room and the heat of a hand at my waist while warm fingers brushed my back as the zipper was pulled up.

"Now we're even," Jim said.

"Even?" I turned to face him.

"My tie. Your dress. I think you enjoyed it." He didn't specify which one I'd enjoyed.

"Don't flatter yourself, Captain," I answered, ignoring the fluttery little thing my heart was doing and we left for the banquet.

To be continued . . .