Page 7 of Landing Love

Ann swallowed hard. Did she say Astor? Try as she might have to ignore her mother’s prattling, even Ann knew who the Astors were.

Miss Belmont introduced her to a matron in the most richly embroidered gown Ann had ever seen. She made a mental note of the style and pattern to see if she could make something comparable herself. Not that she’d ever have reason to wear such a thing, but it would be such an interesting creative challenge.

“Mrs. Prince, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Astor said as Miss Belmont drifted back into the churning center of the party. “I lost my Jack on the Titanic, you know. Grief is a funny thing. Every time you think you’ve surmounted it, it comes back to break your heart. I can’t imagine finding myself grieving and in need at the same time. My heart goes out to you, my dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Astor,” Ann said in as steady a voice as she could manage. Was this real? How was it possible that one of the grande dames of New York society cared about her plight and sympathized?

“I greatly appreciate the assistance the Pilots’ Benevolent Association is providing,” Ann added, trying for courage she didn’t entirely feel. “You see, I’m losing my home and have to move into a house I inherited from my mother that is in poor repair. The funds from the PBA will help me get a new roof so that my newborn son and I are safe from the elements.”

“Heavens above! I’m glad we could help you, dear. That sounds very distressing,” said Mrs. Astor, hand on her chest.

“It’s been a difficult year.”

“Let me introduce you to my friend, Alva Belmont,” Mrs. Astor said. And so, she was handed off to another society matron to whom she recounted her story.

“Terribly tragic, my dear. Terribly tragic,” said Mrs. Belmont. “You know who else should hear this? Just one moment. I’ll go get her.”

In similar fashion, she was handed off from one matron to another until she felt like she could hardly stand to say another word. Mercifully, a series of speeches and toasts to the birthday girl gave her a reprieve. Excusing herself to the ladies’ room after the speeches, she made her escape.

When she returned to the party, she managed to stay in merciful obscurity until a tall young man made his way over. There was something about his merry face that was irresistible. His lovely blue-green eyes sparked in boyish glee as he came up to her. He looked lithe and strong and moved with easy grace. He wore an Air Service AEF uniform, she noted with a pang, just like her Roger.

“Do you, by any chance, have a leaky bathroom faucet that needs fixing?” he asked with an Irish lilt and a sideways grin.

She stared in bafflement. “Do you always start conversations with strange women by asking about home repairs?”

“Quite frequently, yes,” he said with a wink that set off butterflies in her stomach. Now why would that be?

“How very odd of you. And, pray tell, do ladies generally respond positively to such an introduction?” Forgetting herself, she took a sip of champagne, then tried to disguise her surprise at the taste.

“Mostly no. But say, is there something wrong with your champagne? I’d be happy to get you a new one.” He reached out for her drink.

She must have made a face despite her efforts to pretend this was normal. “No, I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just not used to it. I don’t usually drink.”

“Ah, but tonight you’re making an exception?” He raised an amused eyebrow.

Her stomach did a flipflop, and she cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She took another tentative taste. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Perhaps I could give you an excuse to put it down, Mrs.…?” He plucked the champagne out of her hand and handed it to a passing waiter.

“Prince. Mrs. Ann Prince. And you are?”

“Asking you to dance, Mrs. Ann Prince.” He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. “I’m Bill O’Donnell, by the way.”

A thousand thoughts ran through her head as she followed. Could she dance? Was it proper? What would all the grand old ladies think if they saw a widow dancing? What would Roger think? Was it wrong of her to want to give in to this invitation?

But it was too late. They had already assumed the position for a waltz, and before she could think better of it, their feet were moving. A rush of joy ran through her. She’d forgotten how much she loved to waltz. A part of her thought she was never going to waltz again, but here she was, twirling in a ballroom in the arms of a handsome man. Oh dear. He was handsome, wasn’t he? She should never have agreed to this. It was too disloyal to Roger.

“Mrs. Prince, I’m sure everyone has been asking you for your story.” His sympathetic smile made her stomach flip, and the last thing she wanted to talk about was her troubles.

“And you want to hear it too? All right I’ll tell you,” she said with a little sigh. It seemed such a shame to ruin the moment, but perhaps it was for the best.

“Actually, I wanted to ask what your favorite flavor of ice cream is.”

“What my—? Why would you ask me that?” she asked with a little laugh. And then she paused. Did she really just laugh? She hadn’t done that for months.

He grinned at her, and it was such a sweet, goofy grin that a bit of his mood rubbed off on her. “I’d like to get you some after this dance. There’s an assortment over by the wall.”

“I… I suppose I like strawberry.”