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Once I can straighten up and breathe normally, we walk at a more reasonable pace to an old stone building just visible in the distance.
Brian throws out an arm. “The barn is from the late eighteenth century. We made the conversion soon after Ian was born. Now the boys want me to sell the planes and turn it into a garage for all of their fancy cars.” He pulls open the doors and I can see two planes, a biplane and a monoplane. “The biplane is a Sopwith Pup, and the monoplane is a Bristol M1.”
“I take it you’re not keen.”
“To sell? Hate the idea, but really, I hardly fly anymore.” He pats one plane as if it was a favorite dog. “Would be more practical. And Frank wants to buy this beauty off me.” He pats the brightly painted Bristol again.
“I call this one Princess. One of two surviving original planes. The other is in a museum in Australia.”
“Couldn’t you auction it for a lot of money?”
“Probably so, lass, but I’d rather give it to Frank one of these days. Money’s not everything. It’s a family heirloom. My granddad flew it near the end of the war and somehow brought it home. He was a canny man and never really told the story.”
I shut my gaping mouth.
“Something nefarious, I would guess. And, if you read about the few still to be found, only the Australian one is listed as an original and the others as replicas.”
My mind is whirring. “Perhaps there are records in your family papers.” My fingers are itching to investigate the Grant archives.
“Aye. I forgot you are planning a novel with Uncle Munro in it. Does that mean this plane might end up in your story?”
“Not if you don’t want it to. But I’m still not sure whether I’ll write his story. Your cousin Desmond doesn’t seem too keen.”
Brian strokes his chin, still gazing fondly at the machine. “Let me think about it in case you do.” Then a broad smile spreads out over his face. “Don’t want to court confiscation and end up behind bars at my age. Viktoria would never forgive me.”
We push the Sopwith Pup out of the barn. Brian checks over everything, then hands me a helmet, goggles, and a leather jacket. Everything is slightly oversized, and I chuckle, handing Brian my phone so he can take a picture.
He takes one of me and one of the two of us together. I’d title it “The Dashing Pilot and His Beagle.” My hair hangs down like Snoopy’s ears and my face is hidden by the goggles. The sleeves of the jacket hang below my hands and I push them up as high as I can.
When he hands me the phone back, I text them to Max. No response. Not surprising since he’s probably still meeting with his GSU colleagues.
Then we sit in the plane and he explains the controls. I don’t take much in but it’s fun to just sit there, watching how much he enjoys telling me about the the plane and some of his flying experiences.
“Well, at least you can say you’ve sat in a vintage plane.” His deep, rolling laugh reverberates around the barn as we push the plane back inside.
“Cuppa?” He points to a neat area in one corner, with a cabinet holding an electric kettle.
“I’d love some,” I say, gratefully.
“Go make yourself at home.” He gestures to a few chairs sitting around a small table. “What do you take in it?”
“Some whisky.” I’m joking, but he takes me seriously.
“Right you are.” He comes back a few minutes later with two mugs redolent with the aroma of a good single malt, hands me one, and sits down heavily with the other. “Can’t do that very often, lass. After a few minutes, the pain really hits.”
From the way he looks at me, my face must have guilt written all over it. “I’m glad I can do a few minutes. But I think the boys are right and it’s time to pack it up. Frank’s birthday is coming in June, so we’ll make the Bristol his gift, and I’ll donate the Pup to the National Museum of Flight. They have nothing like it in their collection.”
He looks at me, his bright blue eyes clouded. “Well, enough palaver about the planes.” He exhales heavily. “Now, Cressie, I want to have a little talk.”
Unreasoning fear makes hot pain shoot through my chest. I take a deep breath. His family has given me no reason to think they don’t like me. My mouth is as dry as the Mojave.
His brow furrows. “I’m that worried about Max.”
“Why?” I gulp from the mug I’ve been cradling between my palms unable to suppress a yelp when I realize it’s hotter than the first taste led me to believe. The liquid scalds my lips. “Is it me?” Shit. How did that slip out?
“What? No? What gave you that idea?” Brian is a perfect illustration of flabbbergasted. “Crivvens. You’re the best thing to happen to him in at least ten years.”
“Oh.” I catch my lower lip between my teeth to keep them from trembling.
