On Wings Of The Morning by Marie Bostwick

was different too, calmer and more serene. She didn’t ask me for my opinion every ten seconds as she had when we were younger. This more mature Fran was able to make choices on her own and seemed happy with the outcome.
    Fran insisted I stay for lunch, so while she was making lemonade and tuna sandwiches, I took myself on a self-guided tour of the bungalow.
    She had done a great job making the little house into a home. The whole place was neat as a pin and smelled faintly of lemon oil and candle wax. At the door of the nursery, freshly painted in rubber-duck yellow, I stood admiring the sweet little room that was big enough for the crib and rocker Fran had bought secondhand and lovingly refinished. I wondered how I would feel if this were my house, my nursery, awaiting the birth of my child.
    Over lunch I told Fran about Roger’s proposal. She reacted just like Delia had—utterly thrilled by the news and utterly confused as to why I had not immediately accepted. I tried to explain but could see that she was confounded by my uncertainty.
    We hugged and said good-bye. I ran to catch my bus and made it, but just barely, squeezing between the doors just as the driver was closing them.
    I tossed my overnight bag onto the luggage rack, collapsed into an empty seat, and tried to catch my breath. My face turned toward the window that framed the receding Chicago skyline, but the picture of the sun streaming through the window of the nursery, warming the hand-rubbed finish of the wooden crib, stayed with me all during the long ride home.

9
    Georgia
    Waukegan, Illinois—October 1941
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    R oger poked his head in the office door and called, “Hey, hon! I’ve just got this last flight check with the Barnes kid and then we’ll go. You ready?”
    I nodded and closed the cabinet drawers where I’d just finished filing the month’s billing and flight logs. Roger whistled as the drawers slid back to reveal my new black dress with the little white polka dots and wide red belt that made my waist look even more slender than it really was.
    â€œWhew! You look good enough to eat in that!”
    â€œThank you.” I smiled. “But, Roger, you shouldn’t have. Real silk! It must have cost a fortune.”
    â€œBusiness has been good, wouldn’t you say, Miss Bookeeper? The government keeps hiring me to teach these college kids to fly. And one thing I’ll say for the government, they pay well and on time. Our tax dollars at work, don’tcha know. Well, God bless Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Civilian Pilot Training Program. They are the reason I can afford to buy you a nice dress.”
    â€œI know, but it’s still too expensive, Roger.”
    â€œIt’s the first time I bought an anniversary present. I didn’t know there was a spending limit.”
    â€œThe first year’s gift is supposed to be paper. That’s why I got you that subscription to Life magazine.”
    â€œAnd I love it,” he insisted.
    â€œBut it makes me look like a cheapskate next to this beautiful dress,” I complained. “I should have gotten you something nicer.”
    Roger stepped into the office and closed the door. “You can give me an extra present after our dinner date,” he said, shifting his eyebrows up and down in a playful, mockingly sensual expression. Gathering me in his arms and pressing me close, he kissed me hard on the mouth. After a long minute, he turned me loose. “Mrs. Welles, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
    â€œAll right,” I said as he left. “See you in an hour.”
    I walked to the office window and watched my husband as he greeted Barnes, the young pilot he was taking up for a flight check. Barnes was one of the scores of college students who had been coming to take lessons as part of the government’s Civilian Pilot Training Program, or CPTP. The students only had to pay forty dollars toward their training, even