is try, Father.”
“Besides,” Jason went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “the test pilots are the stars. Flight engineers never get the glory.”
“It’s my understanding that the flight engineer is the test,” Molly gritted out. “The flight engineer makes up the program that the pilot uses to test the aircraft. No engineer—no test. I think that’s pretty important.”
“But the world only recognizes test pilots—not the shadows behind the scenes!”
“Besides,” Scott added dejectedly, “my friends don’t know anything about flight engineers. They all know about test pilots.”
“Then,” Molly said with forced lightness, “I guess you’ll learn a lot about what I do in the letters I write to you, Scott, and educate your friends in the process.”
Glumly Scott muttered, “I guess…. But it’s not the same, Molly.”
An ache threaded through Molly, so deep that she could only stand in the thick silence as both men studied her. She tried to remember what Maggie had told her: do the best you can, with no apologies. There is no failure if you try. Still, Molly couldn’t help but say, “I’m sorry I disappointed both of you. I promise I’ll do better at Patuxent River.”
Jason Rutledge sat down, holding his Scotch between his hands. “Retrieve our honor, Molly. My associates at the stock-brokerage firm couldn’t believe you were washed out of flight training. You don’t realize the embarrassment it caused me to admit that my daughter didn’t make the grade. At least let me give them good news that you’re making it as a test-flight engineer at your new station.”
Molly knew suddenly that she would never endure thirty days at home with her father and brother. “If it’s all right with you, Father, I’m going to leave in about a week for Lexington Park. It’s a town right outside the gates of Patuxent River. I’ll have to find an apartment and get moved in.”
“Fine.” He glanced over at her. “Do you need money?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
With a sour face Jason muttered, “I’m a millionaire twenty times over, but money can’t buy me the one thing I wanted most for this family: an heir to carry on our Navy-pilot tradition.”
Knowing that every emotion registered on her face, Molly turned away, drained. No amount of “I’m sorrys” would make her father let go of his disappointment at her failure to get her wings. She left the den as quietly as she had come, and climbed the stairs to the second floor of the penthouse.
At the top of the steps, Molly hesitated, peeking into Scott’s room. Her father had had an elevator installed to make it easy for him to move from floor to floor by wheelchair. Top Gun posters hung on the walls. So did posters of the F-14 Tomcat, the Navy’s premier fighter. The F/A-18 Hornet, another Navy fighter, was prominently displayed on the wall above Scott’s bed. Plastic models of all the modern-day airplanes cluttered his bookshelves. Molly felt sorry for their housekeeper, Emma Sanders, having to dust and pick up everything her brother left littered about the room.
Molly opened the door to her bedroom. Once inside, she stopped, feeling an immediate sense of comfort and security. The walls were papered with pale-pink and white flowers. Moving to her bed, she picked up her doll, Amanda. When her mother, Corrine May Rutledge—daughter of a very rich banking family—had died of cancer, Molly had spent hours on her bed, crying for her loss. Only Amanda, a rag doll whose painted face was nearly worn off from years of loving, had offered any solace.
Smiling gently, Molly barely touched Amanda’s gold yarn hair. “How many of my tears did you soak up over the years, Mandy?” When Molly was nine years old, her mother had bought Amanda for her as a birthday gift because the doll had blond hair and green eyes like Molly’s.
Life had become harsh and demanding after her mother’s death. Her father, who had always run his stock-brokerage house like a military machine, had brought that strict, cold order home. Molly remembered sobbing alone at night, longing for her mother’s warming embrace, kisses and gentleness.
Who would have thought that Molly Rutledge would turn out to be an Annapolis graduate? It still surprised Molly to think about it. She shook her head and placed Amanda back against the bed pillows.
Turning around in the middle of the room, she breathed in the past she’d left behind four-and-a-half years ago. It was a soft room in comparison to the harsh conditions she’d endured at Annapolis. Her china tea set was arranged on one shelf; several other dolls that shared the loneliness of this huge penthouse with her sat on another. Everything in the room shouted femininity, not militarism.
With a slight quirk of her lips, Molly pulled her suitcase up on the bed and began to unpack. In the eyes of her family, she was an utter failure. The only way to redeem herself was to become a test-flight engineer. Had she jumped from the frying pan of flight school into the fire of test school?
Her hands shook slightly as she slid her folded lingerie into a dresser drawer. Somehow she had to make her father and Scott proud of her again. After stowing the empty suitcase under her bed, Molly took a shower. Changing into a pair of dark gray slacks and a light peach-colored sweater afterward, she was ready to face her family for dinner.
Just as she reached for the doorknob, a knock sounded. The door swung open to reveal Scott sitting in the hallway.
“Dinner’s on, Molly.”
“Thanks, Scott.” She picked up a hand-painted silk floral scarf and tied it into a loose knot around her neck.
Scott’s hands rested on the wheels of his chair. “Father’s really upset. No one feels like eating.”
“Life goes on, Scott. I’ve already apologized. If this funereal atmosphere is going to continue for the next week, I’ll leave sooner.”
“Oh…no. You promised to tell me all about Whiting Field. Your letters are one thing, but hearing the stories in person is best.” Scott forced a smile. “Come on, you can go down in the elevator with me.”
Molly nodded and waited patiently while Scott turned his wheelchair around on the hardwood floor and headed toward the elevator at the other end. “At twenty-five, I’d think you’d have other things to occupy you than waiting for my stories,” she told him dryly.
Moving his wheelchair into the spacious elevator, Scott shrugged. “Father has given up on me becoming a stockbroker. It just isn’t for me.”
Molly pressed the button that closed the brass and glass door, and laughed for the first time since her arrival home. It felt good to discuss something other than her failure as a pilot. “Knowing Father, he doesn’t want to turn his company over to us or anyone. Not that I’d want it. I’m not cut out for the barracuda halls of stockbrokering.”
“Roger that.”
Molly smiled. For as long as she could remember, Scott had wanted to fly and become a Navy pilot—a life plan preordained by her father since Scott’s birth. Scott would go to Annapolis, graduate and become a pilot like the other men of the Rutledge family. An auto wreck two weeks before he was to leave for Maryland had paralyzed him from the waist down. As an afterthought, Jason Rutledge had pushed
