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A Flying Affair
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Considering their shared passion, it’s no surprise that Ames begins to vie for Mittie’s time. But when handsome British aviator Bobby York offers her flying lessons, he is equally surprised-and beguiled-by Mittie’s grit and talent. Driven to succeed, Mittie will do whatever it takes to compete in the Women’s National Air Derby alongside Amelia Earhart. But when Calista “Peach” Gilson, a charming Southern belle, becomes her rival both professionally and in love, Mittie must learn how to navigate her heart’s romantic longings as well as the skies.
It’s a sacred privilege to write novels, and I’m reminded once again of both the joy in exploring new topics and ideas and the debt of gratitude to so many good folks who’ve come alongside.
My thanks first of all to Sandra Bishop, my agent to whom this book is dedicated. She set my feet on this path of writing about the Roaring Twenties the moment she whispered two words to me: Kentucky Derby. While the story was never meant to be about horse racing, her inspiration led me to explore the wonders of Kentucky, which birthed both The Hatmaker’s Heart and A Flying Affair. “Thank you” is inadequate to express my appreciation for your encouragement and love of great stories.
Ideas, of course, lead to research and, if I’m lucky, road trips. Thank you, Max, for indulging me once again. I know this wasn’t what you signed up for when you said, “I do,” but there’s no one on earth I’d rather travel the highways and byways with. You have my heart today and always.
Special thanks to Hoppy Bennett, owner of Undulata Farms in Shelbyville, Kentucky, for sharing your passion for American Saddlebred horses and for your kindness in letting me observe firsthand the training of this magnificent breed.
A bushel of thanks to Thirza Peevey, horsewoman extraordinaire, for the many “horse” talks we had and for being a first reader. Your expertise helped me more than words can say.
To Bobby Walker, who challenged me to write a “completely true fictional story” about him and his mad skills as a pilot and flying instructor. Any similarities between the Bobby in A Flying Affair and the real Bobby are coincidental.
Christina Boys, you continue to amaze me with your insights and careful attention to every detail. You’ve earned your “wings” for sure! Thank you and the entire team at FaithWords: Virginia Hensley, Laini Brown, JuLee Brand (the cover art is swoon worthy!), Katie Connors, and all of the sales, marketing, and production staff. What a blessing you all are!
My thanks to the many writing friends who travel this road with me. Your encouragement, hugs, and prayers mean the world to me. A very warm thank you to Kathy Murphy and the Pulpwood Queens, whose ongoing support I cherish. Your gift at bringing authors and readers together is unparalleled.
Heartfelt thanks to Melanie Benjamin (The Aviator’s Wife) for sharing your writing experience and teaching me the value of “discovering the story you want to tell.”
To my family—Max, kids, grands, my sisters, and my dad—you’ve been asked to carry the load and revere the deadline a lot this past year. Your love and support are the glue that’s held me together through long days and mountains of research papers and books. I love you!
Thank you, dear readers, for taking this journey with me. I pray you will find the courage to soar toward your own hopes and dreams.
And to the One who makes it all possible—thank you, Jesus, for the gift of words and for your Word that is the spirit of truth and love and boundless joy.
In the early rays of morning, three-year-old Gypsy’s bay coat shimmered like liquid gold, her raven mane waving as Mittie Humphreys took her through the paces. Even through the saddle that separated the two, Mittie felt the ripple of anticipation, the inner surge of fire Gypsy couldn’t contain. When they got beyond the paddock to the bluegrass hills, an unspoken communication passed between them. Time to do what they both really wanted. Time to fly.
Mittie leaned forward and whispered, “Let’s go, girl!”
The filly twitched her ears and broke into a canter. The wind rushed past, lifting Mittie’s long hair into a sail behind, her heart quickening as they raced toward the red emblazoned horizon, the sky above streaked with tangerine and pink. Gypsy’s muscles rippled as she ran, her hooves scarcely touching the ground.
Her daddy called Mittie a natural when it came to horses, but every time he said it, Mittie winced. While she adored Gypsy with a fierceness that sometimes scared her, her dreams went beyond the bounds of Morning Glory Farms. Beyond the hills of Kentucky.
One day she’d soar and bank and roll, performing the stunts she’d read about the barnstormers doing—someday when Daddy was stronger and there were fewer demands with the horses and the trainers and when she’d convinced her parents there was nothing more in all the world she wanted.
A slight tug on the reins and Gypsy responded with the same ease as the bi-wing plane at Bowman Field. “Aviatrix!” she shouted into the billowing dawn. “Someday, Gypsy, you’re going to see me flying above you. Just you wait.”
She gave an involuntary shudder as she pulled Gypsy up into a trot, then a walk as they headed for the stables, giving them both time to cool down. Toby, her favorite trainer, met them at the barns. Mittie dismounted and handed the reins to Toby, who had a handful of carrot nuggets ready for Gypsy. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Mittie gave a final nuzzle to Gypsy and headed to the house. She skirted a pool of mud and nearly bumped into Moses Roper, the groundskeeper and dearest man in six counties. He greeted her with a nod of his woolly head. “Everything all right with you this fine morning?”
“Better now that I’ve seen you, Moses. You coming in for breakfast?”
“Not this morning. Miz Sarah got herself worked plumb to a tizzy when I checked with Mr. Eli for my job list today. Best if you square your shoulders and keep that smile on your face.” He nodded toward a shiny late-model automobile with sleek running boards sitting on the front drive.
“Gosh, I bet it’s Iris’ friends—her bridesmaids. I didn’t think they were coming until later on.”
Moses shook his head, his eyes never leaving the ground. “Not Miz Iris’ friends.”
“Someone I know?”
Moses shrugged, then shuffled off toward the gardening shed without answering.
Mittie took the servants’ entrance and back stairs up to her room for a quick wash and to change from her jodhpurs. Might as well make herself presentable for the mystery guest.
Once she’d freshened up and dressed in a skirt and blouse, she gave her hair a quick brush and went to the dining room. Her parents were alone at the table, her mother sipping tea, her dad his usual coffee. No guest in sight. She gave her daddy a peck on the cheek and helped herself to bacon, eggs, and grits from the chafing dishes on the sideboard. She set her plate down and went back for a side dish of biscuits and gravy, which brought a scowl from her mother.
“Gracious, you eat like a farmhand.” The familiar pinched lips graced her mother’s face.
“I’m starving. There’s nothing like doing the chores and a quick ride to work up an appetite.” She winked at her dad. “Gypsy enjoyed it, too. You know I think she secretly believes she’s a Thoroughbred and not a show pony.”
Her daddy sat erect, aided by the brace the doctors in Cincinnati had fitted for him. A gentleman’s corset, he called it. “She’s full of spunk all right. Like someone else I know. What kind of high jinks have you two been up to?” His smile was warm, his eyes twinkling.
Mittie’s mother set down her tea cup. “Honestly, you don’t have to encourage her, Eli.”
“Good grief, Sarah. We all know Mittie’s only doing her duty here until I get back in the saddle. We ought to be grateful she’s willing to do that.”
“She’s our daughter. Why wouldn’t she?”
Mittie waved her hand. “Hey, I’m here. You can talk to me, not about me.” She gulped down a long drink of sweet milk. “So, tell me—who was your morning visitor? Anyone I know?”
A look passed between her parents that Mittie couldn’t decipher.
Mittie drummed her fingers on the linen breakfast cloth and looked at her mother. “Well? A surprise for Iris? Don’t tell me Hayden Wainwright’s shown up early and decided to elope with my dear sister?”
“Forevermore, Mittie. Where you come up with these preposterous ideas is beyond me.”
“It’s what you did with Daddy, and you didn’t think it preposterous then.”
“They’re not eloping. It wasn’t even Hayden who came. But speaking of the wedding, I hope you haven’t forgotten your fitting for the bridesmaid’s dress this morning.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But I’ll have to meet up there. I’m off to Bowman Field right now.”
“This is certainly not the day to be traipsing off and taking another one of those horrid airplane rides.”
“No, Mother. I’m not going up in a plane today. The Lindbergh Committee is meeting. Social responsibility—that’s what you’ve taught me. Serve the community.”
Excitement bubbled inside. Even if her own dream of flying was light-years away, she could at least say she’d met the pilot who’d conquered the Atlantic—a true aviator and not just Mr. Weaver, the Bowman Field manager who gave her rides here and there.
She rubbed the goose bumps that had popped out on her arms. “It’s going to be the event of the year, if not the entire decade. Charles Lindbergh flying the Spirit of St. Louis into Louisville. Won’t that be grand?” She pushed her half-eaten breakfast away, not surprised that her mother didn’t share her enthusiasm. “I’ll meet you all at Martha’s shop. Eleven o’clock, right?”
“And not one minute past.”
“Where is Iris anyway?”
“In the drawing room, embroidering the hostess gifts for the bridesmaids’ brunch.” Mittie sighed. Her twin. The perfect bride. Beautiful, talented, and everything Mittie wasn’t. Not that Mittie minded that Iris was having the wedding that everyone who was anyone between Louisville and Birmingham would be attending in less than a week, but already she dreaded losing Iris and her moving to Alabama. With her twin married off to a man of means and social standing, Mittie was in line to be their mother’s next project. Heaven help her.
Mittie gulped the last of her coffee, then remembered the car in the drive. “Daddy, you never said who your visitor was. Whoever it was must not have stayed long.”
The muscles in her dad’s strong jaw clenched. “Buck Lamberson doesn’t believe in social lingering. He came straight to the point.”
Mittie held her breath, her breakfast eggs turned to stone in her stomach, but she kept her voice light. “Was Dobbs with him?”
“No, Dobbs needs a new bone operation. One that will lessen the limp.”
Mittie closed her eyes and wished she hadn’t asked. She rose from the table, went to her dad, and pressed her lips against the top of his head, the thick salt and pepper hair as soft as Gypsy’s muzzle. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Eli Humphreys took Mittie’s hand in his and gave a gentle squeeze. “I know you are, sugar. Now run on or you’ll be late for your meeting.”
Mittie gripped the wheel of her roadster and took the curves at speeds that made her heart race, pushing thoughts of Buck Lamberson away. It was ancient history, and she wasn’t going to let the unfortunate incident with Dobbs ruin her mood for the Lindbergh meeting.
Committee work didn’t normally suit Mittie, at least not the sort her mother nudged her toward. Putting on silk stockings and heels, a Sunday hat, and a fashionable afternoon dress to sit in a stuffy room and sip tea from china cups might be all right if you wanted to get your name on the society page. Mittie had no interest in that and no talent for the pretense that went along with it.
And she usually made some gaffe that embarrassed her mother. There was no doubt Mittie wasn’t the ladylike debutante her mother had hoped for, but maybe being on the Lindy Committee would prove more to Mittie’s liking and gain her mother’s approval at the same time.
She pulled her berry red roadster into a spot on the gravel parking lot and swung her long silk-stockinged legs out of the car. For once, it didn’t chafe to dress the part of a civic-minded socialite. She sidestepped a puddle left from rain during the night and hurried toward the meeting room in the terminal.
Mr. Weaver, the airfield manager, was on the committee as well as Victor Booth from the Aero Club. Their expertise would be valuable to the mayor, who would oversee the planning for the whole of the Louisville community. Weaver waved for Mittie to come in and took his seat near the head of the table next to Gordon Chase. Gordon, a pasty-faced bachelor in his midtwenties, had come to all of Iris’ debutante balls, and Mittie had heard he got a job as an aide for the new mayor. Perhaps the mayor had sent Gordon in his stead. When he saw Mittie, Gordon rose and walked on pigeon-toed feet across the floor to greet her with a handshake and peck on the cheek.
“Mittie. You look quite fetching, as usual.” He needed a peppermint for his sour breath, but she shook his hand and gave him an air-kiss before taking her spot next to Weaver. One by one, a half dozen others trickled into the room as coffee from an urn brought in from the airfield canteen was poured into stout ceramic mugs. Not a hand-painted teapot or china cup in sight.
Gordon rustled some papers, his doughy cheeks twitching when he cleared his throat. “Mayor O’Neill asked me to preside since he’s still getting settled into his office. And we have a lot of work to do today. The August eighth date has been confirmed for the Lindbergh Goodwill Tour, which starts on the East Coast in a few days. Louisville is most fortunate to have received the honor of hosting him for an overnight stop.”
He paused when a well-dressed woman came in late and slipped into the empty seat beside Mittie. Gordon plunged on. “We’ll have a ticker tape parade, of course. And we’ll need advertising and a welcome committee.”
A volunteer said, “Police officers. We don’t want any violence, and you know the crowd will be monstrous. Bigger than Derby Day, I suspect.”
Others nodded. Everyone in America wanted to lay eyes on the Lone Eagle, as the papers had taken to calling Lindbergh.
The latecomer leaned over and asked Mittie what organization she represented.
“I’m an airfield volunteer. Maybe I’ll be the one to present the rose bouquet as a symbol of our great city.”
The woman sniffed. “It’s not a horse race, darling.”
Gordon’s eyes brightened. “That’s a peach of an idea, Mittie. I’m sure the mayor will agree. And by the way, would you mind keeping minutes of our meeting?” He shoved a steno pad across the table to her. Someone provided a pencil.
“What about speeches?” Victor Booth of the Aero Club wanted to know. “As president of the organization for promotion of flight, I’d like the honor of doing the welcome.”
Gordon shook his head. “I’ll have to check. Seems like that’s a job for the mayor.”
Victor blew a puff of cigarette smoke. “Seems like he would’ve bothered to show up if he’s of a mind to give the speech.” A few murmurs of aye and nay went around the table without a consensus, and Gordon looked to Mittie for help.
Mittie cleared her throat. “I tend to think it’s the mayor’s job, but Victor, you’ve got that swell open-touring Silver Ghost that would be perfect to transport Colonel Lindbergh along the parade route. With you and that lovely wife of yours beside him, of course.”
“I’d be honored as long as it comes with a spot at the head table at the banquet.”
Gordon scratched his head. “The mayor didn’t say anything about a banquet.”
The representative of the Downtown Louisville Women’s League nearly danced in her seat. “We would be remiss not to provide a formal meal and evening of entertainment for an occasion of this magnitude.” Heads bobbed like mares at the grain trough as she continued. “The Crystal Ballroom at the Brown Hotel would be the wise choice. A formal dinner by invitation only. And a band. Every woman in town will want to dance with Colonel Lindbergh.” Hands went up to volunteer for the committee.
Gordon looked like he was lost at sea. He cleared his throat, unable to offer any direction about which politicians to invite, whether to hire a celebrity jazz band or someone local, what the best parade route would be, and what local sites Colonel Lindbergh might want to see.
Mittie was starting to feel sorry for Lindy. All that attention being foisted upon him. Thrust into the limelight day after day, expected to perform like a circus pony and sit elbow to elbow with people he’d never laid eyes on, then dance with their daughters. She wasn’t even sure the poor fella liked to dance.
Mittie scribbled until her fingers cramped, fully aware that nothing was being decided. Gordon was hapless at organizing and giving direction. Mittie glanced at the clock on the far wall and groaned. She was due at Martha’s in half an hour.
She held up her hand for silence. “Gordon, I think we’ve got a good start here. I suggest we divide up the various duties, let each committee member gather pertinent facts and figures, and come back here next week to share our information.”
Gordon’s face flushed purple. “Yes, I was getting around to that point, Mittie.”
Victor huffed, a plume of smoke making phantom curlicues. “You bet he was. Just not in this century.”
Mittie read off what she had and told Gordon she’d bring a typewritten copy of the minutes to the mayor’s office the next morning.
Gordon adjourned the meeting, and as Mittie was nearly to the door, Weaver asked to have a word. “Nice job of keeping things under control.” He jerked his head in the direction of Gordon. “Poor sap got in over his head. Thanks for stepping in.”
“My pleasure, but I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.”
“Don’t concern yourself with that, my dear girl. Give me a call when you want to take another jaunt in the old Canuck.”
“It’ll be a while, I’m afraid. Iris’ wedding is just around the corner.”
Weaver nodded. “Ah, yes. Give her my best. With your charm and good looks, I’m sure it’ll be your turn soon.”
She glanced at the clock, which told her she was going to have to floorboard it to make it to the fitting. She offered her apology for having to run and sailed out the door, chuckling at Weaver’s remark. The last thing she wanted—or needed—was a husband.
Low clouds hovered over the airfield, the air heavy with the promise of another storm. Mittie strode to the end of the walk, but at the edge of the gravel, her heel sunk into the soft earth, causing her to teeter off-balance for a moment. When she put her foot on solid ground, a sharp pain shot through the ball of her left foot—a piece of gravel had slipped into her shoe and lodged there.
She winced, plucked off her shoe, and shook out the offending pebble. When she looked up, a man in an aviator helmet and leather flight jacket offered his hand while she slipped the shoe back on.
She muttered her thanks and hurried on.
“Wait, miss!” The pilot fell in stride with Mittie. “Don’t I know you? You look terribly familiar and gorgeous to boot.”
Mittie stopped. The voice was familiar, perhaps someone who’d given her a come-on before. She gave him a quick glance, thinking she might slap him if he said something fresh. The chin strap of his leather helmet swung unfastened along a strong jaw, flight goggles resting atop his head. On his forehead, a black lock of hair had escaped, grazing a raised eyebrow. One raised brow that invited a response. Her stomach lurched with recognition.
“Ames? Ames Dewberry?”
“In the flesh. And if I recall, you’re the lass from Long Island that begged me to take you up in that old Curtiss of mine. Musta been what—three, four years ago?”
“Four years next month.” Ames Dewberry. How she’d dreamed one day he’d step into her life the way he had when she and Iris had gone to that garden party with their cousin Nell. Ames Dewberry, mystic and intrepid, swaggering onto the lawn that night, leaning on one elbow on the backyard bar. He’d matured a lot in four years, but there was the same cleft in his chin. Same dark eyes that, when Mittie wasn’t dreaming about flying, drifted into her sleep and uncountable waking hours.
“Mattie, wasn’t it?”
She snickered. “Close, but no. Mittie. And I didn’t beg.” She had begged. Pathetically. And scribbled her address on the back of a calling card she found in her evening bag. “I spent months thinking I hallucinated the whole thing since I never heard from you.”
His brows converged into a V between simmering coal eyes. “I lost the card you gave me—thought I put it in my pocket, but never could find it.” His hand rested on her forearm, searing through the voile of her afternoon dress.
“So what brings you to Louisville?”
“Barnstorming across the river in Indiana, scoping out some new spots and crowds to entertain.” He nodded toward the runways. “The setup here would be a good place for home base. And getting reacquainted with you if you’re not spoken for, although I fear I’m probably too late for that. Dolls like you don’t stay unattached for long.”
Mittie shrugged noncommittally. “I’d love to chat with you and hear what you’ve been doing, but I’m in somewhat of a rush. Perhaps soon.”
“Well, not today. The next few days are swarming with things I have to do.” Those eyes. Sympathetic. Hopeful. Pleading. Clouds drifted past, the minutes ticking away. She was already dreadfully late.
“Rotten luck for me, then.” His smile made the sun pale in comparison when he offered his hand for a shake. “In case you change your mind, I’ll be around at ten in the morning. This joint have a coffee shop?”
“Canteen. But don’t wait around. Like I said, I’ve got loads of things going on.” She turned and ran to the car, and when she glanced back over her shoulder, Ames Dewberry hadn’t moved, his wide shoulders and narrow hips everything she remembered. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel all the way to Martha Vine’s Dress Shop.
Mittie hoped to sneak into Martha’s salon for the fitting, but Caroline, her feisty nine-year-old cousin, met her in the anteroom. She twirled, her tea-length dress of palest lavender swishy above shiny buckled shoes. “Aunt Sarah! Mittie’s here!”
Caroline planted a hand on one hip. “How do I look?”
“Like a princess. I’m sure you’ll have every male at the wedding vying to dance with you.”
“Ick. If you mean boys, then no thank you. Dancing is splendid, but why ruin it with boys?”
Mittie tweaked her cousin’s nose. “That’s rather the point, sugar. You’ll change your tune someday.”
“That’s what Mama says, but Aunt Sarah says I should quit being a tomboy and be more ladylike. Like Iris. Will you take me for a ride in your roadster when we’re done here? There’s a big ship docked on the river, and I’m ab-so-lute-ly dying to get a closer look.”
Poor kid. She’d come along when Aunt Evangeline, Mittie’s mother’s sister, was nearly forty. Her daddy died on a British Royal Navy ship during the war before she was born, but still she was obsessed with anything to do with water—swimming, sailing, riverboats. Caroline tapped her toe in expectation of an answer.
“Not today, I’m afraid. Your aunt Sarah’s booked a table at the Brown for lunch later. No sense ruffling her feathers.”
“When has that ever bothered you?” Mittie’s mother strode from one of the fitting rooms and told Caroline to scoot, that the seamstress was ready for her. She leveled her gaze on Mittie. “Look at you. Late and such a fright. You’ve splatters on your dress, and it looks like you’ve crossed a field with the mud on your shoes. What happened? Did you get a tire puncture and have to change it yourself?”
Too many questions, and no answer would suit her mother, who’d donned her Mother Superior cap relegating Mittie to aberrant child status. She half-wished she’d stayed and talked to Ames.
Mittie pecked her mother on the cheek. “Nice to see you, too. Where do I need to go for my fitting?”
“Over here.” Iris waved her over to the large room at the back where the other bridesmaids—two of Iris’ college chums—were already dressed and being nipped and tucked by Martha and her assistant. Their gowns, exquisite in whisper-soft pink and baby-blue organza, were a veritable rainbow of pastel that Mittie’s mother had insisted would be the talk of all Louisville for months to come.
Mittie knew different. Iris’ wedding would get a flashy write-up in the Sunday edition of Louisville’s Courier-Journal and no doubt in newspapers in Alabama where the Wainwright family had a firm clasp on the steel industry. By marrying Hayden, heir to the dynasty, Iris would be breaking the hearts of every hopeful mother in Birmingham. But Lucky Lindy would be who people were talking about for months to come.
Iris’ cornflower-blue eyes darkened to deep azure—the please-don’t-make-this-difficult
- "A well-written romance with characters willing to do what they need to achieve their dreams. The storyline is believable, and some of it is based on true events. Stewart did her research and brings to attention a forgotten piece of history, the Women's National Air Derby."—RT Book Reviews
- "Compelling action scenes, clever dialogue, and believable characters add spice and depth to a multidimensional tale....The historical detail and vivid action scenes anchor an enjoyable story."—Publishers Weekly
- "Romance, danger, rebellion, exploration...and it's all delivered with the intricate sensory details and historical research readers have come to expect from Stewart's work."—Julie Cantrell%2C New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of Into the Free and When Mountains Move
- "Rich and complex....In A FLYING AFFAIR, the world is just opening up to women aviators, and Stewart does a beautiful job of capturing the exhilaration and anxiety of the era."—Judy Christie%2C award-winning author of Wreath%2C A Girl
- "Deftly written, with a keen eye toward history, Carla Stewart's latest is sure to delight!"—Lisa Wingate%2C national bestselling author of The Prayer Box and The Story Keeper
- "Captivating characters, skilled storytelling, and impeccable research....From a 1920s horse farm to the exciting world of women aviators, Stewart combines adventure, romance and faith in a truly compelling story."—Myra Johnson%2C author of When Clouds Roll By%2C historical fiction winner of the 2014 Christian Retailing Best Award
- "Carla Stewart has written a novel to remember...With a plot that kept me turning pages from engaging beginning to exhilarating end, A FLYING AFFAIR positively soars!"—Karen Halvorsen Schreck%2C author of Sing for Me and Broken Ground
- "Carla Stewart makes her readers...run with the horses, and fly with the pilots. A FLYING AFFAIR is more than a great read--it's an experience!"—Ane Mulligan%2C author of Chapel Springs Revival
- "Tons of adventure and a sprinkling of romance...A FLYING AFFAIR will whisk you away to the fascinating worlds of saddlebred horses and women's aviation in the 1920s. It's a journey you won't want to miss."—Anne Mateer%2C author of Playing by Heart
- "[A] breathtaking tale of love, ambition, and self-discovery....Stewart once again captures our fascination in this ongoing saga of high society, romance, jazz, and the wealth and drama of the Roaring Twenties."—Camille Eide%2C author of Like There's No Tomorrow
- "Fans of Carla Stewart's work won't be disappointed with this Jazz Age tale. With lush sensory details, Stewart brings us deep into this historical setting. . . readers will savor the sweet escape."—Julie Cantrell%2C%26nbsp%3BNew York Times%26nbsp%3Bbestselling author of%26nbsp%3BWhen Mountains Move on The Hatmaker's Heart
- "Stewart writes about powerful and basic emotions with a restraint that suggests depth and authenticity; the relationship between Sammie and her mother Rita, the engine that drives the plot, is beautifully and delicately rendered. Coming-of-age stories are a fiction staple, but well-done ones much rarer. This emotionally acute novel is one of the rare ones."—Publishers Weekly%26nbsp%3Bon%26nbsp%3BChasing Lilacs%2C starred review
- "While the story is heartbreaking, there is much more to this book. The lives of Mitzi and Brooke are told both in present time and with flashbacks, weaving together love, loss, tragedy and friendship. Stewart skillfully entertains and engages the reader with each character's private pain and survival skills."—RT Book Reviews%26nbsp%3Bon%26nbsp%3BBroken Wings
- On Sale
- Jun 2, 2015
- Page Count
- 320 pages