THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING finally arrived. Fortunately their work schedule landed Vicki and Dean in Norfolk, with adequate time off. At the airport they scrambled out of uniform and into warm sports clothes, said good-bye to Captain Tom Jordan, and raced for the hangar where Dean’s plane stood waiting—“so tuned up she’s ready to take off all by herself,” Dean said.
It was a bright red, scratched-up Piper Cub, so tiny and fragile looking beside the commercial liners that it seemed like a toy. The long-legged Dean could almost have picked it up and tucked it under his arm. Vicki gulped. The name “Marietta” was painted on its pointed nose with its toy-size propeller.
“Who’s Marietta?”
“My mother.”
“That’s nice.” But still Vicki hesitated. “Can we both go up in that—that little teacup?”
