“Oh,” she gasped, as her vision came clear. “Oh.”
The Spitfire listed a little, propped up by scaffolding on one side where the left wheel assembly had been torn away. There were great, crumpled gashes in the plane's underbelly, and both cockpits were completely smashed. The propeller was bent and twisted.
But it was hers.
Her Spitfire.
Her mother's plane.
“I know it looks a mess,” Chase said anxiously, as she drifted dreamlike toward the Spitfire. “But John spent ages searching the sea floor, and he swears on the honor of his people that he found all the parts. I've dried everything out and cleaned it as best I could, but I don't know how to fix it myself and I didn't trust anyone else to work on it without your approval. I promise, we'll get her restored, no matter what. You can have whatever you need to repair it, or I could hire specialists, or, or… Connie?”
Gently, as if the Spitfire might bolt away like a startled deer if she moved too fast, Connie laid her hand flat on the plane's battered surface.
“Hello again, baby,” she whispered.
Chase let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. “So she's okay?”
“She's perfect.” Connie stroked the plane, blinking back tears at being able to touch it again. “It'll take some time, but I'll make her good as new. It'll be like… it'll be like working with my mother. Fixing the same things that she fixed, all those years ago.”
He came up behind her, softly resting his hands on her shoulders. “I think she would have liked that. She'd be very proud of you.” A slightly pained note crept into his voice. “I'd say she'd be even prouder than your dad is, but I'm not sure that's humanly possible.”
Connie giggled, leaning back against his broad chest. “So I guess he must have subjected you to the story of how I won the Rydon Cup in a borrowed rustbucket, while flying backward and upside-down.”
“Twice. I did try to remind him that I was actually there, but he kept talking anyway.” Chase sounded aggrieved. “I wish I could tell him what really happened. My version of the story is much better.”
“Serves you right, having to hold your tongue while someone else prattles on for once.” Connie bit her lip. “Um. While we're talking planes… I have a confession to make. About your Spitfire.”
“It's your Spitfire,” Chase said, without hesitation. “Your other Spitfire. I'm not letting you give it back.”
“Good, because I kind of can't.” Connie tilted her head to look up at him. “I traded it to my dad. He can race it, display it, sell it, whatever he wants… but it'll be on his own. I'm done bailing him out now. I love him, but I can't go through anything like this again.”
“You won't,” Chase said fiercely, his arms tightening around her. “I promise. I'm glad you're spreading your own wings at last. Your dad has to learn to fly on his own, too.”
“Speaking of dads.” Connie raised her eyebrows at him. “Did you talk to yours yet?”
“Yes.” She felt all his muscles tense. “With Killian in jail, Tiernach Enterprises is in chaos. My father needs to stabilize things as quickly as possible. He's got some potential replacements lined up, but he’d still prefer it if I took over as CFO.”
Connie put her hand over his, squeezing it. “Will you?”
He looked down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Do you want me to?”
“I want you to be happy,” she said. Her thumb rubbed soothing circles on the back of his hand. “And somehow I don't think sitting behind a desk all day would do that.”
He let out a brief, sharp laugh. “No.”
Chase fell silent for a long moment, his face shadowed. “He got me into firefighting, did I ever tell you that? Killian, I mean. After you left, all those years ago. I was determined to just blindly charge around the world searching for you, but he persuaded me to leave that to professional detectives. I needed something to keep me busy, so he told me about this all-shifter fire crew he'd heard about. He thought it might suit me.”
“He did know you very well,” Connie said, softly.
“And it does suit me,” Chase admitted. Gradually, the tension eased from his body, though he still looked subdued. “I like doing something real, that demands all my mind and strength and skill. I like being able to use my talents to help people. You don't mind if I stick with it? I mean, it's a dangerous job. I wouldn't want you to be constantly worrying about me.”
“Chase, I fly vintage WWII warplanes for a living,” Connie said, a touch acerbically. “Exactly which one of us should be worrying about the other, again?”
He laughed again, and Connie was pleased that it was his real laugh this time, warm and unrestrained. “You have a point, there.” He cocked his head to one side. “Hey. You said you traded your other Spitfire to your dad, but you didn't say what for. What did you get in return?”
Connie patted her Spitfire again. “The other half of this. When my mom died, her will left me and my dad both half-shares in her plane. I used your Spitfire to buy him out. She's all mine now.”
“And no one will ever be able to take her away from you again,” Chase finished for her, with great satisfaction.