Her Last Flight(61)

“You’ll want to get some rest,” Morrow said. “Tonight there’s a ball in your honor.”



Possibly nothing in Irene’s life until that point felt quite as immediately good as that bath. For one thing, the bathroom itself was a large, luxurious cave of marble and porcelain and soft Turkish towels. The water was fresh and warm, drawn for her by a reverent, wide-eyed chambermaid who added oil from a glass decanter and didn’t say a thing, not because of professional politeness but because her heart was too full for words. Then she left, and Irene sank into that tub like you might sink into heaven.

When she emerged, wrapped in a dressing gown, she was taken aback to find George Morrow at home on her sofa, smoking a cigar and nursing a glass of whiskey. He rose at once and asked if he could pour her something. Champagne, perhaps? It was legally available here in Australia, after all, and would help her sleep.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t touch intoxicants.”

It came out more prim than she intended, and Morrow had the grace to set aside his glass. He urged her to the sofa, settled himself in the nearby armchair, and apologized for intruding.

She cupped an ear. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak louder.”

“Of course!” he barked, leaning forward a few inches, and repeated himself.

“You’re not intruding at all, Mr. Morrow. We couldn’t have made the trip without you,” she replied.

“Believe me, Miss Foster, the honor of sponsoring this historic journey was all mine.” He paused to beam. Like the rest of him, his dentistry was perfect and whispered of prosperity. “Of course, like the rest of the world, I’m only happy you’re alive and well. Alive and well,” he repeated, more loudly, because Irene was squinting with the effort of making him out.

“Oh, I guess it will all die down soon enough. I’m just an ordinary girl, after all, and I don’t much care for all the fuss.”

“An ordinary girl? Miss Foster.”

“It’s true, I’m as plain as could be. I just like to fly, that’s all.”

“Plain?” He laughed. “Don’t you see yourself at all? Plain? Ordinary? You’re extraordinary. By God, you’re the biggest sensation since Lindbergh. Those crowds out there”—he flung his arm to the window—“are here for you.”

“And Sam.”

“Sam, of course.” Mr. Morrow leaned back and set the cigar in an ashtray. Irene couldn’t help staring at his immaculate fingernails. It was funny how you forgot certain details about civilization, like how immaculate fingers could be. Now he laced them together and looked at her. He made a couple of false starts before he spoke again. “Miss Foster. Can I be candid with—”

Irene cupped her ear again. “I’m sorry.”

Morrow cleared his throat. “Can I be—oh, damn. Never mind. I only wish to say that I see a very bright future ahead for you. You’ve captured the imagination of the world. Books, lectures. You’ll be bigger than Lindbergh.”

Irene couldn’t hear every word. She wasn’t sure she understood him properly. Write books? “Sam’s going to write the book,” she said. “He already said so. He’s going to write a book about all this, and use the money to—to—well, to take care of his family.”

“People want to hear from you, Irene.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Because you’re a woman, Irene, and the world’s fascinated with women. Women with a sense of adventure, women who can take on men at their own game. The emancipated woman, she’s the spirit of the age.” Morrow lifted his cigar from the ashtray and pointed it at Irene’s mouth. “You, Irene. People want to hear from you. They can’t get enough of you.”

Irene was so exhausted, she didn’t want to argue. She couldn’t think through an argument, couldn’t put together any kind of complex thought or sentence. “But I just want to fly,” she said again.

Morrow reached to tap the ash from the end of his cigar. He rose from his chair and approached the window, which looked out over a sunny, chilly Sydney Harbor. It was winter here, after all. Morrow braced one hand against the window frame and gazed out across the sun-dappled water. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, just his trousers and stiff white shirt and waistcoat, neatly buttoned, conservative dove gray. The blue smoke of his cigar trailed around him. Its rich scent was altogether different from Sam’s cigarettes. Irene, sitting on the sofa in her dressing gown, felt woozy with the need to sleep. Morrow seemed to disappear into his blue fog. Her eyelids sank downward. Just as she began to doze off, Morrow appeared next to her on the sofa, so close their knees almost touched.

“Miss Foster, I don’t mean to be importunate—” He stopped, coughed, and continued in a louder voice, close to her ear. “And I realize it’s none of my business, as a mere friend. But as a manager—as your business manager—I feel it’s incumbent upon me to ask . . .”

Irene picked at the edge of her robe. “Ask what?”

“Whether there’s anything you should tell me, about you and Mr. Mallory.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Irene, they’re going to ask, those reporters. Maybe not in so many words. But the whole world’s dying to know—a man and a woman, stranded on an island together—don’t tell me you don’t understand my meaning.”