Her Last Flight(65)

“You’re sure?” Irene said.

“Couldn’t be more. It’s you I’m worried about. They’ll call you a home-wrecker and worse, they’ll call you all kinds of things.”

“Well, I am. I am a home-wrecker.”

“No, you’re not. Bertha and I, we couldn’t be worse for each other. From the beginning, we made each other miserable. Our marriage has been over since long before I met you. The only fine thing we ever had between us was Pixie.”

Irene sat up. “But you wouldn’t be divorcing her if it weren’t for me. So that makes me a home-wrecker.”

Sam set down the coffee cup and reached for her. “Irene, don’t. You’re not doing a thing. It’s not your fault I’m crazy for you, can’t think of anything but you, don’t want to spend a single hour except with you . . .”

Irene let him pull her back down into the grass. He put an arm around her and drew her right up against his side.

“But I won’t have them saying a word against you,” he went on. “So we’re going to lie low for a bit. Strictly professional. The divorce might take a year or so, done right.”

“What about flying?”

“Why, that’s the best part. We’re a team, aren’t we? We’ll just hold our heads up and fly in every derby, every exhibition, every air show that will pay us. Take the high ground, don’t talk to any damned reporters—”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Write a book together, go on a lecture tour. They’ll flock to see us.”

“Will they? Even after all this dies down?”

“Sure, they will. They’ll love you. You’re America’s Flying Sweetheart, remember? Between the two of us, we’ll be able to buy our own ship within a year. Buy a nice house somewhere to settle down and shut the damned world out. You wouldn’t mind having Pixie around, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Because I can’t let Bertha raise her alone. She’d break that child like she tried to break me. Pixie needs a mother like you. Someone true and brave, someone who knows how to love another person.”

“I’ll do my best for her. You know that.”

“We’d teach her to surf, wouldn’t we? Wake up mornings and hit the water first thing.”

“Yes,” said Irene. She played with the buttons of his woolen waistcoat. It wasn’t cold, but it was still winter, after all, and the morning air was cool on her hands and face. The sky had turned gloriously pink. She was drowsy and happy, listening to Sam’s heartbeat through the wool, listening to his rumbly voice. His hand found hers and wound their fingers together.

“Maybe one day we could have a kid of our own,” he said. “Raise it with Pixie.”

“Is that what you want?”

“More than anything in the world, except you. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about kids.”

“Well, we’ve got all the time in the world for you to think about it. You just tell me yes or no when you’ve decided.”

Irene raised herself on one elbow. Her eyes were blurry, but she could see his face, all right, lit up by the sunrise. “Sam Mallory,” she said, kind of raspy, “I have never loved anything on earth so much as I love you.”

“Not even flying?”

“Not even flying.”

“Surfing?”

“Not by a long shot.”

He reached for the back of her head and kissed her, and a little while passed before they said anything else. Even then, they didn’t say much.



They returned separately to the house. Irene felt like the sun, so full of heat and light she couldn’t help shedding it all around her. In the kitchen, she filled her cup back up with coffee and asked the cook if anyone else was up. The cook told her that Mr. Hounslow and Mr. Bruce were out riding, and Mr. Morrow was in the dining room eating breakfast.

Irene realized she was hungry and went into the dining room, where the breakfast dishes were spread out on the sideboard. She heaped her plate and sat down across from Morrow. He’d already said good morning and was studying the newspaper. Since arriving in Sydney, Irene had been avoiding any kind of newspaper or magazine. She was afraid of seeing herself in it, some photograph that looked like her but was not, some quote attributed to her, some description that matched a person who looked and sounded like Irene but wasn’t really, not the real Irene, Irene as Irene understood her. But now, sitting in the dining room of this fellow Hounslow’s house in the middle of nowhere, skin aglow, mind sharp, Irene felt some curiosity about that newspaper on the table. Not for news of herself! The rest of the world, the real world, business and politics and baseball. So she asked Morrow if she could read this newspaper when he was finished.

Morrow looked up and smiled. “Do you know what I think? I think you should take a vacation from the news.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just the same damned thing over and over.”

“I don’t know. I’d like to know what’s going on. I don’t even know who’s running for president! Did Al Smith win the nomination after all?”

“Yes, he did. The Democratic sacrificial lamb. Hasn’t got a chance against Hoover.”