Her Last Flight(66)

The door opened. Sam walked in, whistling. “Who? Al Smith?” he said.

Morrow folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his plate. “They’ve got to field somebody, don’t they? Why not some Irish wet who’ll scare the dickens out of the Southern Baptists and raise the hackles of the do-gooding bluebloods. Say, you ought to try the hash.”

Sam carried his brimming plate next to Irene and sat down. Under the tablecloth, his leg tangled with hers. “Wouldn’t mind taking a look at that newspaper, if you’re done with it.”

“I was just telling Irene that it might not be a bad idea to take a little holiday away from the news. As we’re doing now.”

Sam looked at Morrow; Morrow stared back at him. Irene noticed the pause and looked up, but by the time she realized there was some message passing between the two of them, both men had returned to their breakfast. The new-risen sun tumbled through the window. From somewhere in the house came the sound of human activity, Hounslow and Bruce, probably, returned from their ride. Irene slipped off her shoe and caressed Sam’s ankle with her toe. He choked a little on his hash and reached for the coffee. The door burst open.

“Morrow! There you are. Some fellow just came in with an express telegram for you.” Hounslow thrust out his hand, which held a familiar yellow envelope. Morrow leaned forward across the table and took it. “Fine weather this morning, isn’t it? How’s breakfast?”

“Breakfast is terrific,” said Irene, who was watching George Morrow’s face as he read his telegram. “We appreciate the hospitality.”

“Why, it’s no trouble at all. Bruce here said the two of you were looking a bit peaky with all the fuss. That’s the beauty of this place. Nobody can be troubled to find you here.” Hounslow clapped his hand on Mr. Bruce’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Prime Minister?”

Morrow rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Mr. Mallory, might I have a moment of your time?”

Sam wiped his mouth and rose. “Certainly.”



At this point, Morrow had said nothing about the matter of the Waikiki photographs. He would later explain to Irene that he was protecting the two of them from unnecessary distraction, that he was using his influence behind the scenes to discredit the images, to shame the publications that printed them, to contain and quench the firestorm all by himself. Reporters were given strict instructions not to ask the pilots about the photographs or face eviction from any further events or interviews; guests and officials were warned not to mention the matter. Newspapers, magazines, all were held discreetly out of sight, and Morrow kept the two pilots so busy with engagements, they didn’t even notice.

So Irene had no inkling something was wrong until Morrow read that telegram at breakfast. She saw it in his face—a flash of shock, then dismay, then calculation. His gaze had flicked back and forth, Irene and Sam and Irene again. When he rose and asked to speak privately to Sam, she felt a tremor of foreboding. But she never imagined why; in a month of guessing, she never would have predicted the contents of that telegram, and how it would change her life. Later, she found herself wishing that somebody would invent some kind of warning light, like in an airplane cockpit, that flashed on when a great catastrophe was imminent.



Irene never remembered the substance of her conversation with Mr. Hounslow and the prime minister of Australia over breakfast that morning. She has some vague recollection of the Olympics, which had concluded while she and Sam were marooned on Howland, so it’s possible the two men brought her up to date on who had won and lost, which countries had made a good showing. Her mind, of course, was elsewhere. Her mind had followed Morrow and Sam, wherever they had gone for their private conversation. After a decent interval, she excused herself and went looking for them.

The house wasn’t especially large, but she found no sign of either man, Morrow or Mallory. She went outside for a walk, thinking that would pass the time or that she might encounter them outside, but the landscape around her remained bare and empty, the wide Australian countryside containing nothing but what God had created Himself. The sun grew hot, and Irene returned to the house. She heard voices in the library, but they turned out to be Mr. Hounslow and Stanley Bruce, so she climbed the stairs and went down the corridor to Sam’s bedroom. Before she reached his door, however, George Morrow appeared around a corner and stopped her.

“Irene! There you are. I’ve been hoping to speak to you. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Irene said.

She followed Morrow to his own room, which was larger than hers and had a sitting area, already laid for coffee. Morrow motioned her to the settee. There was no sign of Sam.

“Coffee?” Morrow said, and Irene replied yes. By now, he knew how she took it, and added the single spoonful of sugar without asking first. When they were both settled, he spoke again. “What a circus, eh? I’m glad this offer of Bruce’s popped up. I think it’s just the thing for you. A few days of quiet.”

“It’s been hectic, all right.” Irene sipped her coffee. “What were you and Sam talking about?”

“A private matter. No doubt he’ll tell you all about it, when he can.”

“When he can? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean when he’s able. It’s a private matter, as I said.”