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“MAC?”

“Military Airlift Command, for you civilians,” Rio says. She’s also in her very late thirties, but her uniform is stiff on her rigid body. Her chest is a whole Technicolor billboard of medals, including the one she earned in Korea in 1953, the one with the upside-down gold star and star-spangled blue ribbon, the Medal of Honor, which all by itself causes full generals to fawn and eat themselves up with envy.

Lieutenant Colonel Rio Richlin, MOH, West Point class of 1950, still manages to look too young for her rank, still has a faint dusting of freckles, and she can still laugh and even, on occasion, giggle.

“What, no koummya?” Frangie teases.

Rio grins. “It’s hanging up over my fireplace. I’m supposed to set a good example. No unnecessary adornments.”

“She doesn’t need a knife to scare people anymore,” Jenou says. “She has rank. She can bully anyone from major on down. Probably has lieutenants polishing her car daily.”

“Oh, Jenou, you are so unfair,” Rio says, winking at Frangie. “I only get my car waxed twice a week. Not daily.”

“Oh, look!” Jenou points. “My God, is that Cat?”

Cat is across the room, standing and chatting with another woman, obviously a close friend.

“Is that her sister . . . roommate . . . ?” Rio squints to see better—she’s been told she needs glasses. She has thus far refused.

Frangie shoots a wry look to Jenou, who rolls her eyes and stage-whispers, “No, Rio still doesn’t know. You can take the girl out of the country . . .”

“Know what?” Rio demands.

“Rio, Cat’s a lesbian,” Frangie says. “You know: she likes girls.”

Rio stands gaping for about two minutes. Then, “Oh. Wow.” She raises an intimidating eyebrow. “And I’m the last to find out?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jenou says, and Frangie nods. “You never noticed that Cat wasn’t interested in guys?”

“I thought she was . . . well . . . I . . . I thought she was just, I don’t know . . . shy.”

“Shy. Cat Preeling we’re talking about.” Jenou nods. “Shy. Or . . . or maybe she likes girls and you are despite the foo-fah all over your chest”—she waves, indicating medals and ribbons—“still a Gedwell Falls girl.”

“Well,” Rio says tolerantly, “I won’t deny that. Let’s go say hi. I’ve missed the hell out of that soldier. I wonder what she’s been up to?”

But then it’s time, and Frangie has to rush to her seat in the front row.

Jenou winces as she wedges her stiff leg under the seat in front of her. Rio sits the same way she does everything now: like she’s made out of steel and bends only under great pressure.

“I’m sending you my new book,” Jenou whispers to Rio.

“Another one?”

“Hey, property in Beverly Hills is not cheap.”

“Mmm, right, not to mention the salaries of all your lithe young pool lads.”

Jenou sighs. “Well, what’s a twice-divorced, beat-up old soldier girl going to do for fun without pool lads to watch?”

A black woman doctor is up front now giving an inspirational speech. Both Jenou and Rio are relieved to be seated toward the back. They lower their whispers a decibel or two.

“How about you, Rio? Last I heard you were not dating.”

“No. Not since Strand and I divorced.”

“Since before Korea?” Jenou shook her head. “I told you that wouldn’t work, honey. He was never going to be able to live his life with you. You’re . . . you know. You.”

Rio turns her eyes sideways to look at her friend. “I felt like I owed him a try.”