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“Miss Ector requires unlimited bereavement leave. Take care of the paperwork.”

“Unlimited, sir?”

“That’s what I said. Unlimited for her and any lady pilot friend she wants to bring along. Take two or three, Miss Ector. Hell, take the whole bunch.”

A wave of heat rose in her. She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice when she requested a plane.

Col. Stephenson snorted. “Denied. And dismissed.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Vivian told her later. “I’m not sure those old things would make it to Oklahoma.”

“I guess I’ll get the train out of Wilmington.”

“Let’s talk to Quigley. He’ll get someone to fly you. Us. I’ll go with you, George.”

“No, Vivvy. You stay here. I don’t want to give that man the satisfaction of taking any more of you away.”

Quigley knew just the pilot to fly Georgeanne to Enid. “Tom Rutledge. He’s heading back to Walker today. He can make a stop at Vance.”

Georgeanne braced herself for Tom Rutledge to resent the tear-streaked female cargo foisted upon him, but as she approached the plane, he held out his hand. “You must be Ector. I’m Rutledge. I’m real sorry to hear about your father.”

Once they were airborne, he said, “Those A-24s sure have seen better days.” George explained that they were mostly planes that had been retired from the South Pacific because they weren’t fit for actual combat.

The tires were worn, the instruments faulty.

“They fill them with ninety octane instead of one hundred,” said George.

“Which means the carburetors are always watery.” She didn’t mention that some of the WASPs suspected male pilots of sabotaging their planes, and that the mechanics—not Quigley, of course—saved the best spare parts for the ships flown by men.

Instead, she asked Rutledge what he liked to fly. And he asked her the same. They talked about Oklahoma, and Kansas, where he was from. “Hoping to pop in and see the folks before I fly out tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m keeping you away from your family. I wish you’d said no when Quigley asked you to take me.”

“I don’t.” His eyes sparkled as he grinned at her.

After they landed, he walked her to the hangar. “Will someone come get you? How will you get home?”

George teared up again at the mention of home. How could she have allowed this sandy-haired man and his sparkling eyes to distract her? “You’re off duty now. Go home to your folks. I can fend for myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Tom. “That’s just my natural chivalry kicking in. I’d tell you to have a good visit home, but you won’t, under the circumstances.”

“It was good of you to bring me,” said George. “Thank you. There’s my friend, Helen, to pick me up.”

“Good, I’m glad you’ve got a ride.”

“Yes, well. Goodbye.” But George didn’t move toward Helen’s car.

“Goodbye, Georgeanne.” He stepped back, then stopped. “This isn’t the appropriate time to ask this, but I’m going to ask it anyway.”

“So much for natural chivalry,” said George.

“Right. Screw chivalry. Once you’re back at Camp Davis, once you’re ... settled, could I give you a call? Fly in sometime?”

Helen leaned on her horn. George said, “Maybe I’ll fly to you instead.”

It bordered on obscene the way Helen’s belly pressed against the steering wheel. “Look at me,” said Helen. “Another week and I won’t be able to reach the pedals. Oh, George, I’m so sorry about your dad. He was a good man.”

She’d been thinking about Tom Rutledge, how handsome he looked in his flight suit, how well he handled the controls, and how he said he’d call her.

Because this was so much easier than thinking of her mother waiting for her, alone, without George’s father.

And then, seeing Helen—more to the point, seeing Helen’s belly press against the steering wheel—George thought only of Frank Bridlemile and the nights before he bused off to basic, before she went to Avenger Field. “Helen, what happened?”

“What do you mean? You do know about the birds and the bees, don’t you?”

“Is it Frank’s?”

“Georgeanne Ector! What do you take me for? Of course it’s Frank’s.

I went out to San Diego to meet him before he shipped out, and we got married.

I wrote you all about it, but I guess you never get my letters.

We wanted to keep it quiet till he got home, then maybe have a small reception or something, but, well, we got lucky right off the bat. ”

“Congratulations,” said George.

“Huh. You don’t sound happy for me at all.”

“Oh, I am, Helen, of course I am. I’m just surprised, that’s all. My mother never mentioned it either.”

Helen gunned the engine. “Sometimes a woman likes to have a secret or two. Don’t you agree?”

They didn’t say much the rest of the ride. George hurried out of the car when they finally reached her house.

“No one,” said Adele, arching her brows, “is discussing it.” She meant Helen’s pregnancy. “Supposedly they’re married.”

“Knowing Helen, I’m sure they are.”

“You can’t be sure of anything these days, except that people make terrible decisions when they think their lives are at stake.”

“Well,” said Adele, when it was all over, “no one can say we did that wrong.” Which was, George realized, the goal in places like Enid—not necessarily to do things right, but, no matter the cost, to avoid doing them wrong.

The visitation and service had gone well.

The covered dishes and floral arrangements had been logged in the book provided by the funeral home.

Adele and George had dressed and comported themselves in the fashion expected of them.

They had appeared sad but hadn’t allowed themselves to collapse into open, unseemly grief.

When the rites of Charles Ector’s passing had concluded, mother and daughter had opened a box of black-edged Crane’s and tackled the thank-you notes, which took three days. Charles had been widely well regarded.

After she signed her name to the final one—to Helen’s family for a majestic wreath of lilies and blazing star—George said to her mother, “Maybe I should stay.”

“Nonsense, Georgeanne. You’ve got a job to do, and everyone needs you to do it.”

Her mother looked gaunt, pale. At meals she ate just enough that George couldn’t claim she wasn’t eating. But she certainly wasn’t getting enough. She insisted she was sleeping well, but the creaking floorboards told George she paced all night. “But, Mother, you—”

“Don’t ‘But, Mother’ me. I will not have you in this house, shirking your duty to your country. I’m not my usual self, I admit it. But I’ll get past it. Clemsons always get past things. You will, too, if you just keep getting up every day and doing your job.”