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After her father’s funeral, George wrote letters every day.

Vivian assumed they were all to Adele until one Saturday, a dreamy-eyed George introduced her to Tom Rutledge.

He was tall and golden haired. He and George gleamed in the autumn sun.

On her off days, George flew to him. On his off days, he flew to her.

Vivian found herself at loose ends. If she kept to the barracks, Mrs. Mellon buzzed around her like a perfumed gnat. At the airfield, O’Leary was always in her path, taking any opportunity for a grope.

She spent her free time with Quigley and Elliot, mostly at the Knotty Pine, where the drinks weren’t watered down.

Vivian found that she enjoyed a strong drink very much.

One drink and she was as beautiful as George.

And just as good a pilot. “You are just as good a pilot,” said Quigley.

Two drinks and she hardly thought of George’s absence.

“You should get yourself a fella,” said Elliot.

Like George, thought Vivian. Like beautiful, perfect George. “Hah,” she scoffed. “I don’t exactly see a lot of prime candidates.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Elliot. “A few of them aren’t so bad.” She and Quigley smiled dopily at one another, and Vivian ordered another round. Three drinks and Quigley and Elliot’s flirting became nothing to her.

She took Elliot aside to remind her that Quigley had a fiancée.

Elliot laughed. “So? She isn’t here, and he never talks about her. Don’t worry about me, Shaw. I can take care of myself.”

Sirens blared. Vivian rushed out of the barracks, the other women close behind her.

A plume of oily smoke billowed up from the swamp south of camp.

The pilots frantically accounted for one another—who was flying that afternoon?

—until only Susan Patterson’s whereabouts remained unknown.

She’d been on a routine tracking flight.

Vivian was shocked—in the secret and not-so-secret rankings they each kept, all agreed that Patterson was one of the best of them. Had been one of the best of them.

“Stephenson’s saying pilot error,” Elliot reported a few days later, her face twisted in disgust and anger.

Quigley, who’d been ordered away from inspecting the crumpled remains of the plane, looked gray and ill at ease. Vivian could get nothing out of him beyond, “She was a good person and a good pilot, and it’s a damn shame is all I can say.”

Vivian pressed for more—a persistent rumor about sugar in the gas tank had taken on an aura of truth—but Quigley kept mum.

Someone must have talked to Cochran, though.

She flew in with her own mechanics to investigate.

While she was there, Vivian and the other women jostled for flying assignments, hoping for a chance to show Cochran how good they were.

But Cochran never once looked up at the sky.

The women got nothing from her—no pats on the back ( For what?

Cochran would have said. For doing what’s expected of you?

Grow up, ladies. ), no questions regarding Patterson’s abilities (assumed to have been exceptional), and not a single word on the results of the investigation.

George took up a collection—Vivian suspected most of the money came from her own pocket—for a coffin and train fare to Susan’s hometown in Ohio.

“I can’t bear another funeral right now, Vivvy,” she said.

“Can you go?” Couldn’t bear a funeral or couldn’t bear to be apart from Tom?

wondered Vivian. But she pressed her uniform, polished her pumps, and went.

Susan’s mother was as dimpled and serious as Susan had been. Her father was ashen, his grip, when he shook Vivian’s hand, trembling.

“Thank you for coming, Shaw,” said Don Patterson. He looked ten years older than he had in Sweetwater. “I’m glad they sent you and not someone I don’t know.”

Vivian hadn’t thought of that, but maybe George had. Maybe she wasn’t as distracted by Tom as she seemed.

“Susan wrote me about Camp Davis. It’s an outrage what you girls have had to put up with.”

“Cochran came down,” said Vivian. “They’re investigating.”

Patterson clutched her arm. “Listen, Shaw. I don’t want this happening to any of the rest of you. Check your plane over three times before you go up. If anything looks off—even the slightest bit—stay on the ground.”

Vivian returned to find O’Leary had been transferred.

“They claim it’s unrelated to the incident,” said Elliot.

“Quit calling it an incident,” said Vivian. “She died .”

The transfer did nothing to mitigate the dark cloud of suspicion hanging over the airfield.

Had O’Leary tampered with Patterson’s gas tank?

wondered the women. Had O’Leary been framed?

wondered the men. As the weeks passed, the beach grew chilly, too chilly for walking.

Not that it mattered, as George was rarely around to walk with.

She spent her free time on R&R runs to meet Tom.

Vivian supposed she could have signed out a plane too.

And flown ... where? Ethel Blankenship was based in California, and there was no way she’d be allowed to take a plane that far.

Home? Who in Hahira would want to see her?

Elizabeth might make a show of welcoming her, but Vivian knew she was more of an embarrassment— Such an unusual girl, Aunt Clelia would say—than a source of pride to her family.

Then one Saturday morning, rather than pressing a blouse and putting on lipstick, George threw on an old sweater and asked Vivian to walk on the beach with her.

“Aren’t you off to meet Tom?” asked Vivian, unable to keep a tinge of hurt out of her voice.

“No, not today. I’m sorry, Vivvy. You must feel like I’ve abandoned you.”

Vivian waited for the but. But we’re in love. But you just don’t understand. All the buts girls with boyfriends deployed when talking to girls without boyfriends.

“Well, I did abandon you. And I really am sorry. For what it’s worth, I’ve really missed you.”

She and Tom are through, thought Vivian, and now she needs me again.

The sky and ocean were gray. February rain threatened.

Waves roared past the tide line. It was far from a pleasant day for a walk on the beach, but Vivian was glad to be there, walking with her friend.

She could feel George gathering herself to share her sad news.

I will be sympathetic, thought Vivian. I’ll comfort and commiserate and be a good friend to her.

“Vivian,” started George, and Vivian arranged her face in an expression of care and concern.

But George smiled her broad, sunny smile, sharing happy news, not sad.

“We’re going to do it here. At the O Club.

I’m opening up the bar for the night—finally a good use for my Ector money. Will you be my maid of honor?”

How could Vivian not smile back and say, “Of course, George. You know I will.”

They made a golden couple. George’s eyes. Tom’s hair. It was the flying. It had burnished all of them, thought Vivian. Made even the plainest among them beautiful and confident and strong. She felt somewhat golden herself.

The music was loud and the drinks, for once, were strong, and everyone was having a fine time guzzling George’s Ector money.

Even Mrs. Mellon was on her third drink and reminiscing about her days at Newcomb.

“Sherry at five sharp on Fridays in the Kappa sitting room.” Vivian slipped past just as she began extolling the virtues of those Tulane boys .

Elliot grabbed Vivian by the elbow. “Did you hear?”

“What?” Vivian kept her eyes on her destination: the bar.

“General Arnold wants to commission us.”

“What?!”

“You know, make us official. Bring us into the actual USAAF.”

“You really think so?” asked Vivian. Elliot tended to blurt out whatever she was thinking at any given moment, without much regard for whether it was true.

And after the response to their presence at Camp Davis, Vivian doubted many of the brass would agree with General Arnold about commissioning women.

“Why not? Look, not every place is like this. I know girls who transferred to Liberty and girls out in California who say they don’t have to deal with this stuff.”

Quigley asked Elliot to dance. Other girls coupled off, dancing with pilots and Ack Ack guys.

Vivian danced too. She felt loose and warm and easy in her body in a way she rarely did.

For once, the atmosphere in the Officers’ Club felt welcoming.

She danced with one pilot and then another, and then heard a long-forgotten voice say, “Vivian.”

It was Durham. In dress blues, captain’s bars on his shoulders.

He’d come far since their barnstorming days.

They shook hands. Vivian, remembering how he’d pushed her in that hotel hallway, felt some of the looseness and warmth seep out of her at his touch.

She asked the questions they all asked the men. “When are you shipping out? Where?”

“Two days. With Tom. Wherever they send us. So you’re one of those fly girls.”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

Get used to us, she thought. We’re about to be serving in the same Army Air Force as you.

George danced over to them, beaming, lightening Durham’s scowl.

“Who’s your friend, Shaw?” She introduced Durham, who—Vivian wouldn’t have guessed he had it in him—beamed back at George.

“Tom’s a great guy,” he said. “And a great pilot. Congratulations.” Even Vivian knew you weren’t supposed to say “Congratulations.” You were supposed to say “Best wishes.” Why this was, she had no idea, but she liked knowing that Durham had gotten it wrong.

Tom joined them and made everyone laugh by ordering Durham to “stop consorting with my wife.” Then he and George twirled away to the dance floor.

“What do you hear from Louis?” Vivian asked.

“You left him cold. What do you care?”

“He was ready for me to go, I’m pretty sure. I doubt he complained about it.” I know you didn’t, she didn’t say.