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Billings hadn’t lasted. Neither had Milwaukee or Denver, or any place in between.

Eventually, Vivian settled near Houston.

When she wanted male company but didn’t want it under the watchful eye of her neighbors, she made her way to the truck stop out by the interstate.

Not for the truckers, but for the other men who stopped there, on their way to somewhere else.

Just something quick. Something light. Something that would carry her through the next couple of weeks, but nothing to get worked up about.

She wasn’t looking for permanence. The men she met were in the oil business, mostly.

They said things like, “A pilot? Well, I wouldn’t want my wife doing something like that.

” And Vivian, flicking her lighter open and closed, would ask for another of whatever she was drinking.

Not that she drank much at the truck stop.

Not since that horrible night in George’s living room had she allowed herself to get truly and utterly drunk.

George’s outburst had sobered her right up.

She’d had no idea her friend was so unhappy.

One night at the truck stop, it wasn’t an anonymous man, tie loose, footloose, morals (at least for the evening) loose, who sat down next to her and offered to get the next one.

It was Don Patterson, rubbing the nape of his neck and grinning at her.

It took her a minute to place him because of the beard, but he recognized her right away.

“Vivian Shaw. What are you doing back in Texas?”

She hadn’t seen him since his wife’s funeral.

She recalled Susan’s closed walnut casket.

Heard the hymns, plaintive and off-key in that heart-wrenching quarter step that always took her back to a hard wooden pew in Hahira, Aunt Clelia pinching her arm, telling her to sit still.

Don Patterson had been wreckage in a uniform, catatonic beside the Dubarrys.

When the men lowered Susan’s casket into the ground, he had emitted a great, gasping sob, and Mrs. Dubarry had taken his hand.

Now here he was, taking the barstool next to hers, ordering a double rye and saying, “Please tell me you’re still flying, because hardly any of the rest of them are.”

He was in town for only a few days. Working a contract job for Schlumberger. Inspecting or evaluating something or other. She barely feigned interest. What was the point if he’d be leaving town in a few days?

After he left Houston, she stayed away from the truck stop for weeks.

Kept her feet warm on her own. Then, just when she’d managed to stop thinking about him, just when she thought she might perch on one of those barstools again and see what sort of company walked up, he phoned to say he was coming back.

“No more of this contract stuff,” he said. “They’re bringing me on staff. Looks like I’m moving to Houston.”

She spent half a year after Don Patterson moved to Houston waiting for him to announce he was leaving.

But he stayed. He called when he said he would and showed up at her door when he said he would, and always seemed happy to hear her voice and see her face.

The ground beneath her feet steadied. She allowed herself to wonder, in this new steadiness, whether she’d be welcome again in Enid.

A few years had passed since the horrible night in George’s living room.

Years of missing George desperately and fearing their friendship was ruined.

Years spent trying to find the courage to ask if she could come back.

“If you and Tom will have me,” she said to George on the phone.

“Well, it’s mostly just me these days,” said George.

Vivian was ready to fall on her sword at this, especially as she’d spent most of the phone call talking about Patterson and companionship and a recent feeling that came pretty close to happiness.

“Oh, don’t,” said George when Vivian started to apologize. “I’m the one who let the cat out. And we should have known it’d come out eventually. And Tom and I—well, it’s always been up and down.”

Vivian returned to Enid, visiting a few times a year.

Tom, if he was living at home at the time, always managed to be flying when she arrived.

Adele kept a wary eye on the level of alcohol in the bottles.

During the first few visits, Ivy hovered close, eavesdropping, and Ruth kept her distance, avoiding.

Vivian spoke only of the present and the future, careful never to poke the past and wake it.

In time, the girls settled down. They thanked her for the gifts she brought them.

They asked politely how she’d been. They grew tall and luminous.

They moved with George’s easy stride, spoke with her inflections.

When Vivian pointed this out to them, Ivy scoffed, “Right.” Ruth looked pensive.

Did they not see how amazing their mother was?

“Come with us today,” said Vivian. “Your mom’s going to take me up in her plane.”

George often complained that the girls never flew with her.

“Ivy thinks I’m silly,” she told Vivian.

“And Ruth might be scared.” How absurd that George’s daughters—Vivian couldn’t possibly have given birth to one of these astonishing creatures—could be dismissive or frightened of flying. Vivian wouldn’t stand for it.

“It’ll be fun,” she pleaded. “We’ll fly along the Red River—you wouldn’t believe how pretty it is from the air.”

“No thanks,” said Ivy.

“Your mother is an amazing pilot. You should both see how amazing. And it would mean a lot to me too. You girls are so grown up now. Soon you’ll be off on your own, and I’ll see you even less than I already do. I’ll take you out to lunch beforehand. We can catch up.”

Ruth glanced at Ivy as if to see which way her sister’s wind was blowing. Ivy narrowed her eyes at Vivian, then said, “Okay. But only if we get to ask you questions too.”

“Sure thing,” she said, her voice steady. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Adele decided to join them. George beamed. “This is going to be so nice,” she said, and Vivian’s heart soared. She had asked so much from her friend, and now she’d make something good happen for her. Only a small thing, but wasn’t it the small things that mattered?

“A ladies’ lunch out, and then up in the plane. You girls will love it—there’s nothing at all to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Ivy. Ruth said nothing.

During lunch, Ivy asked about men she and George had known during the war. “Well, your dad, of course,” said George.

“Besides him,” said Ivy.

“And Quigley,” said Vivian.

“And besides him. He was just a friend, right? I mean men you dated.”

“We honestly didn’t have a lot of time for that sort of thing,” said George.

“But you and Dad found time,” insisted Ivy. “Didn’t Aunt Vivian have a boyfriend too?”

Vivian picked at her chicken salad. Maybe lunch had been a mistake. The girls hadn’t pestered her with questions like this in years.

“Speaking of boyfriends,” Adele chimed in. “Ivy, I hear you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Slade Beckett these days.”

“Who’s Slade Beckett?” asked Vivian, grateful to change the subject.

“Varsity starting pitcher,” said George.

Ivy waved a dismissive hand. “We’re talking about Aunt Vivian.”

“We’re pestering Aunt Vivian,” said Adele. “And it’s verging on rude.”

George signaled the waiter for the check. “I’d really like to get up in the air,” she said. “The light is so nice right now.”

“And the wind is low,” agreed Vivian, eager to leave her chicken salad and this conversation behind.

“And we wouldn’t want to get Ivy home late,” said Adele. “In case Slade Beckett calls.”