“We don’t have many guests, so I’m afraid it’s not all that up to date.” She flips on a light, and boy was she telling the truth. There is an ancient canopy bed with a yellowing counterpane and two flat pillows, a dresser nobody wanted, a braided rug my great-aunt Mildred would call old-fashioned, a general air of dust and must. Even Lindquist looks taken aback. She inspects the interior of a Victorian wardrobe and frowns. “I suppose I’ll have Lani come down this afternoon and freshen it up a bit,” she says.

“Perhaps you might loan me that cat of yours, as well? I have a feeling I’m not the only inhabitant.” I gesture in the direction of the baseboard, which sports a mousehole large enough for Mickey.

Lindquist pokes her head through a door. “At least the bathroom’s new. Olle had the plumbers out last year, when his mother-in-law made noises about moving in.”

“His mother-in-law? From his first wife?”

“Let’s just say she remained a thorn in his side, even after poor Malina died. And of course she was still Leo’s grandmother. Luckily for Olle, she met a man from the south shore before she could move in, and married him instead.”

I run my finger along the edge of the dresser. “You know, I don’t believe you mentioned a stepson.”

“You never asked. Anyway, I try to stay out of Leo’s business. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need me meddling in his private affairs.”

“Not the evil stepmother, are you?”

She folds her arms. “You know, you puzzle me, Miss Everett.”

“Me? Why, I’m an open book.”

“Call me vain, but I always thought that when somebody discovered me at last—and of course I knew somebody eventually would, I knew this blessed anonymity couldn’t go on forever—it would be somebody who admired me.”

“I admire you plenty.”

“Really? Because I sense the opposite. I sometimes have the peculiar feeling that you hate me, Miss Everett.”

“They’re not exclusive, you know. You can admire somebody without liking her especially. Besides, I don’t hate you.”

Lindquist laughs. “What would you call it, then? Resentment? A general cussedness at me and the world?”

I sit on the bed, stretch back my arms, and cross my legs. “Nothing like that all. It’s just that I’ve learned, in my years on this earth and especially behind the camera, not to trust the outward face a woman like you presents to the world. It’s usually the opposite of what lies inside.”

She nods. “Go on.”

“And in any case, I’m here to learn about Sam Mallory. So you’ll forgive me if I regard you as a possibly hostile witness. You’ve got your own reputation to protect, haven’t you? So I can’t allow myself to be blinded by that famous charisma of yours.”

“Charisma?” She sounds genuinely bemused.

“Oh, you’ve still got it, believe me.” I bounce one foot. “But I’ve got to remain objective.”

Whatever the cramped dimensions of this little dump, whatever the antique mismatched furniture and the small, furry bedfellows, you can’t deny it’s got location. The morning sunshine streaks through the window. The window itself peeks toward the sea. In the silence that settles between Lindquist and me, the surf reaches in and says rush, rush. I could almost call it magical. I could almost start to like this place, and I’ve only spent five minutes. But isn’t that the point? To make me comfortable. To make me woozy with contentment. She’s no fool, Irene Lindquist. She brought me here for a reason, just as I’ve come here for a reason, and the question is, who will find out the other one’s secrets first?

Lindquist stands and watches me with those stiletto eyes. Her silvery hair is still damp from the sea. The scar is on the shadowed side of her face, and the other side is taut and perfect. She glances at her watch, then the window. “Well, make yourself at home. Should be breakfast in the kitchen still, just ask Lani to make you up a plate. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Are you heading back out on your surfboard or something?”

She smiles and reaches for the doorknob. “No. Just a very important errand. And when I get back, you’d better be ready to answer some questions.”

As soon as the door closes, I jump from the bed and head for the window. Irene strides across the grass, all long legs and purpose, to greet a pair of towheaded children in prim school uniforms, streaking toward her from some back door, dragging their satchels. One is a boy, one a girl. I suppose they’re about seven or eight years old, but then I’m not all that familiar with children. Lindquist kisses their blond heads and takes each little hand. She appears to be answering questions as she leads them to the Buick in the driveway. Children do ask questions, I know that much.

How nice, I think. A new brother and sister for Leo.

Another thing nobody bothered to mention to me.

Aviatrix by Eugenia Everett (excerpt)

March 1928: California

During the drive back to Santa Monica, Irene asked Sam Mallory question after question. She wanted to know about the mechanics of flight, how it was possible that so heavy an object as an airplane could get itself aloft and stay there.

“It’s called lift,” he said. “If you look at a wing sideways, it’s not flat, is it? It’s shaped like—well, like a teardrop. A teardrop, all stretched out. The wind flowing over it has to go faster than the wind underneath. So if you’re going forward fast enough—pushing enough air around your wings—you get this force called lift.”

He was driving with his left hand, which held a cigarette, and gestured with the right hand, curving his fingers and thumb to demonstrate the sideways shape of an airplane wing. Irene stared at the hand but also at Sam’s face behind it, his animated eyebrows, his blunt nose, his hair whipping about in the draft.

“And then what?” she said

“Why, then you keep on flying. You keep on pushing against that edge.”

“Which edge?”

“Between lift and gravity.”

“Which pulls you back to earth.”

He laughed. “Does it ever.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“All the time. If you’re not scared, you’re not really alive, are you?”

“You’re not dead, either.”

“I don’t know. There are a lot of ways to be dead,” said Sam.

On Irene’s lap, Sandy curled in a ball, purring so loudly that the vibration tickled her legs. They were coasting down Laurel Canyon all by themselves, and the air smelled of cigarettes and gasoline. Already the sun was dropping behind the hills. Irene thought maybe she should ask him about the war, about the various ways you could be dead, the various things that could kill you. But that wasn’t what he meant, was it? Anyway, he didn’t want to talk about the war. He didn’t want to talk about the past, his or hers. So she asked about the future.

“And that’s it? You’re just going to fly stunts all your life, to keep yourself from getting bored?”

He crushed out the cigarette against the side of the car. “Until something better turns up. I guess I am.”

For the rest of the drive, he was silent, or almost silent, answering Irene’s questions with such a minimum of words, she gave up and played with Sandy instead, until they pulled up along the stretch of road where Irene’s Model T had sat all day. The surfboard was still there, tethered to the roof, too heavy to steal. Sam asked if she needed any help with the spark plug, and she said no thanks, she’d changed a hundred spark plugs. But he stood by anyway, propped against the side of the car, playing with Sandy. The kitten had found a loose button on his shirt. When Irene straightened from the engine, Sam straightened too. She wiped her hands on a rag and said that about does it.

Sam took his handkerchief and wiped at some smudge on her cheek. “You’re a real grease monkey, aren’t you?”

“When I have to be. Thanks for all your trouble. And the spark plug.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said gravely.

“No, it was mine. It was—it was something else.”

Over Sam’s shoulder, the sun melted into the ocean. He tucked the kitten into the crook of his elbow and took Irene’s hand. “I want to show you something.”

He led her right to the edge of the ridge, so that the dunes piled up at their feet and the ocean spread wide. A couple of surfers met the waves that tumbled over and crashed into the continent.

“That,” he said.

“That what?”

“That’s what I want to do.”

For an instant, she doubted him. She glanced sideways at his profile, which reminded her of a bird, the oceangoing kind, except that it was colored by the gold of the melting sun. Then she understood. “You mean Hawai’i again?”

“Farther than that.”

“Australia?”

He nodded. “California to Sydney.”

“You’d have to stop along the way.”

“Yes, of course. I’ve got it all mapped out. All I need is the airplane and the dough.”

“How do you get your hands on those?”

“Why do you think I keep flying stunts, Foster? Take up thrill seekers at five bucks each? Teach all those dumb accountants which way is up?” He set the kitten into the dune grass and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been testing Rofrano’s new ship. It’s just what I need. I mean, it needs some modifications, but it’s the right ship, all right. The only problem is, it’s going to cost thirty-five thousand dollars. Then you need the fuel and the equipment and all the permissions. So I need a sponsor.”

“You mean somebody like George Morrow.”