Anyway, she appreciated the gesture. It had been a long flight from Fort Worth, and her arm hurt, and she was tired and hungry, and now she had to stand up straight in the midst of this humiliating defeat and answer impertinent questions in a dignified voice, when all she really wanted was to berate herself for her mistake; to demand whether these smug, paunchy reporters thought they thought they could fly an airplane any better; to crawl under the blankets of a soft, warm bed and hide from the world. At a time like this, a hand at the small of your back, rubbing your aching spine, is worth more than treasure.

After exactly ten minutes of questions, George raised his palm. “All right, boys. That’s enough. My wife’s going to need some dinner and a good bed, and it’s my job to see that she gets them.”

When they reached the car, Irene turned to George. “Can’t you drive this time? I’m just beat, I really am.”

George dropped her kit bag in the narrow back seat. “You can do it, darling. It’s just a few miles.”

“George, please.”

“But you love to drive.” He kissed her cheek and opened the driver’s door. “Makes a great photograph, remember? That’s how we want people to think of you. Driving off the airfield in your own roadster.”

Of course, he was right. He didn’t say it, but Irene knew the photos were everywhere, the Fort Worth crackup, Irene’s airplane tilted to one side in a grassy ditch, landing gear crushed, rain pouring down, Irene’s head bowed and her face crumpled with disappointment. They needed an image to counterpose defeat with triumph. They needed Irene thundering off the airfield behind the wheel of her custom Hudson roadster, husband at her side. She climbed in. The key was already stuck in the ignition switch. She pushed down the clutch and turned the key, and the engine growled awake, and Irene wanted to bawl out her frustration like a baby. But she didn’t. She put the car in gear and pushed down the gas pedal and released the clutch, and she and George roared down the driveway against the setting sun, while the photographers clicked their shutters and captured the moment for history.

Irene didn’t speak, and George—for once—didn’t press her. She whipped the Hudson around the hills, faster and faster, relishing all the wind and speed and thunder, while George’s white knuckles gripped the door handle and his eyes darted to the speedometer. She made a final ascent around a last bend and reached their home, nestled into the shoulder of a mountain. The windows blinded her. They had positioned the house to capture the view of the Pacific Ocean as it crashed spectacularly into the continent some twenty miles to the west-southwest, and the setting sun now struck every pane of glass, so that she had to avert her eyes and didn’t notice all the cars parked outside until she came up the last of the drive and stopped the car in front of the garage.