As she finished this speech, George put his hand to the small of her back and rubbed his thumb against her spine. He did this to convey approval to her during the countless times they’d stood like this over the years, at the bottom of the airplane steps, while Irene spoke to the press and George gazed at her as if she were some kind of goddess come to earth. They used to rehearse at home. George would ask questions and Irene would answer them, and George would tell her how she ought to have answered them, frankly and openly while still communicating some particular message, some theme to which she and George had agreed. Now it was second nature. Irene knew exactly what she was supposed to do. Say what you would about George—and there were plenty of mutterings by the fall of 1936, few of which ever reached Irene’s ears—he had a natural gift for publicity. A genius, really. Without George Morrow, there would have been no Irene Foster, at least as we know her today.

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.”