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.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Who are these people?”

“Just a few friends I’ve invited for dinner. To welcome you back.”

“I don’t want to see anybody. That’s the last thing I want to do. I want to eat and go to bed.”

“It’s just a few hours,” he said, in the same tone he had earlier said It’s just a few miles. Nothing at all, dear, you can do it. You’re Irene Foster, you have a public, you simply have to do these things whether you enjoy them or not, it’s part of your job.

George got out of the car and lifted her kit bag from the back seat. Irene sat and stared through the windshield at the garage door, washed in orange. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel. George came around and opened the door.

“Can I at least bathe and change before saying hello?” she said, and somehow George missed the irony in her voice.

“Of course you can, darling. I’ll keep everyone happy with cocktails.”