Irene rose from the bath after four and a half minutes, dried herself off, dressed awkwardly in a rose chiffon dress that flattered her height and her angular body, her sunstreaked curls and the freckles she hated and Sam had loved. She added a little lipstick, a little powder, a pair of low-heeled sandals. She could hear the noise and laughter of the guests down the hallway and through the sitting room, George’s voice above all, relaxed and confident among all those human beings as Irene could never be. But that was one of the reasons she’d married him, wasn’t it? He could do these things she could not. He could manage all that for her, so she could fly.

As she passed through the sitting room, Irene spotted a folded newspaper on the lamp table. She tried to avert her eyes, but the headline caught her. MALLORY PULLED ALIVE it said, before the rest of the sentence disappeared around the fold.

Irene stood still and stared at the black letters. Her pulse rang in her ears. For a second or two, she thought she would faint.

When she could breathe again, she picked up the newspaper and unfolded it.

MALLORY PULLED ALIVE FROM WRECKAGE.

San Diego Air Show Ends in Disaster.

Flier Taken to La Jolla Hospital, Condition Remains Unknown

George and Irene had chosen a young, rising architect to create their home in Burbank, shortly after their marriage four years earlier, and he had designed the house in an open, modern style that made use of the light and color of the California landscape. At the center of the building, the living room had the feel of a baronial great hall, although shorn of any historical froufrou, as George called it. It was twenty-two feet high with giant metal beams and a wall of French doors that seemed to open out right over the edge of the hill and into the sky above the ocean, although in fact they opened out to a stone terrace and a swimming pool. It was here that George and Irene held most of their parties. The doors had already been thrown open and the air was fragrant with cigarettes and perfume. Irene slipped in quietly and tapped George on the shoulder. He turned and took her elbow.

“There you are! What’s the matter? You’re pale.”

Irene said, in a low voice, “Why didn’t you tell me about Sam?”

“About Sam? Sam Mallory?”

“I saw the newspaper. What happened?”

He swirled the ice cubes around the inside of his glass. “I don’t know any more than you do. I read the article, that’s all, right before I went to meet you at the airfield.”

“Is Sophie here?”

“Darling, let me get you a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink. I want to know what’s happened to Sam.”

“Sophie won’t know any more than—”