They spoke about the airplane. Sophie was something of a mechanical genius, knew everything about engines and aerodynamics. She took Clara back, to Irene’s relief. Outside the window sprawled Burbank, bigger and bigger every day. Outside the door, the nurses giggled and listened through the keyhole, thrilled that Irene Foster stood on the other side of it. Irene interrupted herself in the middle of a discussion of ailerons. “How did you meet? You and your husband.”

Sophie didn’t miss a beat. “He was delivering an engagement gift from my fiancé.”

“You were engaged to someone else?”

“Not for long.” She cuddled Clara to her chest. “Honestly, how could Mummy even look at another man, after that?”

“If I told you something,” Irene said, “if I told you that I wanted to just disappear somewhere, where nobody knew me and no one could find me, what would you say?”

Sophie looked up. “I’d say, where and when should I bring you your cat?”

Out in San Bernardino, Hank Foster was nearly dead of liver disease. His wife, however, was a dedicated nurse. He had married her three years ago, surprising everybody. Like him, she was an alcoholic. They had met at a drying-out hospital, to which Irene had sent him after an especially bad bender that had required several personal telephone calls from George to the publishers of various newspapers. They had kept the story off the front pages in exchange for a series of interviews with Irene, which took place in the privacy of her own home and offered readers an intimate portrait of her life as an aviatrix and wife. Irene hadn’t loathed anything in her life as much as she loathed those interviews. She still hadn’t quite forgiven her father for them, although at least it had all led to this woman, Pamela Benson Foster, who seemed to view her present charge—nursing Hank through his final illness—as the single good work that would secure her place in heaven after a lifetime of sin.

“He’s having a good day,” she told Irene, on arrival. “He sure is happy you’re visiting.”

“Is he still in bed?”

“No, he’s out back, on the porch. His favorite spot. We had some friends over last night, and all he talked about was you. Proud as a peacock.”