“Wouldn’t miss it. For one thing, I need the dough. Flying’s a lot of things, but it’s not cheap. Especially if . . .”

“If what?”

“Nothing. Got a few plans, that’s all. If you’re interested . . .”

Irene cast a glance out the open side of the hangar, to the landing strip that baked in the sunshine. Her heart was thudding a little. “It sounds wonderful,” she said. “But I should really be getting home.”

“Oh. Sure, of course.”

“But I’d love to. I really would.”

The kitten seemed to be falling asleep along the length of his forearm. Mr. Mallory stroked the top of its head with his finger and nodded. “All right. Let’s get you back to Santa Monica, then.”

“Wait a minute. You’re just going to drive me there and back here again? For your air show?”

“It’s no trouble.”

“It’s an awful lot of trouble!”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s a pleasant drive.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll just stay.”

“What about your folks?”

“I live with my father,” she said, “and he’s away right now. So there’s nobody to worry about me, really. I can stay all day.”

As time went on, Irene would remember that day at the airfield as a series of scenes, as pieces of a dazzling puzzle. There was breakfast with Sam—he was now Sam, and she was Irene—in the cafeteria, a neat, cheap building made of stucco, set apart from the hangars, furnished with metal chairs and tables covered in cheerful red-and-white linens. They both ordered coffee and corned beef hash, topped with eggs fried sunny side up, while Sandy lapped from a dish of cream. Sam asked Irene whether she had a job, and she said yes, she was a receptionist at a doctor’s office, and she hoped to enroll in a nursing course in the fall.

“Well, now,” he said, “that’s admirable. Why nursing?”