Irene stared at those serious blue eyes and thought, Sam Mallory. But it didn’t match, this face and that one, the one in the newspapers last summer. She tried to remember what Mrs. Sam Mallory had said in those interviews. Irene was pretty sure it had been something fulsome. She remembered thinking that Mrs. Sam Mallory rather liked being Mrs. Sam Mallory, mother of Sam Mallory’s small child, and played that role to its fullest. Something tickled her ankle. Tiny sharp teeth. The kitten. She thought of the white walls of Dr. Walsh’s office where she worked as a receptionist, the air that smelled of antiseptic, the way the doctor brushed up against her in the dispensary. She thought of Sam’s airplane rising to the sun.

She shaded her eyes and said, “I’ll tell you what would be new.”

“What?” he said.

“A woman.”

II

I decided that if I could fly for ten years before I was killed in a crash, it would be a worthwhile trade for an ordinary lifetime.

—Charles Lindbergh, The Spirit of St. Louis

Hanalei, Hawai’i

October 1947

The post office in Hanalei is the kind that does all kinds of business, including the sending and receiving of telegrams. After breakfast, with no sign of Lindquist spinning back up the road in her cherry Buick, I discover a bicycle in the shed and head into town.

I’ve already met the woman behind the counter, whose name I forget. The ancient nameplate on the counter reads lanalee, if you look closely. I smile and ask if there’s any reply to the telegram I sent yesterday. She doesn’t smile back but she fetches the yellow envelope. Before she hands it to me, she says I’ll have to sign for it.

“Of course,” I say.

She pulls out the list of telegrams—it’s not long—and I scribble my initials next to the entry at the bottom.

“Miss Eugenia Everett,” she says. “I hear you’re staying with the Lindquists?”

“Since five minutes ago. How did you know?”

“My brother is Mr. Lindquist’s cousin by marriage.” While I try to work this out in my head, she continues in a voice that grows more threatening by the vowel. “So Mr. Leo is my second cousin, you see?”

“I see.”

“He’s a fine boy, Leo.”

“I’d have to agree.”

“The Lindquists are good people. You’re lucky to be staying with them. Mr. Lindquist, he went right out to Oahu on the morning boat to take care of poor Kaiko.” She gives me this look that seems to lay all the blame for poor Kaiko’s accident at my feet.

“How is poor Kaiko?” I ask.