Wy had heard the stories. “Were they ever unhappy when they sobered up?”

Sybilla raised her eyebrows. “Some were, yes, but they were all over twenty-one. If they wanted to party in my club and they could afford to do so, I was happy to oblige.”

Wy laughed. As she knew from long experience of the Bristol Bay fishery, there was no easier task than separating young men from their money. “And your husband?”

“I didn’t meet Stanley until I was in my forties.” Sybilla smiled at Wy over the rim of her glass, mischief in her eyes. “He came into Barney’s one evening and never left.”

“Love at first sight?”

“Every woman should have that experience at least once.” Sybilla sighed reminiscently. “He was so handsome, my Stanley, and so very… determined.” Her voice layered that last word with meaning. She smiled to herself and Wy could plainly see the vibrant, laughing ghost of the younger woman reflected in the older woman’s eyes. “Much like your Liam, I should think. Not the kind of men to take no for an answer.” She quirked an eyebrow in Wy’s direction. “I’m all for women’s lib or whatever we are calling it nowadays, but oh my. There is something to be said for a man who wants what he wants and won’t stop until he gets it.”

“What happened to Stanley?”

“We had seven glorious years. And then he died. A drunk driver. At eight o’clock in the morning, can you imagine?” A sigh. “I sold the club and our house and moved to Blewestown.”

“Why Blewestown?”

“Stanley designed and built the road here, for one thing. We spent a great deal of time here together. It was a way to remain close to him. And my brother lives here, and he’s my only family, so I thought…”

“Is your brother still—here?” Wy said delicately.

Sybilla’s mouth pulled down. “Oh yes, he’s still here. Not that we see much of each other.”

Not by Sybilla’s choice, Wy deduced, and thought dark thoughts about the brother. Their food arrived, and it was hot and good if unremarkable and Wy was hungry. So was Sybilla, who had cleaned her plate as if she were eight instead of eighty. “What’s for dessert, Wayne?” she said when the server returned.

He rattled off the selections and Sybilla chose the molten chocolate cake and Wy coffee with cream. Sybilla wanted to know what it was like, running an air taxi, and Wy beguiled her with stories of flying the mail to remote communities with airstrips like rock gardens and no flight service so dropping a half-used roll of toilet paper out the window to determine wind speed and direction was standard practice. Not to mention the inevitable curmudgeons who were annoyed that women, who had no business with their feet on the rudders in the first place, were entrusted with ferrying the You-Ess Mail. “That is to say, the ones who didn’t propose marriage before I took off again.”