Her Last Flight

by Beatriz Williams

  Or maybe it’s Coolibah that keeps me here. My father did not leave me with nothing, after all; he gave me a brother and a sister, and the woman he loved, and they’re all trooping in from the beach right now, still dripping with salt water. I stand on the lanai and wave.

  “Where were you, Janey?” Doris demands. “The waves were that high!”

  “Unavoidably detained by the birthday boy, I’m afraid.” (There is a snort from Irene’s direction.) “But I’m here now, aren’t I? Where’s Olle?”

  “He’s picking up the present right now. Kaiko’s trying to start the fire in the pit. Doris! Wesley! For goodness’ sake, go around back. You’ll get the rugs all wet.” Irene turns to me. “You’ll help them with the cake, won’t you? Doris wants to bake it all herself, but you remember what happened last time. And she has to let Wesley do at least some of the frosting.”

  “Oh, sure, and I’ll just telephone Uncle Joe and convince him to end the Berlin blockade while I’m at it. Can’t you at least lay out a few preliminary spankings?”

  Irene shrugs. “You’re on your own. I’ve got the pig to worry about.”

  In the end, it all comes together. Nobody mentions that Doris’s cake is lopsided, or that Wesley forgot the frosting h in birthday, which is a miracle because Kaiko’s the kind of fellow who comes out and says whatever thought’s inside his head. Olle drinks too much, but everybody expects that, and anyway he never drinks too too much, if you know what I mean, at least around the children, whom he adores almost as much as their mother.

  As for that suckling pig, well. Irene always was the kind of infuriating woman who does things impeccably, and this particular pig is practically perfect, down to the pineapple in its mouth. Kaiko got the coals going, so it cooked all day in its pit and the meat falls apart from the bones whenever you prick it with your fork. Now the fire dances in the night, and everybody’s laughing and happy, and it’s time to give Leo his present.

  Olle does the honors, because Leo’s his son, after all, and because he went to the trouble to fetch this present all the way from the other side of the island early this morning, from a certain fellow we know who lives near Lihue with his wife and two kids. Olle sets the box in front of Leo, and the box topples over, and out pops a startled beagle puppy, eight weeks old.

  Leo starts to cry.

  The three of us ride home on the moped, Leo and me and the puppy on my lap. Leo’s named her Frankie and already loves her more than me. We’ve agreed she should stay at my place, because it isn’t right to keep a respectable bitch in a bachelor apartment above a tavern, and as we pull into my driveway, Leo casually suggests that maybe he should just give up the apartment altogether, since both pieces of his heart are living here. I hand him the leash and tell him to walk his dog.

  While they’re outside seeing to business, I light a few candles and open a bottle of champagne and slip into something less comfortable. The cottage is small, as I said, but Irene keeps coming by with lamps and cushions and books and frying pans to fill it up like some kind of permanent residence. Each time she does this I think of a mother bird dropping worms in a nest. Outside, Leo’s talking to the puppy. The thought of Velázquez flashes across my mind and is gone, leaving behind a vapor of peace.

  The door opens. Leo says, “I think a newspaper might not be a bad . . .”

  I turn around. “A bad what?”

  He closes the door and drops the leash. “Nothing.”

  When Leo is fast asleep, I climb out of bed and develop the film from the birthday party. A gentle Hawaiian rain falls outside. Once the negatives are dry, I select a few I like best. There’s a beautiful one of Doris and Wesley carrying out the cake; you can’t even tell that Doris was yelling at Wesley because he was going too fast. I also caught Irene from the side while she watched Olle make one of his rambling, heartfelt toasts. The fire makes a fascinating pattern on her scarred skin. You can see the affection in her gaze, the tolerance that—it seems to me, anyway—is the heart of any marriage. I sometimes wonder if my father gave himself permission to go because he knew Olle was waiting in the wings, adoring Irene from afar, and that while Olle wasn’t perfect, he was kind and true, and he wasn’t going to leave.

  Or maybe a wave is just a wave, and it was Sam Mallory’s time to die.

  But my favorite picture is the last one, the one I took of Leo when Frankie overturned her box and made her appearance. If you don’t believe in love at first sight, then I recommend you look upon the face of a man who has just met his very own beagle puppy. Once the print’s hanging by its clothespin, I gaze at it for some time. He is utterly unaware of the camera; his expression is amazed and radiant. I have always loved the smooth texture of his skin, the elasticity of Leo, the way his face is capable of expressing the tiniest nuance of emotion. Velázquez was the opposite; you could not read a single thing on his face, not a hint of what he was thinking or feeling, his past or his present. That’s why I prize that photograph of him in my bed at the Hotel Scribe, because I happened to catch a rare moment of candor, when you could look into his dark eyes and see the real Velázquez, the exasperation and hope, his earthiness and his piety.

  One more photograph, on which I don’t linger long. Doris took that one, because she’s curious about my camera, and I sometimes let her use it. Imp that she is, she snapped one of me. Me! When she knows I hate having my picture taken almost as much as I hate flying. Still, it’s a good photograph, if you judge it objectively. She’s got instincts, my little sister. (I still savor those words on my tongue sometimes, sister and brother.) I’m looking at Leo—you can just see his face in the corner of the frame—and my brow is furrowed slightly, my eyebrows pointing toward each other, though my lips are just turned up at the corners, as if I’m happy and puzzled at once. My dark hair is pulled back from my face, exposing my Mallory cheekbones, and in fact everything in my face screams of my father. That expression is the expression he’s worn in a hundred newspaper photographs, like the one taken long ago in Honolulu, as he watched his Irene deliver a public speech for the first time.

  I set that one aside and tuck the photograph of Leo into my father’s leather diary, along with the others I like to keep with me on my travels, Velázquez and Irene and Wesley and Doris, and of course that old snap of Sam Mallory, from the first roll of film I ever took, staring out the window of that diner in the middle of California. I stuff the diary into my satchel, packed and ready for tomorrow, and at last I lift the covers and gently slide myself into bed, next to Leo.

  Except I’ve already been replaced by Frankie, it seems. The beagle curls in a happy ball between us, breathing twice for each breath of ours, tiny heart beating.

  I take the early ferry to Oahu the next morning, piloted by Leo. Frankie comes with us; Leo says she might as well learn the trade early. I fall asleep in the deckhouse, and Leo wakes me when we dock. A taxi sits nearby, ready to carry me to Hickam Air Force Base, where I’ll board a military transport plane to the Philippines, and then another to the Chinese mainland. Leo knows how anxious I am about these flights, far more than about taking photographs of General Mao’s brutal advance. He carries my suitcase to the taxi and tells me he tucked a bottle of Olle’s bourbon into my satchel.

  “Send telegrams,” he says, “so we know you’re still alive.”

  I nod. He kisses me good-bye. As I climb into the taxi and look out the window, I notice the other passengers glance curiously at him, their captain who stands with his back to the ocean, staring at this woman who’s leaving him. You can tell by his expression that he’s afraid she’s not coming back.

  I tell the driver to stop the car. I open the door and walk back to Leo. I whisper something in his ear, and whatever I’ve said—I’m not saying what—I think it helps. His expression turns awestruck and full of hope. We kiss again like we mean it, and I return to the car, and the car continues on its way. I stare through the back window. He lifts his hand and waves, and that’s the last I see of him before we turn the cor
ner, a single image printed on the film of my memory: Leo’s tanned hand spread against the blue sky.

  Author’s Note

  This book isn’t intended as a veiled biography of Amelia Earhart, and certainly not as a theory regarding her famous disappearance over the Pacific Ocean in 1937. But Earhart’s story has fascinated me since I was a girl, and a few years ago I posed myself a certain What if? that eventually reimagined itself and grew into Her Last Flight.

  As a result, Irene Foster can best be described as a composite character, borrowing certain physical and biographical details from Earhart but also from some of the other extraordinary women and men at the frontiers of aviation. My research took me down all kinds of rabbit holes as I investigated those three extraordinary decades between the Wright brothers and Earhart’s disappearance, from the technological details of manned flight to the psychology of its pioneers, to the geography of the vast Pacific Ocean. (All of the locations mentioned are real, except Ki’ilau, which is based on the privately held island of Ni’ihau off the coast of Kauai.)

  For those of you interested in learning more about the people who inspired this novel and the early aviation scene in general, I have a long list of books to recommend. Earhart herself—as Her Last Flight suggests—wrote several accounts of her famous flights, some of which are still available. The classic of the aviation memoir subgenre, though, is Charles Lindbergh’s The Spirit of St. Louis, which appeared in 1951 and won the Pulitzer Prize. This is the kind of book you read with one hand while you’re stirring the pasta sauce with the other: a lyrical, philosophical action-adventure that holds you in profound suspense even though you know how it ends. Not only did I come to understand the technical and human challenges of extreme long-distance flying, I felt as if I’d stepped inside the mind of an aviator.

  For more on the derring-do mentality of pioneering pilots—and sheer exhilaration—you can’t beat Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. Winston Groom’s The Aviators combines the biographies of Lindbergh, Jimmy Doolittle, and the indestructible Eddie Rickenbacker in lucid, breathtaking layers. I relied heavily on Jason Ryan’s marvelous Race to Hawaii for background and details on the 1927 Dole Air Derby. More fascinating stories and characters emerged from The Lost Pilots, by Corey Mead; Sky Girls, by Gene Nora Jessen; and The Airplane: How Ideas Gave Us Wings, by Jay Spenser.

  Returning to Earhart herself, two biographies in particular stand out: the extensive and illuminating East to the Dawn, by Susan Butler, and Doris L. Rich’s Amelia Earhart: A Biography. I was especially absorbed by Earhart’s childhood and her brilliant, alcoholic father, who never lived up to his promise; and her relationship with her business manager (and later husband), the publishing scion George Palmer Putnam. Earhart’s fans will certainly see shades of Putnam in my fictional George Morrow—created with a wink to my own publisher, William Morrow—but I’m afraid my imagination took over from there. (After Earhart was declared dead in 1939, G.P. Putnam married twice more and died eleven years later in Death Valley, California.)

  Beyond all the research, though, I have a host of people to thank for bringing this book into the world, the bookstore, and your hands. Ten years ago, as a mother of four young children with an oversized manuscript called Overseas, I met my literary agent, Alexandra Machinist of ICM Partners, and her enthusiasm, persistence, crack negotiating skills, and (most of all) friendship have kept the books coming and the children fed, clothed, and housed for a decade now. I am so grateful to her for seeing us safely through every storm, especially now that those little kids are somehow starting college.

  William Morrow has been my publishing home for seven books now, and I will never take for granted the enthusiasm and dedication of the entire team as they turn each manuscript into a real book and send it out into the marketplace. Huge thanks to my tiger editor, Rachel Kahan; to her assistant, Alivia Lopez, who keeps us both on track; to Tavia Kowalchuk and Brittani Hilles, for all their magical works in marketing and publicity; to my branding guru, Kathy Gordon; to the fabulously talented Mumtaz Mustafa, who designs those gorgeous covers; to the copy editor (my savior!), who catches all my errors and omissions and keeps my moon phases straight; and to all my heroes in production and sales.

  To booksellers and librarians everywhere, thank you so much for your enthusiastic support of my books, and for fighting the good fight to keep us all reading, reading, reading, amid all the distractions of modern life. You are truly the guardians of civilization.

  I’m so fortunate to be part of such a supportive community of women writers and bloggers, whose generosity and commitment to one another sometimes staggers me. To name each wonderful soul would require another page or two, but special thanks this year go to the ever-energetic, ever-talented, ever-thoughtful Kate Quinn, whose heart is as genuine as her terrific books. Of course, my love goes out always to my dear chums and “Team W” writing partners, Karen White and Lauren Willig, without whose friendship and fellowship I couldn’t last another day in this crazy business. (And if you liked this book, you should really read the ones I write with the other two-thirds of the legendary Unibrain.)

  As always, I’m grateful to my family—husband and four adorable kids—who put up with this writerly life, year after year, and still manage to grow into the kind of decent, honorable human beings who will put away the abandoned shopping carts in the parking lot without expecting thanks.

  Last and most heartfelt. Thank you, thank you to my loyal readers, one and all, whether you picked me up at the library, the bookstore, the internet (legally, for goodness’ sake!), a book club, or from a friend. Your support, your thoughtful reviews, your lovely messages, all sustain and inspire me to pick up my laptop and write the next novel.

  About the Author

  BEATRIZ WILLIAMS is the bestselling author of eleven novels, including The Summer Wives, A Hundred Summers, The Secret Life of Violet Grant, and The Golden Hour. A native of Seattle, she graduated from Stanford University and earned an MBA in finance from Columbia University, then spent several years in New York and London as a corporate strategy consultant before pursuing her passion for historical fiction. She lives with her husband and four children near the Connecticut shore, where she divides her time between writing and laundry.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Beatriz Williams

  The Wicked Redhead

  The Golden Hour

  The Summer Wives

  Cocoa Beach

  The Wicked City

  A Certain Age

  Along the Infinite Sea

  Tiny Little Thing

  The Secret Life of Violet Grant

  A Hundred Summers

  Overseas

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  her last flight. Copyright © 2020 by Beatriz Williams. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  first edition

  Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  Cover photograph © Avpics/Getty Images

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Digital Edition JUNE 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-283480-5

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-283478-2

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