Frankie might be a virgin, but she didn’t want to be a “good girl” anymore. Life was too short to miss out on anything because of an older generation’s rules.
She changed into the new blue-and-white gingham pants she’d bought and a white fitted tunic top with bell sleeves. At the last minute, she added the white plastic hip belt. “Come on. Let’s go.”
They went up to the rooftop bar and ate a delicious dinner, overlooking the chaos of the city below. At 2015 hours, they left the hotel and found an MP waiting for them. They drove through the hectic, busy streets and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking club, where a sign tacked up over the door read BON VOYAGE, HAWK! in bold black script. Inside the murky interior, a bar ran from end to end; in front of it, officers in fatigues and khakis and T-shirts and jeans stood shoulder to shoulder, clapping each other in challenges and congratulations, drinking cocktails that contained actual ice cubes. Vietnamese waitresses moved through the crowd, serving drinks and food; others cleared the tables. A dance floor had been created by pushing tables to the walls; several couples danced in the middle of the room. A three-piece band played unrecognizable music. Two ceiling fans whopped quietly overhead, pushing the hot air around, rather than cooling it.
At the bar, Coyote saw Frankie and waved. He approached Frankie with an endearing hesitation that reminded her of life back in the world, of first dates and school dances. Not the usual pilot’s swagger at all. “You look beautiful, Frankie. May I have this dance?”
“You may,” she said. It felt so ridiculously old-fashioned and otherworldly that she had to laugh.
He pulled her into his arms and onto the dance floor. She felt his hand settle on her hip.
She moved his hand back up to her waist. Apparently there was more good girl left in her than she’d thought. “I think you’ve confused me with a different kind of girl.”
“No way, Frankie. You’re the kind of girl a guy brings home to his ma. I knew that the minute I met you at the beach party.”
“I sure used to be,” she said. “Thanks for the invitation tonight, by the way.”
“I’ve been thinking about you since we met,” Coyote said.
The next song sped up in tempo and he twirled her around until she was out of breath and dizzy. For a beautiful moment, she was just a girl in the arms of a boy who thought she was special.
She was well past the “glowing” stage her mother had often warned her about. In this heat, she was sweating, and she loved it.
“Frankie. There’s Riot. I want you to meet my new CO,” Coyote said, taking her by the hand.
Frankie stumbled along, laughing at his quick change. One minute he was trying to touch her ass, and the next he was dragging her off the dance floor.
He stopped so abruptly, she bumped into him. Coyote’s hand slid down her bare arm; his fingers took hold of hers.
“Riot?” Coyote said. “I’d like you to meet my girl.”
“Your girl? I’m hardly…” Frankie laughed and looked up at Coyote’s commanding officer, who was dressed in fatigues and wearing aviator sunglasses. He looked like a CIA agent. Or a rock star. His stance and demeanor screamed regulation.
“Well, well,” he said, and slowly lowered the sunglasses. “Frankie McGrath.”
Rye Walsh.
Frankie was momentarily plunged back in time, to the Fourth of July party when Finley had brought home his new best friend. “Rye, like the whiskey,” she said, feeling a tightness in her throat. He made her think of Finley, of home, of innocent schoolgirl crushes.
He pulled her into his arms, gave her a hug so fierce she was lifted off her feet.
“Wait. You two know each other?” Coyote said, frowning, looking from one to the other.
“He went to the Naval Academy with my big brother,” Frankie said, stepping back. “He was the one who told me that women could be heroes.”
Coyote put his arm around Frankie, pulled her close. She pulled free.
Rye put his sunglasses back on. “Well. I don’t want to intrude on your fun, kids. Carry on. Nice to see you again, Frankie.” He turned on one heel, a parade-smooth gesture, and walked back to the bar.
Thirteen
“What do you know about your CO?” Frankie asked.
“He’s tough as nails. Doesn’t talk much about himself. I hear he’s engaged to some admiral’s daughter. You probably know him better than we do.”
“No,” Frankie said. “I didn’t really know him well. An admiral’s daughter, huh? Engaged. It’s hardly surprising.”
“Why?”
Frankie almost said, Look at him, but held her tongue.
Even with Coyote’s arms around her, slow-dancing, Frankie found her gaze drawn again and again to Rye; she watched the way he laughed with his men, the way he stood apart from them sometimes. She could tell how much they respected him. Every glance took her back to Finley’s going-away party, when she hadn’t been able to look away, either, and their moment in her father’s office.
Women can be heroes.
Those words—his words—to an impressionable twenty-year-old had led her inevitably to this room, this war. It felt like fate, them meeting here.
“I have my own room, Frankie,” Coyote said, nuzzling her neck as they danced. “We could be alone…”
“Coyote,” she said quietly.
He drew back, looked at her. “You’re right. I should ask you out for a real date. I want to do this right with you, Frankie.”
The music changed. There was a crash of furniture and a rise of laughter.
At the edge of the dance floor, Barb had missed the chair and fallen to the floor. Frankie pulled out of Coyote’s arms and went to her friend.
Rye was there first, helping Barb to her feet. Barb threw her arms around Rye’s neck and hung on. “My bones melted,” she said. Her head lolled back, and she grinned drunkenly at Frankie. “Look a’ this one, Frankie…”
Frankie turned to Rye. The way he looked at her was unnerving. Too intense. It made her feel strange, fluttery. “I should get her back to the Caravelle.”
“I’ll get an MP to drive you.”
Rye helped maneuver Barb out of the O Club and to an MP jeep. Frankie climbed in beside her.
Coyote came out of the O Club. “Frankie, I’ll come to see—”
“’Bye, Coyote!” Frankie said, waving as the jeep took off.
Back at the hotel, she helped Barb up the stairs and into their room.
While Barb was peeing, she looked up, bleary-eyed, and said, “Don’t let me fall off the toilet. M’balance is for shit.”
“Whiskey,” Frankie said, and they both laughed.
Frankie helped Barb out of her clothes and into bed.
“D’ya see the cat in the sunglasses?” Barb said, flopping back into the clean white sheets. “Good-lookin’ man.”
“I saw him,” Frankie said, pulling the covers up to Barb’s chin.
With the lights out, and to the sound of Barb’s snoring, Frankie tried to sleep. It should have been easy; she had drunk plenty tonight, and there was no fear of a mortar attack or a MASCAL to waken her in the middle of the night. She was on clean, fresh sheets. Still, sleep eluded her. She felt restless, anxious.
The phone rang. She answered before it wakened Barb. “Hello?”
“Miss McGrath,” said a Vietnamese man in French-accented English. “There’s a young man here to see you. He asks that you meet him at the top-floor bar.”
Coyote.
Frankie didn’t want to see him now, but she owed him the truth. He wasn’t the man for her. And she couldn’t sleep, anyway.
She threw back the covers and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and went to the elevator, which was out of order. Sighing, she walked up four flights of stairs and emerged onto the hotel’s dimly lit rooftop bar.
A three-piece band sent music out across an empty dance floor. She could see a small group of men and women huddled in one corner, all of them smoking and talking loudly, arguing. She could hear typewriters clacking.