Journalists. She’d heard that this bar was one of their hangouts, along with the bar at the Rex Hotel. She wondered what they were arguing about, if their perspectives on the war were as at odds as her own; if they were as divided as America seemed to be.
Frankie walked over to a quiet table by a window and sat down. In the moonlight, the Continental Hotel across the street was dark except for a few illuminated rooms. She couldn’t help thinking of Jamie, who long ago had told her about this romantic rooftop bar. Sadness tainted the memory, left a sharp little bite, and then softened into regret. She tried instead to imagine him at home, with his family, but couldn’t quite manage that kind of optimism.
A slim Vietnamese woman appeared quietly to take Frankie’s drink order. Moments later, she returned with a glass of Sancerre.
Frankie took a sip of the wine as she stared out at the night lights of Saigon. Even with music playing, the noise of the war was ever-present: the whir of a helicopter flying over the city, the pop of gunfire. Here and there, streaks of red arced through the night sky like fireworks; orange fires blossomed. From here, the war was almost beautiful. Maybe that was a fundamental truth: War looked one way for those who saw it from a safe distance. Close up, the view was different.
“Frankie.”
Rye.
She looked up in surprise.
The Vietnamese waitress glided effortlessly into place beside Rye.
“Scotch. Neat,” Rye said. When the waitress left, Rye sat down opposite Frankie, saying nothing until he had his drink in front of him and the waitress had gone. “Seeing you … was like going back in time.”
“Yeah.”
“Finley was the best friend I ever had.”
“Me, too.”
He sat back, studied her. “So. A combat nurse. I would have thought you’d be married to a millionaire’s son by now.”
“Some guy I met at a party told me that women could be heroes. No one had ever said anything like that to me before.”
“I don’t think you needed to hear it from me,” he said, his gaze steady on hers. She couldn’t help wondering what he saw when he looked at her. Finley’s kid sister? Or did he see who she’d become?
“I did need to hear it,” she said quietly.
The music changed to something unrecognizable.
He said, “Dance with me.”
As a girl, she’d dreamed about this moment with him; as a woman, she knew how fragile dreams were and this war had taught her to dance while she could. She got to her feet.
He took her hand in his and led her to the dance floor. She fit up against him, felt his arms encircle her. They moved in time to the music, but they weren’t really dancing. She would have sworn she could feel his heart beating against hers.
He looked down and she saw desire in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her like this, as if he wanted to devour her, bones and all.
When the song ended, she pulled free. “We probably shouldn’t dance,” she said, feeling shaky. “You’re engaged, from what I hear.”
“She’s a long way away.”
Frankie managed a smile, but only barely. They were not the words she wanted to hear from him. “I’ve already had my heart broken over here,” she said quietly, taking another step back. “And I expect an officer to be a gentleman, Rye.”
He locked his hands behind his back. Soldier’s stance. A respectful distance. “Forgive me for coming here tonight.” His voice had a rough edge to it. “It wasn’t my place.”
She nodded, tried again to smile. “Stay alive, Rye. I’m seeing too many bird pilots in my OR.”
“Goodbye, Frankie.”
“Goodbye.”
* * *
Frankie tossed and turned all night, her sleep plagued by sharp, unfamiliar longings. When she woke, it was late morning and sunlight streamed through the clean glass windows.
Her first thought was of Rye.
That dance. And the way he’d looked at her.
She got out of bed, saw that Barb had left her a Meet you at breakfast note.
Downstairs, she found Barb already seated at the hotel restaurant, drinking a Bloody Mary. “Hair of the dog,” she said. “What happened last night? How did I get back to the hotel?”
“I used my superhuman strength and carried you.”
“Ugh. That’s good for the reputation.”
“You were dressed the whole time, if that helps. And there was no public vomiting. You may or may not have used the men’s bathroom.”
The waitress returned with a second Bloody Mary, which she handed to Frankie.
“I know I was drunk as shit last night, but you were acting weird,” Barb said.
“Was I?”
Something about the casual response put Barb on alert. “So, now I know there’s a story. Spill the beans, girl.”
Frankie sighed. “Fin used to bring his Naval Academy friends home in the summer. They seemed like gods to me.” She smiled, a little one, and thought maybe it was too sad to be real. “Rye Walsh was his best friend. The CO in the sunglasses last night? I had a huge crush on him.”
“The guy who looks like Paul Newman? Wow. So, grab his hand and show him—”
“He’s engaged.”
“Shit. Not again.” Barb took a drink. “And you’re a damn good girl.”
“When I danced with Jamie, I felt safe. Loved, I guess. It was like being home, but with Rye … when I was in his arms, I felt … I mean, the way he looked at me was … hungry. Almost scary.”
“It’s called lust, Frankie, and it can rock your good-girl world.”
* * *
Back at the Seventy-First, the only thing that ever changed was the weather. By December, the days were uniformly hot and dry. Now, with the temperature rising to 110 degrees in the OR, Frankie was hot and headachy. She hadn’t slept well since Saigon.
The OR doors opened and a pair of medics rolled a soldier in from Pre-Op; he was face down on the gurney, his naked, bloody butt stuck up in the air. One of the medics was laughing at something—a good sign. “Butt shot,” he yelled to Frankie, who showed the medics to an empty table and snapped on a new set of gloves.
The kid on the stretcher craned his neck around to look at Frankie. “I got me a fine black ass, don’t I?” he said with a glassy-eyed smile that revealed he’d been given some morphine for the pain. He was barely over eighteen, Frankie would guess. “I’m Albert Brown. Private first class.”
“Hey, Private Brown. Yes, you do have one fine ass, I’d say. Too bad I’m going to have to pick shrapnel out of it.” She waved over the male nurse-anesthetist—nicknamed Gasman—who injected a local anesthetic. When the patient’s buttocks were numb, Frankie bent over his backside and went to work, tweezing out jagged bits of shrapnel. It would hurt like hell if he could feel it. And he would when the drugs wore off.
“Where are you from, Albert?”
“Kentucky, ma’am. Land of bourbon and good-lookin’ men.”
“With fine asses,” Frankie said.
He laughed. “I’m glad to represent, ma’am.”
When she had finished, cleaned him up, and bandaged his backside, she called for a medic to take him to Post-Op.
“Wait, ma’am,” he said. “Can you take a picture with me for my mama, Shirley? She’d love that.”
Frankie smiled tiredly. It was a common request. “Sure, Albert. But your ass looks like it’s been chewed by wolves and so does my hair.”
Albert grinned. “No way, ma’am. You’re the prettiest girl who has ever touched my butt.”
Frankie couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned down and let the kid’s friend snap a Polaroid picture of them. With a wave, she sent him off to recovery and peeled off her gloves, tossing them away and reaching for a new pair. She was thinking about going for a soda when she heard choppers.
Several of them.
She glanced across the OR, made eye contact with Barb, who looked as exhausted as Frankie felt.
The two nurses ran for the helipad, their feet lost in a cloud of red dirt. They helped offload the wounded and guided them back to triage. There, they moved through the wounded fast, barking out orders, prioritizing treatment.
They were almost done when Frankie heard, “Where do you want him, ma’am?”