Her Last Flight by Beatriz Williams

Author:Beatriz Williams [Beatriz Williams]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-06-29T00:00:00+00:00

My legs are wobbly and something seems to be wrong with the way my head is attached to the rest of me, but I hold myself upright and follow Lindquist along the grass and scrub, through some trees, until we emerge on a cliff above a flawless white beach. A large wave thunders onto the rocks below. Lindquist sets down the picnic basket and puts her hands on her hips. She’s wearing her usual uniform of tan slacks and white shirt; she’s taken off the navy jacket and the gloves and put a straw hat on her head—to save what’s left of her skin, she says, as if she weren’t just the kind of irritating woman who can carry off a wrinkle or two and only look more alluring.

She turns her head to me. “Well? What do you think?”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to surf, that’s all.”

“Of course not. Only a daredevil would surf this wave. Give me a hand, will you?”

I help her spread the blanket and unpack the sandwiches and the bottles of lemonade and the orangey-pink fruit she calls papaya. She removes her hat and eats in silence, legs tucked up against her chest, watching the waves form offshore. The sun is hot, but there’s enough breeze to keep us comfortable. When we’ve finished the sandwiches and the fruit, Lindquist tells me there’s a cake inside the basket, and could I fetch it out and slice it up with the knife. I do as she asks. As I sink the blade through layers of frosting and sponge, I feel as if she’s watching every movement, every tiny gesture, like this is a test of some kind. I hand her a slice. We eat. I say this would be a grand time for a cigarette.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says.

“Well, I’ve thrown up all the Scotch, so I’d say you owe me a cigarette.”

She opens her mouth and stops herself.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” She stands up and holds out her hand. I allow her to draw me up. The ocean stretches out before us, all the way to the Orient. The wind tumbles my hair. Lindquist speaks so softly, I have to strain to hear her, and yet I have the feeling that this is why I’m here, this is why she brought me here, the flight, the Scotch, the island, the picnic, this particular stretch of ocean before us: all of it in preparation for this moment, some grand speech.

“Samuel Mallory had his faults,” she says. “We all do, I guess. But he was an honorable man. He was a good man. He always wanted to do the right thing, even when he fell short. He loved me. He loved his daughter. Everything else came second. He would have died for us both. If you’re going to write this book of yours, you have to make that clear, because unless you understand that, you can’t understand Sam at all.”

“What about his wife? Didn’t he love his wife?”

This brings her up short.

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