First Lieutenant Aaron Reed, the copilot, didn’t look at us, just ducked his head with his thin blond hair as he stowed his hat in the ankle pocket of his flight suit, then hurried to catch up with the other two men as they continued down the hall. Their heavy flight bags and pub briefcases bumped against their legs, giving them an exaggerated swagger.
As she watched the departing men, I caught a change in Penny’s expression that I couldn’t identify, a flicker of fear or anger in her eyes? “Are you sure you’re okay?” I’d never seen Penny’s mood zigzag. Her emotions were usually as straightforward as a ruler.
“I’m fine.” Penny pulled her gaze back to me. “Later? Can we get together?”
“Sure. I’m going to lunch with Mitch, but I’ll be home this afternoon.” With Mitch scheduled to leave in two weeks for a forty-five-day deployment to the “sandbox,” the nickname for the desert, we were trying to spend as much time together as we could. “What have you been doing today?” I asked.
“I’ve been over at the Mansion interviewing General Bedford for an article about Frost Fest.” The Mansion, a large antebellum-style building complete with portico, held the wing commander’s office and various base VIPs.
“You’re interviewing the wing commander about Frost Fest? Is he on a committee or something?”
“No. It’s a human interest story. Bedford’s dad was stationed here in the sixties and flew B-52s. Interesting angle, from military brat to wing commander.”
“What does that have to do with Frost Fest?” I was still confused.
“Every year the organizing committee tries to showcase some aspect of Vernon. Last year it was the River. This year it’s the base. The theme is ‘Dreams Take Flight’ and there’s going to be an exhibit about Greenly along with an art show with local artists. I’m putting together a press kit with human interest write-ups for the media.”
Maybe her volunteer job was the source of her sudden animation? “So you like being on the committee?”
“It’s fine. Volunteer work to keep me in touch.” She shrugged. Obviously not the source of her excitement, from her bland response. “Still no openings at the universities,” she continued. “What can I say? Middle Eastern art archivists are not in high demand.” With Penny’s fadeaway personality it was easy to forget she held a doctorate in ancient Middle Eastern art. “At least it gives me something to put on my resume.”
“And you’re teaching art appreciation, too.”
“Just continuing ed, though.” Her mouth quirked down. “Not very impressive.”
“Teaching is teaching,” I insisted, trying to encourage her. We’d been over the woes of being a trailing spouse. Wonderful designation, trailing spouse. Makes spouses sound like we have a chronic disease that causes lethargy, but it meant we were trying to get a job at the new duty station. It was even harder for Penny because her skills were so specialized.
“Oh!” Her lips twitched up and her energy level zoomed up again. “I meant to tell you. Guess who showed up last week at my class? You’ll never guess. Clarissa Bedford.”
“The wing commander’s wife?” I transferred Livvy to my other arm and leaned in closer. “Ms. Cosmo? Why?” I’d met Mrs. Bedford during a spouse orientation flight, a flight that lets the spouses go on a local sortie to see an AR, an air refueling. It was hard to think of her as Mrs. Bedford, since that name brought to mind a middle-aged matron. Clarissa Bedford was anything but matronly.
When she arrived for the orientation flight she’d glanced around, said a vague hello to everyone in the vicinity, and then commandeered one of the airline seats. She’d tossed her brown curls over her shoulder and spent the rest of the time flicking through a Cosmo, red nails flashing each time she turned a glossy page. I couldn’t imagine her being interested in art appreciation.
“I’m not sure. She added late.” The wing commander’s recent marriage to a woman twenty years younger than him had generated plenty of speculation.
“She called me the other day,” I said. “She wants me to organize her closets.” I run a part-time organizing business, Everything In Its Place, in any spare moment I happen to catch between changing diapers.
Penny said, “Wow. You’ll know all the dirt on her. Keep me updated. Well, I’m off to call my insurance company again. They have almost as much red tape as the Air Force.”
“What happened?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Penny leaned on the bar to open the door. “Last week, someone broke into my car, stole my radio and a handful of change out of the cup holder.”
“That’s awful. Where did it happen?”
“On our street. At least they didn’t look in the trunk and find my backpack. I’d hate to lose my notes and my camera. I’ll call you. Maybe stop by this afternoon.”
“That would be great.” Penny lived off base in our neighborhood along with practically every other member of the squadron. Thanks to the remodeling going on in base housing, our neighborhood of Windemere in the nearby city of Vernon was the most popular off-base housing site because of its small, relatively affordable bungalows and a convenient drive time to the base. Unfortunately, the multitude of detached garages tempted burglars. Stately pines and maples along with masses of mature shrubs in Windemere provided burglars with enough cover that garage break-ins were not that unusual in our neighborhood. I was glad we had one of the few houses with an attached garage.
I shoved the bag of espresso beans in the diaper bag, then grabbed the diaper bag and my purse before I wound my way through the quiet halls to the Scheduling Office. As I passed the squad’s bulletin board, a short blond tornado, Lieutenant Georgia Lamar, one of the four females in the squadron, surged by me and entered the Scheduling Office a few steps ahead of me.
She set her steaming gourmet coffee down, tossed her gym bag under her desk, and threw a slip of paper down beside her cappuccino. “I can’t believe I got a ticket. Seventeen! Two miles an hour over the speed limit! How anal can you get?”
“Took the shortcut through base housing?” Tommy Longfellow, chief of scheduling, swiveled his chair around and stretched out his long legs. “Hi, Ellie,” he said to me.
“Yeah, but two miles?” Georgia ran her fingers through her short blond curls and shrugged out of her leather flight jacket.
“You gotta slow down, George. This is the military. Things change slow.” Tommy’s words were teasing, but there was an edge of seriousness to his tone.
Georgia snorted and whipped her hand through the air impatiently. “Things change. The Air Force has to get with it.”
I set Livvy down and she waddled over to Mitch’s office chair. Bundled in her thick winter coat, hat, and mittens, she looked like a small, pink-padded post as she shoved the chair and set it spinning. “Hey, don’t I get a kiss?” Mitch asked as he crossed the room from a metal bookcase, carrying two thick notebooks. Livvy paused long enough to give him a distracted kiss on the cheek and then went back to spinning the chair with one mitten-covered hand. In the other, she clutched a two-inch plastic figure, a girl with short red hair in pink shirt and pants. Pink Girl, Livvy called her. Livvy didn’t do anything, like eat, sleep, ride in the car, or nap, without Pink Girl.
“How was the vet?” Mitch asked me.
“Busy.” My ears were still ringing from the high-pitched yaps of the poodle in the waiting room. “Rex is up to date on his shots. Ready for lunch?”
“Sure.” Mitch put away the notebook and reached for his leather flight jacket.
I set the espresso beans down on the tiny table beside the coffeepot and the can of Folgers coffee (Tommy’s) and the fresh-ground Kona