“Was that … you know, the guy who always plays a cowboy on TV?”
Frankie shook her head. “He’s a doctor.”
“I don’t know why you’re still here,” Joan said, pulling out a nail file, filing a broken nail.
“What do you mean?”
“If a man that foxy looked at me the way he just looked at you, I wouldn’t let him walk away.”
“What? You think … no. It’s not … I mean, he’s old.”
“Time doesn’t mean what it used to,” she said.
Frankie couldn’t disagree with that.
* * *
July 27, 1971
Dear Frank,
Greetings from blazingly hot Captiva Island. That’s in Florida. Land of leathery people who drive yacht-sized cars and start cocktail hour at breakfast.
I know you are going to scream, as is Babs, who is getting the same letter. Noah and I eloped! I know you girls wanted to be at my wedding, but I just couldn’t wait. We couldn’t wait. When push came to shove, I didn’t want a day that smelled like flowers and tasted like cake. When your mom isn’t around … I don’t know. I just didn’t want that. But we will celebrate, and soon!
Love you, girlfriend,
Mrs. Noah Ellsworth
Twenty-Six
1972. And the war raged on.
More deaths, more grievous injuries on the battlefield, more helicopters shot down, more men sent to Hoa Lo Prison or missing in action.
Frankie, like most Americans, watched the nightly news in horror. Last year, the Winter Soldier Investigation, a media event sponsored by the Vietnam Veterans Against the War, had exposed the dark underside of the war—American atrocities in the jungles and villages and on the battlefield—and Lieutenant William Calley had been convicted and sentenced to life in prison for the My Lai massacre. America had invaded Cambodia. All of it increased the anger and disgust shown to returning veterans.
Sometimes, when she watched the news, Frankie couldn’t stop crying.
It could be over nothing. Hell, sometimes she cried in her car when a song made her think of Finley, of Jamie, of Rye. Every tear reminded her that her stability was fragile at best.
No one believed America was winning the war anymore; even on Coronado Island, among the conservative, wealthy, Republican elite, doubt was expanding. “We need to be done with this,” Frankie often heard her father say to his friends, as if the war were an expensive vacation gone bad.
When her mother was improved enough to drive and be alone, Frankie was forced to reach for a life of her own, at least a semblance of one. She took a job at the medical center hospital. Her education and experience landed her a surgical nurse job on the day shift, and once again nursing gave her life purpose and structure, both of which she desperately needed. She made sure to keep busy; she wrote endless letters and manned the League of Families booth when she could, and worked long, grueling shifts in the OR. Anything that would occupy her mind and make her tired enough to sleep.
But she knew that none of it would help tonight.
The Fourth of July.
Frankie dreaded the holiday. In the past few years, she’d remained cloistered inside on the Fourth of July, with the music cranked up loud, just trying to make it through the loudness of the night. Barb and Ethel had always allowed her to hide out in Virginia, and last year her mother hadn’t felt well enough to host their annual party. This year was a different story.
A party at her parents’ house was the last thing Frankie wanted to attend, but she had no choice. Following fifteen months of therapy and hard work, her mother was finally set to make her glorious return to Coronado’s social life, and Frankie’s attendance was mandatory.
I’m fine. I can do this.
She dressed in purple hot pants and a filmy white blouse, pulled down off her shoulders, then ironed her now-long hair down from a center part, and put on makeup. All of it a camouflage.
At dusk, she left the bungalow and walked on the beach toward her parents’ house, toward the iconic red roof of the Hotel del Coronado. Lights twinkled from its eaves, lighting the way.
All around her, life went on. Families, kids, dogs. Shouting and screaming, people splashing in the waves.
She stayed on the sand for as long as possible, then crossed Ocean Boulevard, which was buzzing with activity on this warm evening: drivers looking for parking spaces, men unpacking trunks, women herding dogs and children to the beach, looking for a place to set up their chairs.
The Tudor house loomed above the brick privacy wall, its mullioned windows glittering with light. Lanterns hung from the branches of the live oak tree. Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the food table and outdoor bar. Frankie closed the gate behind her.