Frankie laughed.
“What’s funny about that?”
She turned to him, wiped the tears from her eyes. “I … well … you don’t mean…”
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at her. She couldn’t remember a man ever looking at her in such a way, so intensely. It made her catch her breath. “I mean it, Frankie. It’s 1966. The whole world is changing.”
* * *
Hours later, when the guests had begun to make their polite exits, Frankie found herself still thinking about Rye, and what he’d said.
Women can be heroes.
No one had ever said such a thing to her. Not her teachers at St. Bernadette’s, not her parents. Not even Finley. Why had it never occurred to Frankie that a girl, a woman, could have a place on her father’s office wall for doing something heroic or important, that a woman could invent something or discover something or be a nurse on the battlefield, could literally save lives?
The idea of it was like an earthquake, an upending of her sheltered view of the world, of herself. She’d been told for years, by the nuns, by her teachers, by her mother, that nursing was an excellent profession for a woman.
Teacher. Nurse. Secretary. These were acceptable futures for a girl like her. Only last week her mother had listened to Frankie talk about her struggles in upper-level biology and said gently, Who cares about frogs, Frances? You’re only going to be a nurse until you get married. And by the way, it’s time you start thinking about that. Quit rushing through your classes and slow down. Who cares if you graduate early? You need to date more. Frankie had been taught to believe that her job was to be a good housewife, to raise well-mannered children and keep a lovely home. In her Catholic high school, they’d spent days learning how to iron buttonholes to perfection, how to precisely fold a napkin, how to set an elegant table. At the San Diego College for Women, there wasn’t much rebellion among her classmates and friends. Girls laughed about working for their MRS degree. Even her own choice of nursing as a degree hadn’t required much introspection; all she’d really focused on was getting good grades and making her parents proud.
As the musicians packed up their instruments and the waiters began clearing away the empty glasses, Frankie flipped off her sandals and left the yard and wandered across empty Ocean Boulevard, the wide, paved street that separated her parents’ house from the beach.
The golden sand of Coronado Beach stretched out in front of her. Off to the left was the famous Hotel del Coronado and to the right was the large Naval Air Station North Island, which had recently been recognized as the Birthplace of Naval Aviation.
A cool night breeze plucked at her bouffant chin-length bob, but it was no match for the layer of Aqua Net that kept every strand in place.
She sat down in the cool sand, looped her arms around her bent knees, and stared out at the waves. A full moon hung overhead. Not far away, a beach bonfire glowed orange; the smell of smoke drifted on the night air.
How did a woman go about opening up her world? How did one begin a journey when no invitation had been issued? It was easy for Finley; the path had been laid out for him. He was to do what all the McGrath and Alexander men did: serve his country with honor and then take over the family real estate business. No one had ever suggested any future for Frankie beyond marriage and motherhood.
She heard laughter behind her, the sound of running feet. A young blond woman took off her shoes at the water’s edge and splashed into the surf. Rye followed her, laughing, not even bothering to take off his shoes. Someone sang “Walk Like a Man” off-key.
Finley plopped down beside Frankie, fell drunkenly into her. “Where have you been all night, doll? I missed you.”
“Hey, Fin,” she said quietly. Leaning into him, she remembered their lives on this beach; as children, they’d built elaborate sandcastles and bought Creamsicles from the jangling ice-cream truck that drove up and down Ocean Boulevard in the summer. They’d spent long hours on their surfboards, feet dangling over the sides, talking beneath the hot sun as they waited for the right wave, sharing their deepest secrets.
Together, always. Best friends.
She knew what he needed from her now; she should tell Fin she was proud of him and send him off with a smile, but she couldn’t do it. They’d never lied to each other. It didn’t seem like the time to start. “Fin, are you sure you should go to Vietnam?”
“Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”
Frankie sighed. She and Finley had idolized President Kennedy. His words meant something to them, so how could she argue? “I know, but—”