A three-piece band sent music out across an empty dance floor. She could see a small group of men and women huddled in one corner, all of them smoking and talking loudly, arguing. She could hear typewriters clacking.
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.”