“I bought you some new clothes. They’re in your closet.”
“Mom? You didn’t answer me about Dad.”
“Let me catch my breath, Frances, will you? A little warning that you were coming home would have helped.”
“You’ve known the date for a year, Mom.”
“You still should have called. Go take a shower and get dressed. You know I abhor being late.”
Nodding, Frankie rose, took her coffee with her, and walked back to her bedroom. There she found the new clothes that Mom had bought.
Bell-bottom pants and plaid separates and tunic tops. All a size too big. None of it felt right. So she put on the red dress she’d bought on Kauai, and pantyhose, and sandals. So what if it was March and she was dressed for summer? The dress comforted her, reminded her that Rye was coming home to her in twenty-three days.
She found her mother waiting impatiently at the front door. At Frankie’s appearance, one plucked eyebrow arched. As Frankie neared, Mom’s nostrils flared.
“Yeah. The dress smells mildewed. I know.”
Mom managed a smile. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, she and her mother were at the island beauty salon, being fussed over by Paul. “Who has been cutting your hair, darling?” he said.
“Me,” Frankie said. “Or a girlfriend.”
“With a machete, it looks like.”
Frankie smiled. “Pretty much. I just got home from Vietnam.”
The distaste on Paul’s face was unmistakable. He actually took a step back. “I think I can pull off a chin-length, sideswept bob. Okay?”
That look from him hurt, but she should have been ready for it. “Sure. Whatever.”
Paul set to work, washing, combing, cutting, styling. When he began to tease the back of her hair, Frankie stopped him, said sharply, “None of that girlie shit for me, Paul.”
She heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath. “Language, Frances. You’re not a longshoreman.”
When Paul finished, Frankie stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. He’d made her black hair glossy again, teased it up in back, and cut it in a precise line along her jaw. Long bangs swept to one side. “It’s nice,” she said. “Thanks.”
He nodded crisply and walked away.
At the Coronado Golf and Tennis Club, a uniformed Black attendant met the Cadillac, and opened Frankie’s door. She stepped out, felt a strange sensation of collision. How could this cool, white, moneyed world exist in a bubble, while in Vietnam a war was raging, and here at home, people were protesting the violence and fighting for fundamental civil rights?
The main clubhouse was designed like an old-fashioned living room, centered around a stone fireplace. Here and there, groups of men were seated, drinking and smoking. Cocktail lunches were the norm here for the working men. A group of women wreathed in cigarette smoke played bridge in a room off to the right.
The waitress led them to her parents’ favorite table, which overlooked the pool. White tablecloths, silver flatware, bone china plates, and a centerpiece of fragrant flowers.
Frankie sat down.
“How lovely to be out with my girl for lunch,” Mom said, taking out her silver cigarette case, extracting a slim cigarette, lighting it up.
When the waitress appeared, Mom ordered two Bloody Marys.
“Kind of early, isn’t it, Mom?”
“You, too, Frances?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father keeps remarking upon my drinking. When he’s home, that is.”
Before Frankie could formulate a rejoinder, a man appeared at their table. An elderly man with walrus jowls and a gray military flattop, wearing a brown suit with a thin tie. “Bette,” he said, smiling jovially. “How nice to see you out and about. My Millicent says you are favored to win the tournament again this year.”
Mom smiled. “Millicent is too kind. Frances, you remember Dr. Brenner?”
“This can’t be Frances, can it? Home from Florence already?”
“Florence?” Frankie was about to say more when she heard a loud crash.
Incoming.
She dove for the floor.
“Frankie? Frankie?”
What the hell?
The world righted. She wasn’t in ’Nam. She was in the country club dining room, sprawled on the floor beside the table like a fool. Not far away, a waitress was kneeling on the floor, picking up broken glass.
Dr. Brenner took hold of her hand and helped her to her feet.
“Frankie?” Mom said, frowning. “Who falls out of a chair?”