"We could have eaten downstairs, you know," Andrew Foster said as he transferred two kippers from a crystal platter to his grandson's plate with all the skill and ‚lan of any of his first class waiters. Foster was in his sixties, tall and distinguished looking, with elegantly cut silver hair.
"The service isn't nearly as nice downstairs," Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering replied, adding, "thank you." `But on the other hand, I'm not nearly as pretty as any of the half-dozen young women I'm sure you would have found down there. " They were sitting at a glass-topped cast-iron table on the tiled terrace of the penthouse. A striped awning had been lowered enough to shade them from the morning sun, and mottled glass panels in steel frames had been rolled into place to shield them from the wind.
"But they couldn't possibly smell as good as you do," Pick said. "What is that you're wearing?"
"Something your mother gave me. I thought she might come with you, so I bit the bullet and sprayed some on."
"Very nice."
"Perhaps for a French gigolo," Foster said.
"Maybe a little strong." Pick chuckled.
"The last time I had some on, a gentleman of exquisite grace, inhaling rapturously, followed me across the lobby," the old man said, "thinking he'd found the love of his life."
Pick laughed. "It's not that bad."
"I'd be happy to give you what's left of the bottle."
"Thank you, but no thank you," Pick said.
A waiter came to the table and picked up a silver-collar orange juice pitcher.
"More juice, Mr. Pickering?"
"No, thank you," Pick said.
"Have some more," the old man said. "I rather doubt where you're going that freshly squeezed orange juice will be on the menu."
"Point well taken, Sir," Pick said. "Yes, please, Fred."
"Speaking of where you're going, you haven't said where or when?"
"I report to Mare Island on the thirteenth. I'm headed for VMF-229. I'm not supposed to know, but I do. It's on Guadalcanal."
"What is... what you said?"
"VMF-229. It's a fighter squadron."
"Do you feel qualified to go, Pick?"
"I think I'm a pretty good pilot."
"I'm sure you are."
"On the other hand, I sometimes think my ego is running away with me," Pick confessed. "I guess I'll just have to wait and see."
"I had an interesting chat, a while back, with a Marine pilot."
"There must be fifteen or twenty in the bar every night," Pick said.
"This was an interesting chap. I had him and his lady to dinner up here. With your mother."
"His `lady'?"
"Well, she was a lady. I liked her and so did your mother, but came out that their relationship had not yet culminated in holy matrimony."
"Illicit cohabitation? In the Andrew Foster? Shocking! And the innkeeper had them to dinner? With my mother?"
"Yes, and the innkeeper was very glad that he did. He told me all about your training. I understood at least twenty percent of what he told me.
And I think he managed to alleviate some of your mother's concerns-"
"Which is why you had him to dinner, right?"
"Certainly. He was a very impressive man. On his way to the Pacific.
Galloway was his name. He said he was to be a squadron commander."
"I don't know the name," Pick said.
"He didn't know yours, either," the old man said. "I asked." The telephone rang.
"Take that, Fred, will you, please?" the old man said. "And remind the operator that I said I didn't want any calls." The waiter went inside, and Pick could hear him speaking softly on the phone. Then, to his surprise, he reappeared on the terrace, telephone in hand. He plugged it in and handed it to Andrew Foster.
"The inn better be on fire, Fred," the old man said as he took the telephone.
"I thought you had better take it, Mr. Foster."
"This is Andrew Foster.
"No, Mrs. Pickering is not here.
"I'm afraid I have no idea where she is."
"She said she would be at the office from about eleven," Pick said.
"What is that?" The old man handed him the phone.
"Who is this, please?" Pick asked.
"My name is McCoy, Sir. I'm a Marine officer."
"From what I hear, you're a flaming disgrace to the goddamn Marine Corps," Pick said cheerfully.
There was a moment's hesitation, then the caller asked, "Is that you, Pick?"