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Eric, their twelve-year-old son, she would have said, “Mike, we have a problem.” But Eric was with Stuart’s parents, touring England. He decided to put Jenny’s call on a back burner until “whenever” felt right.
    The second message was short and to the point. “This is Jane. Call me anytime.”
    For reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted to talk to her. He dialed her number, and she answered on the third ring. “I know it’s late, but you said to call anytime.”
    “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re hard to contact.”
    “A lot of pressing matters around here,” he replied. “How’s the shoulder doing?”
    “Better. Question: What about Temptress ?”
    The empty feeling in his stomach was back, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. The last time he had seen his boat was in a slip in Miami. It was gleaming in the early-morning sun, none the worse for wear after the hurricane and the sojourn to Cuba. “Sell her, I guess.”
    “Good time to sell. Beginning of the season here. How much?”
    “Whatever’s fair.”
    A long pause. Then, softly, “I’d like to buy her. Can you carry the loan?”
    The gentleness in Jane’s voice touched him. “Okay by me,” Stuart replied. “But I need some cash up front.”
    “I’ll talk to a bank,” she said, breaking the connection.
    Stuart smiled to himself as he hung up. That’s Jane, he told himself. A woman of few words.

2
     
    RAF Cranthorpe, England
     
    The boy kept bouncing against his seat belt, not wanting to miss any part of the old English air base. “This is neat, Gramps,” he kept repeating.
    Colonel William “Shanker” Stuart, United States Air Force (retired), smiled at his grandson’s unfeigned enthusiasm. He was glad he had brought Eric to RAF Cranthorpe for the air show and the dedication ceremonies. The old Royal Air Force Base had been restored to its glory days during the Battle of Britain and was being dedicated to those “so few” men who had accomplished so much. “Yeah, it is neat,” Shanker admitted. He inched their rental car into a parking space and got out.
    A large group of men and women carrying signs and placards were gathering in the parking lane in front of them. Shanker estimated their number at over two hundred, and the signs they carried worried him. He watched in silence as they unfurled a large banner. The last thing Shanker wanted to see was a demonstration ruining the ceremonies. Too many volunteers had worked too hard to keep RAF Cranthorpe alive.
    Eric read another one of the signs. “What’s ‘Ban the Bomb’ mean?”
    “It’s a throwback to another time, son, when people were worried about nuclear war.”
    The two Americans watched as three well-dressed men approached the group of protesters. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” one of the men told the demonstrators.
    “Who are you, mate?” a scruffily dressed woman shouted.
    “I’m from the CAA, and—”
    The crowd started shouting, “Hell no, we won’t go,” and drowned out the CAA man. The three men gave up and retreated to the safety of their car as the crowd grew larger and the chanting louder.
    “What’s the CAA?” Eric asked.
    “That’s the British government’s Civil Aviation Agency,” Shanker answered. “It’s the same as our FAA, the Federal Aviation Agency.”
    “I thought you didn’t like the FAA.”
    “I don’t dislike them, son. I just think they’re a pain in the ass. Like all bureaucrats.”
    “Dad says he’s just a bureaucrat in the Air Force.”
    “That’s different,” Shanker replied. But not much, he groused to himself. All he ever wanted was for Michael to be like his older brother and fly jet fighters. But Mike’s poor eyesight had precluded that, and as a result he was a nonrated officer with a desk job. His younger son was one of his life’s major disappointments. He put his arm around his grandson’s shoulders. “Come on. They got an F-4 here like the ones I used to