WHEN, SIX HOURS LATER IN NEW YORK, VICKI entered the large apartment she shared with five other Federal Airlines hostesses, she found the place a shambles. Furniture was piled up helter-skelter. Canvas covered parts of the floor, and paint buckets and stepladders were stacked in corners. A wave of turpentine-flavored air assailed her nose at the same time that a pounding rhythm of swing-and-sway music from the record player blasted in her ears.
“The lost is found!” Celia Trimble greeted her gaily. “The stranger has returned! Come in, stranger! We’re having a party!”
Vicki waved her hand around at the jumble of scaffolds, paint buckets, and stepladders. “What in the world ...?”
“We’re being painted, Vicki! At last, after two years of pestering the landlord, we’re finally being painted! And to honor this eventful occasion, we’re giving a party. You’re just in time.”
Vicki stepped over the piles of newspapers, brushes, buckets and paint-splattered overalls, and entered the apartment’s big living room. Apparently the painters hadn’t got this far, for the room seemed to be in a fair semblance of order. The rug, however, had been thrown back and two couples were dancing to the swing beat of the music. Dot Crowley was dancing with Pete Carmody, the newspaper reporter, and Jean Cox with Vicki’s former copilot, Dean Fletcher.
When the four spotted Vicki in the living-room doorway, Dean stopped in mid-step and led Jean over to her.
“Well, well,” he said. His tanned face split in a big grin. “How does my little ex-crew member like the sunny South?”
“It’s the greatest.” Vicki laughed.
“Then how come you haven’t got a Florida sun tan?”