“I wasn’t going to suggest sightseeing—not yet, anyway,” said Vicki, at the mirror.
“Then why are you up and dressed so early? After those week-end runs we put in, why aren’t you unconscious, too?”
On Saturday their crew had flown from New York to Chicago, stayed overnight in Chicago, and on Sunday had flown on from Chicago to San Francisco. Now they were to have a day in San Francisco to rest. Vicki figured she would rest later and look for Lucy Rowe first. She told Jean her plans.
“Well”—Jean yawned and stretched under the covers—“all I can say is that a frail-looking, dreamy-looking little blonde like you has more stamina than some of us husky people.”
Vicki grinned. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”
“Just go away, my love, and let me sleep.”
They arranged to be in touch later in the day. Vicki softly let herself out into the hotel corridor and went downstairs to the busy lobby. Part of the fun of being a flight stewardess was living all over the United States, and staying at the pleasant hotels where the airline put up their crews. Along with her breakfast Vicki enjoyed a magnificent view of San Francisco’s hills.
Ever since talking with Mrs. Bryant, Vicki had kept Lucy Rowe’s old address safely in her purse. Now she took it out. At the hotel desk she asked for directions to Sutro Heights. Vicki made her way there—riding up and down steep hills—walking down a long wooden stairway from one street level to another. She climbed past a cliff-top park with white-painted statues, high above beach and ocean.
“San Franciscans certainly have their ups and downs,” Vicki thought, puffing. “But what views!” On three sides she looked down over the blue Pacific. The air was sea-fresh, cool, springlike. Vicki was so enchanted that she almost forgot about the address in her purse.
It led her to a modest, leafy street and an unpretentious cottage. There were a yard and an attempt at flower beds; children’s toys littered the porch. When Vicki rang the doorbell, a pleasant young woman in shirt and jeans came to the door. She looked not much older than Vicki, or than Lucy’s age, twenty-one.