Olive’s mother left her father, Ted Teel, when Olive was a small child — probably because she couldn’t stand to hear “Camille Teel!” from her squealing sorority sisters one more day. She didn’t mind Ted’s six-figure salary at the prestigious downtown law firm of Smith, Teel and Martin, but that was adequate only until 50ish investment banker Mike Bennett came into her life with seven figures. Her mother was pregnant within a year, and Olive suddenly had a distant middle-aged stepfather to go along with her absent father.
From the time Olive was born, Camille wanted to use her as a dress-up doll, a role Olive fought for as long as she could remember. Olive could play the piano and had learned about white gloves and party manners at the cotillion. She could even navigate the make-up counter at Lord and Taylor, and her statuesque height and athletic prowess caught everyone’s attention. But Olive knew how to draw boundaries; for example, she eschewed the cheerleader culture.
She liked the guys — but wanted to be around them on her terms, not as an arm piece — or piece of anything. Her mother cried when Olive was accepted into the Naval Academy and rarely visited. When she did visit on the yard, radiant in her navy-colored suit and stilettos, she would scoff under her breath and say, “Kristin, must you wear those mannish Oxfords?” Then she would spy a boy and whisper, “There’s a cute one! Unbutton a few buttons and go up to him. Go on.” Olive shook her head at the thought of it.
Camille cried again when Olive was accepted to flight school. “You marry a pilot, not become one!” Olive was a huge disappointment to her mother, and always had been. The calluses of emotional defense she had developed from childhood were the foundation of the reserved personality she still maintained. Even now, whenever one of her Junior League friends asked about Olive, her mother politely said, “Kristin flies for the Air Force,” and quickly changed the subject. Camille could not have identified an FA-18 Hornet to save her life.
Just as Olive hit “send” on the e-mail, her roommate, “Psycho,” burst through the door.
“Hey, how was duty?” Psycho asked. Without bothering to listen to Olive’s answer, she undid her hair and began peeling off her flight suit.
“Fine. How was midrats?”
“Awesome! Sat with a bunch of Moonshadows. You know Lester and Crunch? They crack me up every time! Smoke was there… Dutch… Sponge…. good time.” Lifting her t-shirt over her head, she added, “You should go up there. They are probably still there.”
