It was clear from the beginning that this was Hesseltine’s show. Laura was some kind of battle trophy Hesseltine had won, blond cheesecake for the camera to dwell on during slow moments in his cinema biography. She didn’t have to say anything—they didn’t expect it from her. The crewmen gave her strange, muddied looks compounded of regret, speculation, and some kind of truly twisted superstitious dread. They dug into their meals: foil-covered microwave trays marked "Aero Cubana: Clase Primera." Laura picked at her tray. Aero Cubana. She’d flown on Aero Cubana, with David at her side and the baby in her lap. David and Loretta. Oh, God ...