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changed that.
    â€œI’m down to trying to arrange some DNA sample work on a few possibilities,” said Johnny, clearly delighted over R’s interest.
    â€œKeep me posted,” said R.
    â€œI will. You bet I will. Thanks.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll give you a call someday soon,” R added. And he gave Johnny a hearty we’re-buddies slap on the back and moved on to speak to someone else.
    His way was blocked by Rebecca. Her physical size gave the word
blocked
its full sports meaning. R, at 195, may have outweighed her by nearly forty pounds, but the hit would have been a crunching one.
    â€œI deserve some help, some slack from you, R,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “For simple reasons of loyalty among Wally’s students and assistants, if nothing else.”
    R shook his head.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” she asked. Some red was appearing in her cheeks.
    â€œIt means I can’t talk about this with you. It’s improper.”
    Calling on his old skills as a high school quarterback, he feinted to the left and then moved to the right.
    She said as he passed by, “I swear on Wally’s costumed remains, R, that I will not go quietly. I really meant what I said about the throwing of stones.”
    He just kept walking.

FOUR

    Spontaneity with and toward women did not work for R. Think ahead, plan ahead, stay ahead—keep a head. Those were his guiding principles now, after a lifetime of going for the moment, the thrill. That practice had, from time to time, caused pain, put him in jeopardy, helped end his first two marriages, and was now among the things putting strain on a potential third.
    I will not make a move on this woman.
    That was his vow as, back in his Philadelphia hotel room, R prepared to meet Clara Hopkins for dinner at Brasserie Perrier on Walnut Street.
    He had made the mistake of calling Samantha at Glenhaven, the upscale country inn in northwestern Pennsylvania. She was holed up there for three weeks to finish the first draft of her book on John Hancock. She and R shared a love of revolutionary history as well as of good chardonnay, superior scholarship, Mercedes-Benzes, Amtrak, American Express Platinum perks, and privacy. But after two and a half years of cohabitation storm and conflict over all the things they did
not
share, the relationship was falling apart.
    â€œI’m in the middle of writing up Hancock’s funeral at the moment,” Samantha had announced, making it clear to R that he was interrupting. She had specifically gone to Glenhaven, the 1,200-acre estate of a wealthy oil family now open to the public, in order to avoid interruption. Unlike R, who could write anywhere anytime under almost any circumstances, Samantha required stretches of solid isolation to get the best of her writing done.
    â€œI’m part of the group working on Wally’s funeral,” said R, determined to force a conversation. “Isn’t that a coincidence? Here we are, both of us doing funerals at the same moment. Are you coming to Philadelphia for Wally’s? It’ll be on Monday—four days after his death—on the twenty-first, of course, like Ben’s.”
    â€œOf course,” said Samantha. “How did your inquisition of Rebecca go?”
    â€œShe was her usual Rebecca self. So was Sonya. Both of them will probably be on hand for Wally’s funeral.”
    He pressed Samantha for an answer about
her
coming.
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” she said. “Let me see how things are going with my friend John Hancock. I don’t want to lose my concentration again. Wally sure won’t miss me. As you well know, he shared your disdain for Hancock and the rest of the Massachusetts group.”
    Yes, R knew all about Wally’s strong views about the anti-Franklin leanings and whinings of John Adams and Hancock, among others. Both Hancock and Adams were persona non grata among the Ben crowd for their