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reminding Whitney of the envy she sensed in her friend. Then Peter joked appreciatively, “Is it too late to ask you to be my best man?”
    “
And
give away the bride?” Charles rejoined. “That would require a certain agility. Though I’ve always tried to make my own rules.”
    “You don’t know how true that is,” Whitney told Peter. “Best to keep him in his place.”
    “Don’t be hasty,” Charles admonished them. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure, Peter. But the head of the Connecticut National Guard is a neighbor in Greenwich. I’ve spoken to him, and there seems to be a place for you. The firm will give you whatever time you need to fulfill your obligation.”
    Stunned, Whitney saw Peter’s shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you, sir.”
    “I didn’t want you to worry,” Charles told Whitney in a gentler voice. “Too many friends died in my own war, leaving widows and sometimes children. To see that happen to you would break my heart.”
    A wave of gratitude overcame Whitney. Seeing Clarice’s ironic smile at her, she briefly wished she had known this before canceling their trip, then had the stray, superstitious fear that some less fortunate young man might die in Peter’s place. But such thoughts were unfair to Peter, and to the father who must love her as much as she loved him. Once again, Charles had arranged life for the benefit of those within his charge. “Thank you, Dad,” she echoed.
    At the corner of her vision, she saw Janine pour herself a glass of wine.

Five
    The dinner flowed easily, as did the cabernet, the conversation festive and light. Over the dessert wine, Charles turned to Peter, “It just occurred to me. If I can arrange it, would you enjoy meeting Richard Nixon?”
    “How?”
    “I’ve been raising a little money for him,” Charles responded comfortably. “One of the venues is a private dinner in Manhattan. I’m sure there’ll be room for you.”
    This understated her father’s efforts, Whitney knew from her mother, as well as his aspirations—Charles had solicited a small fortune from friends and, though he dared not admit it, hoped for a prominent position at Treasury, perhaps even a cabinet post. “I’d like that,” Peter said appreciatively, then glanced at Whitney with a droll expression. “Do you think he can win? I know at least one person who doesn’t.”
    Charles gave his daughter a quizzical look. “Why not, Whitney?”
    Whitney struggled to express her sense of a man she didn’t know. “He just seems like a prisoner in his own skin, as though he hassomething to hide. And when he smiles, it’s like someone is sending a signal to his brain, telling him to move his lips.”
    “That’s a lot of similes for one politician,” Charles responded amiably. “In that spirit, let me try one I just heard: that watching his former opponent—that dunderhead George Romney—run for president was like watching a duck try to make love to a football.”
    Whitney had to laugh. “All I remember is Romney saying he’d been brainwashed into supporting the Vietnam War.”
    “Deadly,” Charles concurred. “Though in Romney’s case, a light rinsing would have sufficed.”
    “Really,” Anne told her husband. “You’re being unkind. And that analogy about the sexual talents of ducks creates a rather unwelcome visual.”
    “Agreed,” Janine said, refilling her wine glass. “Can that even be done?”
    Clarice smiled at Charles. “Not easily, I imagine, and not well. But your dad is a man of wide experience.”
    “With ducks?” Janine inquired innocently. “Or footballs?”
    “Only with ducks,” Charles said reprovingly. “At feeding time in Central Park, when you were too little to speak. I’m growing more nostalgic by the minute.”
    “You precipitated all this,” Anne pointed out.
    “So I did,” Charles allowed. “But my real point that the country needs a man of judgment and experience. The last four years have unleashed a