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about the future
     she had just dreamed up for Ginny. From now on she would pay much more attention to what Ginny ate, her nutrition in general,
     exercise, poise and, yes, despite the opposition she knew she would encounter, Ginny’s often crazy dresssense, too, all to help groom her for her future life on a famous designer’s runway.
    In the house, as she quickly made a salad and pasta, Virginia decided she wasn’t going to say a word about her plan—yet. She
     didn’t know what Ginny would think, but she could hear, as if he’d already said it, Graham’s reaction: “Mindless! My daughter’s
     going to use her brains, not her body. She’s going to get a business degree, so she can run her own courses for the Walker
     School.”
    “Don’t count on it,” she muttered. “You may be in for a big surprise, Professor Higgins.”
    Ginny hardly touched her dinner, but Virginia wasn’t taking her to task—yet. Poor Ginny, she’d had a miserable day. When Toby
     called around eight, despite Graham’s frowns (he loathed phone calls in the evening, unless they were responding to his ads),
     Virginia was happy to hear Ginny talking and finally laughing upstairs. The young were so resilient; they soon forgot their
     disappointments.
    By nine Graham had already gone upstairs to bed. He’d left all the lights on in the den, off the dining alcove, the space
     he used as an office.
    What a mess it was, with papers all over the floor. She knew better than to attempt to tidy them up. He would accuse her of
     losing the one paper that was essential for his work, his life, their livelihood.
    On his desk was a piece he’d been researching since learning, to his fury, that the U.S. postal rate might go up to twenty-nine
     cents in the new year. Disastrous for his kind of business. He’d sent President Bush an impassioned telegram explaining how
     counterproductive to the economy the increase would be. When that produced no response, to Virginia’s increasing frustration,
     he’d wasted two weeks studying the U.S. Postal Service since its inception.
    She picked up the heavily corrected manuscript he’d told her he intended to send to his God, Quentin Peet, expecting him to
     use the information in one of his columns. Why he thought Peet would be interested she had no idea, but that wasGraham all over, full of confidence—or was it bluster? As far as she knew, Peet rarely responded personally to her husband’s
     frequent missives, although she’d seen the occasional acknowledgment from Peet’s office.
    “Are you going to stay up all night?” he called from upstairs.
    “I’m just reading your masterpiece, dear, on the Postal Service.” She didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in her voice. He probably
     wouldn’t notice it anyway.
    She was right. “Good, good. Take your time. This is something Peet will really thank me for. It’s of vital national importance.”
    Virginia grimaced. Oh, sure, Professor Higgins. I bet he can hardly wait.
    “Good evening, Mr. Peet.”
    “Glad to see you back, Mr. Peet. Where’ve you come from this time? We’ve missed you here at Twenty-One.”
    “Good evening, Walter. Good evening, Bruce. None of your God damn business where I’ve been. Don’t you guys ever read a paper?
     My son here yet?”
    “Yes, Mr. Peet.” The young manager looked around the comfortable sofa-and-armchair-filled lounge. “At least he was here a
     minute ago…”
    Peet gave a cursory glance down the long room. A military-looking man was smoothing his mustache as he studied the stock market
     machine; a vivacious, curvaceous redhead in a low-cut dress sipped champagne and appeared to be watching an ice hockey match
     on TV, while two business-suited companions watched her.
    “Perhaps he’s on the phone.”
    “I don’t doubt it” Peet curled his lip disdainfully.
    With his head of thick dark brown hair, slim, well-exercised body and lightly tanned, brooding face, Quentin Peet never seemed
     to age. At