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began each year with the annual Memorial Day party thrown for hundreds of the Lombards’ closest friends, political allies, and their families. There were always scores of kids to play with, and they were allowed to run wild while the grown-ups socialized and networked on the lawn and wide wraparound porch. Gibson would spend the day playing epic games of capture the flag that ranged all over the back of the property. An ice-cream truck made an annual appearance to the delight of the children, who had already pigged out on hamburgers, hot dogs, and potato salad. It was a kid’s paradise, and he’d always looked forward to such events eagerly.
    Suzanne spent the parties inside, reading in the large bay windows that dominated the back of the house. From the raised, cushioned banquettes piled high with pillows, she could look out over the property as far as the tree line. It was a waste of a beautiful day, in his opinion. At that age, he much preferred climbing trees to contemplating them. But it was Suzanne’s favorite spot in the house and the first place anyone looked for her. From there she could watch the party and read her ever-present books. If she could sweet-talk her mother into delivering her lunch, she would happily pass the day reading and napping in the sunshine.
    While he counted her as a sister, Gibson didn’t “get” Suzanne for the longest time and treated her the way older brothers often treat little sisters—like foreign creatures. She didn’t play football or baseball; she didn’t like playing soldier out back in the woods; she didn’t like any of the games that he liked. So he did the only sensible thing under the circumstances—he ignored her. Not out of spite but simple expedience. They had no shared language.
    But Suzanne treated him the way little sisters tend to treat older brothers—with patient love and constant amazement. She met his dismissiveness with adoration, his disinterest with beamy smiles. She was never hurt or put off that he didn’t return her affection, and she was always willing to give him another chance. In the end, she simply outloved him with a child’s generosity—the kind that burns away as one enters adulthood, but which Suzanne had in abundance. Gibson never stood a chance, and, eventually, with persistence, she wore him down, and he learned to love her back. And somewhere along the line she stopped being Suzanne and became his sister.
    His Bear.
    Not content to simply be loved, Bear pestered him, for what seemed like years, to read to her. He’d read to her once when she was very little; he couldn’t remember what book, only that he’d quickly lost interest. Since then she’d begged him to read to her again, usually from her reading nook as he pelted out the back door to play in the woods. He wasn’t a reader in those days, so he’d always put her off.
    “Gib-Son. Gib-Son!” she would call. “Come read to me!”
    “Later, Bear. Okay?” was always his answer.
    “Okay, Son. Bye!” she would call after him. “Later!” As though later had become an official date.
    Bear always said his name as if it were two words or sometimes shortened it to “Son” if she was excited. Duke thought she sounded like an old southern gentleman: “What are you doing, Son?” It made all the adults laugh, which only encouraged her. She didn’t get why it was funny, only cared that it meant everyone was paying attention to her.
    Bear finally broke him down one Christmas. The senator and Duke were in crisis mode over some piece of legislation, so Gibson spent most of that holiday at the Lombards’ house in Great Falls. She was seven. He was eleven. In a moment of weakness, he said yes, and she’d gone scampering off before he could start another movie. She came back with The Fellowship of the Ring by someone named J. R. R. Tolkien. The movies based on the series hadn’t existed back then, so he didn’t know anything about the book except that it was thick and