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“David’s making a speech to some labor union convention. I forget where.”

“Want me to come over and keep you company?”

“No, but thanks.” She couldn’t drink as much when her father was around.

“You shouldn’t be alone, sweetheart.”

“David’s coming back tonight. It’ll be late, but he promised to wake me.”

After a pause, during which she could envision her father’s steep frown, he said, “Maybe you should go back to your gynecologist. See if he can give you some hormones or something.” He attributed all female ailments to a hormonal imbalance.

“That would hurt George’s feelings.”

“Screw George and his feelings,” the senator boomed. “We’re talking about your health here. George is a nice guy, and I assume he’s a competent physician for routine stuff like bellyaches and flu shots. But you need a specialist. You need a psychiatrist.”

“No, Daddy. No, I don’t. Everything is under control.”

“Losing little Robert has thrown your whole system out of kilter.”

Vanessa took a sip of wine to deaden the sharp pain of remorse that his words sent through her. “David wouldn’t approve. The First Lady can’t have a shrink.”

“It can be handled confidentially. Besides, who’d think badly of you for getting some help when you need it most? I’ll talk to David about it.”

“No!”

“Baby—”

“Please, Daddy, don’t worry him. I’ll get through it. It’s just going to take me a little more time than we thought.”

She had learned at the knee of the master, Senator Cletus Armbruster, how to practice politics. By the time they said good night, she had his promise not to confront David about her health.

To calm herself, she washed down another Valium with her wine, then floated into the bathroom and changed into a nightgown and robe. Propped up in bed, she tried to attend to some personal correspondence, but she couldn’t control her fountain pen. She tried to read the new bestseller that had everybody talking, but she found it difficult to focus her eyes and make sense of the words. She was about to give up and turn out the lamp when someone knocked on her door. She got out of bed and crossed the room.

“Vanessa?”

She opened the door. “Hello, Spence.”

“Were you asleep?”

“I was reading.” Spence never failed to rattle her. She ran her fingers through her hair. “What do you want?”

“The President asked me to check on you.”

“Really?” she said sarcastically.

“He regretted having to leave you alone tonight.”

“Why should tonight be any different?”

Spencer Martin’s eyes didn’t even flicker. It took a lot more than impertinence to provoke him. Even when provoked, he didn’t show it. That had been part of his training.

The Nixon administration had had Gordon Liddy, who bore a scar in the center of his palm from holding it over a candle flame until the flesh melted. Liddy had nothing over Spencer Martin. He was scary in his own right. And invaluable to the President.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked with aloof courtesy.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”