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be alone. Briefly, she thought of Peter, then went to find the man who had always given her comfort.
    Charles slept beside her mother. With gentle urgency, Whitney touched his shoulder. He shuddered, then stirred awake, his disorientation becoming puzzlement and then alarm. “What it is, Whitney?”
    “They’ve shot Bobby Kennedy.”
    Her father blinked, then realized why she had come. “I’ll sit up with you,” he said.
    Beside him, Whitney’s mother stirred. Filled with dread, Whitney went back downstairs, sitting on the couch so that Charles could sit with her. The babel of voices felt like an assault.
    Charles appeared in a robe, his hair matted, his face puffy with sleep. Quiet, he sat beside her, arm around her shoulder.
    Senator Kennedy has been rushed to the hospital . . .
    Sudden tears ran down Whitney’s face. “This is what I feared,” her father said in a somber voice. “The Kennedys unleash the furies.”
    No
, Whitney wanted to say. In her unreason, she knew that that believing Bobby Kennedy stirred dark and unknown forces was tantamount to wishing for his death. But she could not give voice to the fever in her brain, not to the man who had come to console her.
    His face unspeakably sad, Bobby’s press secretary appeared to announce that Robert Kennedy was in surgery. Beside her, Charles sagged heavily into the couch. “He can’t survive this, Whitney. At least not as he was.”
    Still he stayed with her. Only when first light grazed the window did he say gently, “There’s nothing we can do, sweetheart. You should get some rest.”
    “I can’t.”
    Charles stood, kissing her forehead. Still gazing at the screen, she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
    Alone, Whitney kept a vigil for Robert Kennedy.

Nine
    When dawn broke, the mist and fog had vanished. Numb, Whitney remained in the library, listening to fragments of news and speculation as she prayed for Bobby to live.
    Her mother appeared. Glancing toward the screen with a pained expression, she asked her daughter gently, “Have you slept?”
    “No.” Looking up, Whitney said, “I was up when Janine came in.”
    “I haven’t seen her yet this morning. Did she have fun?”
    “I guess so.” Whitney paused, then added, “Does it seem like she’s drinking more?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “She was tipsy, I thought, even at dinner. I guess it worried me a little.”
    Anne arched her eyebrows. “She was celebrating, as were we all. No point in worrying about a girl so spirited and so sought after.”
    Her unwelcoming tone was a signal for Whitney to back off. But she could not shake the image of her sister being taken against a pickup truck, or bent over her own vomit, begging Whitney notto tell their mother. “If Janine’s so irresistible to men,” she inquired bluntly, “why don’t they seem to stick around?”
    Anne stood straighter. “If anything, Whitney, your sister suffers from an excess of choices. But it will take a man with considerable presence—someone like your father—not to be overshadowed by Janine. She’s much too vibrant for just anyone.”
    Whitney wondered about the truth of this. While Janine and their mother spent a great deal of time on the telephone, an intimacy Anne treasured, it occurred to her that Janine might alter reality to fulfill her mother’s needs, or her own. “Even in adolescence,” Anne continued, “Janine had a verve that created more admirers than she could cope with. It’s only a matter of finding a man worthy of her. Which is why I’m so pleased for you.”
    “Pleased?” Whitney could not help but ask. “Or surprised?”
    Anne gave her youngest daughter a look that mingled reproof and concern. “When I praise your sister, Whitney, that doesn’t mean I prefer her. It’s simply that you have different qualities, as any siblings do. You should concentrate on your own life—your wedding, your marriage, the family you’ll soon be starting. Let your father and me worry about