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with Ryland. There will never be another candidate like him, not for me. I’ll follow him anywhere. Even to Washington—the city with the largest per capita population of pompous, self-absorbed horse’s asses in these United States.” I laughed nervously. “Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t say ‘ass’ to a priest.”
    He smiled. “I’ve heard the word before. And met more than a few right here in Nilson’s Bay. Don’t ask me to name names. But you think that our nation’s capital has more than its share?”
    I opened the car door and sat down in the driver’s seat, rolling down the window so I could continue the conversation.
    â€œDefinitely. And I’m not just talking about members of Congress—though some of them definitely qualify. Do you know that when you go to a cocktail party on Capitol Hill, nobody makes eye contact? I’m serious!” I declared, countering the silent skepticism in Father Damon’s eyes.
    â€œWhen you are talking to somebody at a party in the district, the person you’re talking with is always scanning the room behind you to see if they can find somebody more important or more useful. It’s true. You could be baring your soul to someone, and right in the middle of your sentence, they’ll interrupt and say, ‘Excuse me. The secretary of the interior just came in. Call me and we’ll do lunch.’
    â€œAnd just like that,” I said, snapping my fingers, “they’re gone and you’re standing there alone in the crowd, swirling the ice in your glass and looking like a wallflower.”
    I turned the key in the ignition, bringing the engine to life.
    â€œAnd you know what the worst part is? That I completely get it. I’m just as bad as all the rest of them, Father. And yet,” I sighed, “I’m planning to go back there for the next four years, possibly eight. Voluntarily.”
    I put my foot on the brake, shifted into drive, and looked up at him.
    â€œDo you think there’s something wrong with me?”
    Father Damon worked his lips for a moment, weighing the question.
    â€œProbably,” he said.

Chapter 8
    M y cell phone rang at 5 A.M. on Saturday. Eyes still shut, I reached up and groped the top of the nightstand, a reflexive response after all these years, and answered on the fourth ring.
    â€œCan’t sleep?” I mumbled, my voice raspy. “Alice, can’t you leave the bedroom door closed? The cats won’t starve during—”
    â€œMiss Toomey?”
    The voice on the other end of the line didn’t belong to Alice. I opened my eyes, saw the blue-and-white afghan on the bed, remembered where I was and why and that I would never again wake in the darkness to the sound of my sister’s voice, and experienced the stab of loss anew, a vacancy in my center.
    â€œMiss Toomey?”
    â€œOh . . . Yes. I’m sorry. This is Lucy.”
    â€œPlease hold for the president-elect.”
    I rubbed the sand from the corners of my eyes, then grabbed the afghan from the end of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. It didn’t seem right to hold a conversation with the next leader of the free world in a state of semi-undress, not even over the phone.
    A moment later, he was on the line.
    â€œLucy?”
    I cleared my throat. “Good morning, Mr. President-elect.”
    Groggy as I was, I couldn’t help but smile as I addressed him by his new title, thinking how much better it would sound in just a few weeks’ time, after we subtracted the suffix.
    â€œHow are you this morning, sir?”
    It came to me automatically, this new formality of address. Of course, I’d always spoken to him this way in public. Anytime there were people present, he was sir, or Congressman, then Governor, but when it was just the two of us in the room, he’d been Tom. But things were different now. Aside from his wife and immediate family,