significance. Briefly, she thought of her abortion, felt the familiar stab of fear. Then she thought of Kerry, and imagined their children.
'Is Labor Day too soon?' she asked, and kissed him.
* * *
Later, they turned to the practical. It began with her wistful comment, 'Let's run away. Or at least have a private wedding—maybe at the Inn at Little Washington.'
'Besieged by the media?' Kerry asked. 'With helicopters circling? We'd look like Madonna—except that the public would hate us for it.'
'Of course,' she answered dryly. 'How could I forget our stockholders?' She emitted a brief sigh. 'I was thinking about us, of all people. And my family. You and I may be public people, but they're not used to this.'
Quietly, Kerry pondered that. Her family, as he had learned, was as complex as most, their relations more fraught than many. But these realities lived beneath a surface which, for image-makers, was the stuff of dreams. For Kerry, there was no one left; two months before, quite suddenly, he had lost his beloved mother. But Lara had two sisters, a niece, and a handsome mother who, collectively, would be catnip for any Democratic media consultant worth his fees—the Hispanic cleaning woman who had raised three bright and attractive daughters, seen them through college, and who with the two youngest girls would now watch the oldest become the new First Lady. And though Kerry did not say this, Lara knew that his advisors would envision uses for her family beyond attending their wedding.
'I won't have them exploited,' she said. 'How many Presidential relatives begin by thinking it's all so wonderful, then find out too late their lives will never be the same.'
She saw resistance in his face, the wish to believe—despite all he knew—that this time would be different. 'That sounds a little dire,' he answered. 'For my part, I'll never let my people turn the Costello family into reality TV.'
Faintly, Lara smiled. 'Then you might begin with Clayton.'
At this mention of Kerry's Chief of Staff, his closest friend and protector, Kerry smiled back. 'Clayton? If he wants to be Best Man, he'll remember which one of us is President.' Pausing, he assured her, 'Seriously, I worry about them, too.'
'I know you do.'
The telephone rang.
Distractedly, Kerry picked it up. 'It's midnight on the Fourth of July,' he wryly told the operator. 'Are we at war?'
Pausing, Kerry listened. His eyes grew hooded, his face sober. 'Put her through,' he ordered.
'Who is it?' Lara murmured.
Covering the telephone, Kerry met her gaze. 'Your sister Joan. For me.'
THREE
Kerry had begun to fear for Lara's sister the previous November.
Until then, he had not met her family. Returning to California to thank supporters for his narrow victory, Kerry asked Lara to invite them for dinner at his favorite San Francisco steakhouse, Alfred's—Lara's mother, Inez; her youngest sister, Mary; and Joan, her husband, John, and their six-year-old daughter, Marie. But the dinner, while a great success with Inez and Mary, was marred for Lara by the absence of the Bowden family. Joan had food poisoning, she had told Lara that morning—they would all meet Kerry on his next trip out.
At dinner's end, Kerry and Lara dropped off Inez and Mary, and the black limousine, shepherded by Kerry's Secret Service detail, headed for their hotel. 'I liked them,' Kerry told her. 'Very much. Your mother's a lot like mine was, but feistier and less reserved.'
Lara was quiet. 'Mom was embarrassed,' she said at length. 'All that chattering about Joan—she thinks Joan's lying.'
In the darkness of the limousine, Kerry could not read her face. 'Why?'
'Aside from being too 'sick' to meet my future husband, the President-elect, or see me for the first time in almost a year? So sick that John and Marie didn't come without her?' Lara turned to him. 'This wasn't about bad fish. In the ladies' room, Mary admitted that they hardly see her now.'
This touched a nerve in Kerry. 'Is it the husband?' he asked.
Lara did not answer. 'I'm going to see her, Kerry. Before we leave.'
* * *
Joan and her family lived in a bungalow in the Crocker-Amazon district, houses snug together along the rise and fall of urban hillocks sectioned by the grid of city blocks. Though modest in size, the house was freshly painted, the drawn curtains frilly and neatly pressed, and the front porch brightened by pots of multihued geraniums. The door bore the label of a security service; rather than a doorbell, the button Lara pressed was for an intercom.
Lara waited for some minutes. When her sister's voice came through the intercom, it sounded disembodied. 'Who is it?'
'Lara.'
Once more there was silence. 'I'm sorry, Lara.' The delayed response, wan and uninviting, made Lara edgy. 'I really don't feel well.'
'Food poisoning's not contagious.' To her chagrin, Lara recognized her own tone as that of the oldest sister, prodding the others to rise and shine. 'Please,' she implored, 'I've missed you. I can't leave without at least seeing you.'
Joan did not answer. Then, at length, the door cracked open. For a moment, Lara saw only half of her sister's face.
'I'm so glad you're home,' Lara said.
Joan hesitated, then opened the door wider.
Her right eye was swollen shut. The neatly applied eyeliner and curled lashes of Joan's unblemished eye only deepened her sister's horror.
'Oh, Joanie.' The words issued from Lara's throat in a low rush. 'My God . . .'
'It's not what you're thinking,' Joan protested. 'I fell in the shower. I got faint from the food poisoning, and slipped.'
Pushing the door open, Lara stepped inside, then closed it behind them. She placed both hands on Joan's shoulders.
'I'm not a fool, Joanie. I've seen this before, remember?'
Her sister seemed to flinch at Lara's touch. 'So you say. I was three when he left.'
Lara stepped back, arms falling to her sides.
Her sister's face was plumper, Lara saw, but its stubborn defensive cast was the same. The well-kept living room, too, was much as Lara recalled—the polished wooden floor; a spotless oriental rug; immaculate white furniture; a shelf of neatly spaced family photographs. Spotting a formal portrait of Marie, dark and pretty, Lara paused to study it. More calmly, she asked, 'Does Mom know?'
'She doesn't want to know.' Brief resentment crossed Joan's face—at whom, Lara was not sure. 'She likes John. You're the only one who thinks it's great for children not to have a father. That's what I remember—not having one.'
'Then I envy you, Joanie. I remember him quite well.'
'Don't patronize me, dammit.' Joan's speech became staccato. 'Everything worked out for you: great looks, perfect grades, famous friends, a multimillion-dollar contract—oh, don't think for a minute Mom didn't tell us about
