“Scotch goes to Alistair’s head.”

  They joined the circle, Victoria next to Alistair, just as Kellen drifted away to the far corner of the room and made a phone call. Victoria tried not to take his disappearance personally.

  “Scotch, Victoria?” Alistair clapped her on the back.

  “I’m fine with wine, thanks. What kind of shenanigans are you gentlemen getting up to?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Alistair answered. “Go on, Ryan. You wanted to ask Victoria something, right?”

  If possible, Jamison looked embarrassed. But since he’d so rarely shown emotion, she might be misinterpreting it.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, I was wondering…well… I have a niece, see. In high school. And she’s gay. She saw Genevieve on television once, and she’s been dying to meet her. Wants to work for a civil rights organization when she gets older. Of course, she’s fifteen, so she’ll end up changing her mind a dozen times or so, and who knows? But would it be okay if I gave her Genevieve’s phone number? Or if I gave you my niece’s to pass on to Genevieve?”

  Nothing like having your breakup thrown right in your face. Of course his niece would want to meet Genevieve, not her. What was a Supreme Court justice next to a charismatic, gorgeous attorney who had reporters eating out of the palm of her hand?

  Tori squared her shoulders. “Sure, Ryan. Of course I’ll give you Genevieve’s number. I can’t speak for her, but I suspect she’ll be very flattered and happy to talk with your niece.”

  Jamison took his cell out of his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to Victoria. As she programmed in her ex-girlfriend’s number, she wondered how long she’d have it memorized.

  Probably forever. With a quiet sigh, she returned the phone.

  “Okay, I want to know who’s read Senator Hick’s latest book. Is that guy gunning for a spot on the bench or what?” Matthew Smith said.

  “He’ll never get it,” Eliot McKenzie said. “I doubt there’ll be an opening on the bench for the rest of Obama’s term, and there’s no way a conservative will nominate him.”

  Victoria exchanged a silent look with Alistair but said nothing.

  “He’s too liberal for Obama to nominate, even if there was a vacancy,” said Anthony Jaworski. “Barack knows that the Senate would never confirm someone that liberal.”

  “Ah, but there’s where you’re wrong,” McKenzie said. “The Senate won’t stonewall one of their own. They’re a proud group. I think that’s why he thinks he can get away with such a brazen public play for the bench.”

  “So, is this what you all do in your spare time? Debate potential justices?” Victoria asked.

  “We also aren’t above gossiping about appellate judges,” Smith said. “Evidently Carroway, on the third circuit, fell asleep on the bench last week.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Jaworski. “That’s extremely unprofessional. Is he going to be admonished in some way?”

  McKenzie laughed. “Admonished by who? Us? I’ve got better things to do.”

  “See, this is exactly why what we do is so important,” Victoria said. “Because it matters what happens once, in a live courtroom, where people come together in the search for the most just outcome,” Victoria said.

  “Well, Victoria Willoughby, I would have thought we’d scared that idealism away by now.” Smith grinned at her.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” she said, offering up her glass, which he toasted.

  “Speaking of fun, I wanted to talk to you all about Kellen’s birthday,” Alistair said. “He turns eighty next month, and I’d like to surprise him with some kind of outing.”

  “Should we really be surprising an eighty-year-old?” Jaworski said. “What if we can’t resuscitate him?”

  “I’ll put the paramedics on standby,” Alistair responded, dryly. “You do know I’m a year older than he is, right?”

  Jaworski squinted at him. “You don’t look a day over seventy-eight. Anyway, Kellen’s been talking about an exhibit at the Natural History Museum on the evolution of nautical… I don’t know. On boats. He seems really excited about it. We could all go together, and then take him out to dinner.”

  “A museum? Shouldn’t we do something a little less…playing to type?” McKenzie asked.

  “I like boats. I’m in,” said Smith. “Besides, we’re boring legal scholars. Might as well embrace that our idea of a good time is a museum.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter if it’s our idea of a good time—what matters is if Kellen will be happy,” Victoria said. “If he’ll enjoy it, then I’m in. And I know a great French bistro in Georgetown that we could go to afterward. It’s small enough that we could probably buy out the few other tables and have the place to ourselves.”

  “That will make the Court police very happy,” Alistair said. “I’ll handle the museum—I happen to be friends with the executive director, and I suspect he can get us in after hours so we won’t have to fight the crowds and security will be easier. We can do a late dinner, in that case—maybe at nine. Victoria, you’ll take care of the restaurant?”

  Victoria nodded. “When are we doing this?”

  “I spoke with Kellen’s wife when I first arrived. Let’s do the day before his birthday and let her spend the actual day with him alone.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Victoria said.

  “Victoria, you’re empty, and so am I,” Smith said. “Shall we?” He indicated the bar, where a wine decanter and various liquor bottles awaited them.

  As soon as they’d refilled their glasses, Kellen hung up and called for everyone’s attention.

  “They’d like us in our seats in twenty minutes, so we should wrap up and head to our cars. I know you’ve all done this before, but it’s my duty to remind you that we do not take sides in partisan issues, and it is therefore inappropriate for us to clap or smile at policy agendas that we find to our liking.”

  “Blank face? I think I can handle that,” Jamison said, and they all laughed. Where did this sudden personality come from?

  “Thank you all for coming over this evening.” Kellen raised his glass. “To a great group of colleagues, and a great group of friends!”

  A chorus of “hear, hear” filled the room, and Victoria and Smith clinked glasses again. “Bottoms up?” He drained his scotch.

  “I don’t think I can chug wine,” Victoria said, but she took a very healthy gulp.

  Smith took her glass and put it on the bar next to his before offering her his arm. “May I escort you to your car?”

  Her chest felt warm, and her throat tingled a little from the wine. Something about sliding her arm through her colleague’s made her think of Genevieve in her house, packing. She shook her head, feeling a little hazy. “We should get a drink some time, Matthew.”

  When he smiled down at her, she was reminded that he was, hands down, the most handsome man on the bench. Tall, blond hair, blue eyes—he looked like a Disney prince at fifty. As they exited Kellen’s drinking room, they must have looked like quite a striking couple, at least in a very classical sense. If only things were that easy.

  After Smith helped her get settled into an SUV and closed the door, quiet and loneliness replaced the warm frivolity of Kellen’s drinking room. The driver turned on a playful jazz station, but the bright music hardly permeated the darkness of the black leather seats.

  To take her mind off depressing thoughts, she pulled up the number for the French bistro in Georgetown and reserved the restaurant for Kellen’s birthday gathering. The fee for reserving the entire restaurant was cheaper than she’d expected it to be. She also sent an e-mail to Pollard with the details. He’d want to prepare security measures since all nine justices would be together for the evening.

  As the cars pulled up in front of the building where the House of Representatives was hosting the president, she hit send on her e-mail to Pollard. Looking out the window, she was momentarily stunned by how much worse the weather had gotten during the drive. Driving snow was pelting the ground, and visibility was so bad she couldn’t see the building.

  After pulling on her hood and buttoning her coat, she slung her bag over her shoulder and held her breath, bracing for the sting of cold air that was about to hit her face. An officer opened the door for her, and she gasped at the piercing snow that bit her cheeks. But by the time she was fully upright, a second officer had an umbrella opened for her, and her trip to the door was mercifully brief.

  The din of the chamber replaced the whistling of the snow, and before she knew it, Matthew Smith was beside her. “That scotch made me pretty sleepy. Elbow me if I start to nod off, okay?”

  She smiled at him. “If you promise to return the favor.”

  “Deal.”

  As the justices waited outside the door, watching staffers bustle to and fro in the hallway, the president’s cabinet entered behind them. Victoria waved at the secretary of labor, who had gone to law school with her, right before the sergeant at arms announced the chief justice and associate justices of the United States Supreme Court.

  The nine of them filed into their seats in order of seniority. Wait, no. There were only eight. Victoria counted again, but Alistair was absent. Once they were standing in front of their seats and the sergeant at arms was announcing the cabinet, turning the attention of the cameras elsewhere, Victoria squeezed past her colleagues until she was next to Kellen.

  “Where’s Alistair?” she asked softly.

  He leaned close to her and whispered in her ear, “He got a call and had to go. His wife.”

  Victoria pulled away, and they shared a sorrowful look. She was pretty sure the two of them were the only justices Alistair had told.

  Kellen leaned in again. “I phoned the White House, and the chief of staff’s office has made arrangements to fill his seat. It’s all theater tonight, you know.”

  She nodded and patted his arm before returning to her seat.

  After ten minutes of schmoozing with some of the cabinet who were seated behind her, the sergeant at arms announced the president, and the entire chamber stood and applauded. She took advantage of the one moment she could show real emotion and clapped enthusiastically for the man who had nominated her to the bench.

  Chapter 20

  On the television, Dana Bash and Anderson Cooper were discussing Obama’s legacy, and making predictions about his policy agenda for the year.

  Twenty minutes later, when Bethany knocked on the door, Genevieve was in the same position, riveted by the pundits who so often infuriated her. Sometimes she found herself frustrated by the sensationalism and oversimplification of their coverage. Sometimes she just had to get on their train and enjoy the ride.

  She opened the door to find a ginormous puffy coat, layers upon layers of scarves, and bright-red mittens. From somewhere under all those layers, Bethany’s voice sang, “Let me in, will you? It’s worse than the North Pole out here!”

  Standing aside so Bethany could waddle in, Genevieve closed the door and watched as a pile of winter insulation grew and grew on Tori’s floor. “How did you even fit in your car?”

  After peeling off the last layer, Bethany stood there in a turtleneck sweater and jeans, her hands on her hips. “I’m quite petite, you know.”

  “Yes, but that coat must have feathers from two hundred geese.”

  “Well, at least it’s not fur,” Bethany huffed before walking into the living room to survey her surroundings. “So. This is where the great Victoria Willoughby hangs her hat. Neat as a pin and no personality. No surprises there.”

  “Oh, come on. She’s not that bad,” Genevieve said, plopping down on the couch.

  The look Bethany gave her could have curdled new milk. “All right, G-Spot. Let’s get clear on something: am I here to make you feel better about your choice by insulting your ex-girlfriend, or am I supposed to help you wallow in your self-pity by reminding you of everything you’re giving up?”

  “There has to be another option.”

  “We could play State of the Union drinking games!” Bethany pulled a flask out of her back pocket. “I thought the evening called for whiskey.”

  “Oh Lord. Do you carry booze with you everywhere you go?”

  “Only into the lion’s den. Ooh, is Anderson Cooper covering this?” Bethany clapped her hands and bounced on the couch cushion next to Genevieve like a little puppy.

  Torn between rolling her eyes and laughing, Genevieve asked, “When did you start having a thing for gay guys?”

  “I have a thing for hot guys. Hot, smart, silver-fox guys.”

  “So, we’re watching the preshow instead of packing?”

  Bethany put her foot in a box and moved it closer to the couch before dropping a few throw pillows into it. “Packed?”

  “Those aren’t mine.”

  “Well, they’re nice. Nicer than yours. Maybe she won’t notice?”

  “Tori, not notice something amiss in her house? God, that’s the whole reason I’m getting out of here in the first place.”

  “Fine.” She returned the pillows to the couch. “I’m good at multitasking. Shall we start upstairs?” Pointing the remote at the television, she cranked the volume until surely, the politicians in the House chamber could hear their own voices echoing back to them from Tori’s TV eight miles away. A look of supreme satisfaction on her face, Bethany grabbed two boxes and headed upstairs.

  Well, what was she expecting when she called Bethany? She grabbed the other one and followed.

  When she entered Tori’s bedroom, she ran smack into a Bethany statue in the doorway.

  “How is this anyone’s bedroom? I mean, who lives like this?” Bethany dropped the boxes but continued to gape at the formal bedroom.

  The antique bed frame matched the long, low dresser, the two lingerie stands, and a nightstand. A chair upholstered with a floral print and a round table formed a sitting area in one corner, and a dressing table and chair occupied the other.

  “Seriously, does she actually use that dressing table?”

  Placing her box on the smartly made bed, Genevieve strode to the closet to begin the unsavory task of vacating Tori’s life. “It’s actually really handy. The lighting there is good, and she’s got this nice system of organization for all her products.”

  Three suits, half a dozen blouses and dress pants, and four or five dresses. It wasn’t much to show for an eighteen-month relationship, thanks to her travel schedule and her discomfort with the idea of really moving in.

  When Genevieve emerged from the closet, hangers dangling from her hands, Bethany was sitting at the dressing table dabbing perfume on her neck.

  “Fancy lady, that Victoria.” Investigating various lipsticks, she selected one, applied it, and smacked her lips. “Well, how do I look?”

  “More understated than usual. I think you need something bolder for your coloring.”

  “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because that’s how you always see me. I could do understated.”

  “Doubt you’d want to, though.”

  Bethany turned and gasped. “Genevieve! You aren’t planning on putting your suits in a box, are you? Didn’t you bring a garment bag?”

  Genevieve shrugged. “It would have made more sense to bring empty suitcases than empty boxes, but, alas, this is what I’m stuck with.”

  “Well, lucky for you I always carry a spare garment bag. Be back in a jiffy!”

  By the time Bethany had returned, Genevieve had filled a box with products, makeup, a flat iron and hairdryer, and the various parts of her electric toothbrush. High heels and boots left very little room in a second box.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Anderson Cooper was recapping some of the highlights from Obama’s previous State of the Unions.”

  “Yeah, I heard all the way up here. He walks into the chamber in ten minutes?”

  “If the little countdown on CNN is to be believed.”

  “We can finish in here by then, and do the downstairs while we watch. And listen at a reasonable volume.”

  “I’m on the suits.”

  Genevieve returned to the closet for a stack of sweaters, which went into the final box. One final trip to the closet confirmed she had extracted all of her clothes. She spun around, taking in the sight of Tori’s suits, her dresses, her blouses and pants, organized by type and color, before running her hands down the sleeve of the velvet blazer Tori had been wearing when the Pont Saint-Bénézet bridge photo had been taken, when she’d felt carefree enough to kiss in public.

  “No time for reminiscing, darling! I don’t want to miss all the handshaking before the speech.”

  With the boxes closed, taped, and stacked by the front door, and the garment bag hanging in the front hall closet, they settled back into the living room couch. The boring coverage of who was in the room continued, and the clock by the crawler at the bottom of the screen put Obama’s entrance at four minutes.

  “So, Hot Spot, who’s next?” Bethany asked.

  “Next?”

  “Yeah, who have you got your sights set on? Who’s going to be your rebound girl? Who’s going to make you remember what it’s like to be fun?”

  “Jesus, Bethie, we’re sitting in Tori’s living room. I can’t talk about this here. It’s creepy.”

  “Well, you have to talk about it somewhere. You’ve been mopey forever. Time to buck up, buttercup. I know how you operate—there’s got to be someone who’s caught your eye already.”

  “I—well—there is kind of someone.” Just saying those words out loud felt like a betrayal, never mind that she was saying them while sitting on Tori’s couch.

  Bethany clapped Genevieve on the shoulder. “Of course there is. Who is she, what’s she like, and when do I get to meet her?”

  “Hold on, Bethie. It’s not like I’m moving in with her tomorrow.”

  “Why not—isn’t that what you lesbians do?”

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. “It’s Penelope Sweet, the new—”

  “The new executive director of NCLR, I know. Wow, Genevieve. You don’t mess around.”

  The irony of that statement was almost too much, and Genevieve laughed. “I like her… She’s got fire. She’s—”