“Well, regardless of her knowledge, or lack thereof, she certainly knows how to inspire confidence.” Genevieve was about to ask him whether he was really on board with the weekly meetings Penelope had proposed when the woman in question entered the patio.

  Her yoga pants and tank top contrasted sharply with the sleek suit she’d worn for the press conference. Her locks were pulled into a ponytail, and her tasteful gold jewelry from the press conference had been removed. Her sneakers reminded Genevieve that it had been way too long since she’d gone for a run. Or done anything physical outside of Tori’s bed.

  Penelope’s thousand-watt smile lit up the patio, and as she sat down, she gestured to her clothes. “I hope you don’t mind—I’m going to yoga when we’re done.”

  “Not at all,” Jamie said, although from the tone of his voice, Genevieve sensed that he, too, felt keenly aware of his lack of a sustained exercise regime.

  The waitress dropped by, and Jamie ordered a stout without looking at the menu. Penelope, likewise, left the menus where they were. “Front Porch,” she said.

  Unsure whether to feel scooped or an instant connection, Genevieve shrugged and said, “The same.”

  Penelope grinned at her and bumped Genevieve’s knee with hers.

  “Okay, so let’s just cut to the chase,” Jamie said, leaning forward. “You’re a bizarre choice for them, and they’re a bizarre choice for you. Why are you doing this?”

  Penelope took his tactless question in stride. Her eyes seemed open and warm as she looked back and forth between them, and Genevieve was reminded again that diplomatic skills were really undervalued in this country.

  “I admit I was also surprised when the board first contacted me. It wasn’t a secret in DC that I was ready to move on from my position in France and interested in domestic US politics. Certainly, I wasn’t doing a lot of cutting-edge work on human rights as the US ambassador to France, and I missed being in the trenches.”

  Her voice was warm, like a summer afternoon, and Genevieve thought that she’d never tire of hearing it. Penelope spoke with her hands and conveyed an enticing combination of passion and intelligence.

  “There’s a lot at stake here, you know. The US likes to think it’s a leader for foreign—especially developing—countries to follow. We believe so firmly in our own exceptionalism. But when radical fringe groups from the US target countries like Uganda to advance an agenda that includes capital punishment for gays, well, it’s time we focus on fixing our own problems and stop telling other countries what to do.”

  Jamie studied her as their drinks were deposited in front of them. “That was quite the soliloquy.”

  She laughed, making Genevieve wonder if the good-natured thing was a well-practiced act or actually sincere. “Well, just because I’ve been interviewed over a dozen times and rehearsed my answers, it doesn’t make them any less true,” she said.

  He wiped away the froth mustache from his first big drink of stout. “Okay, let’s say your motives are pure. What are your priorities?”

  The Front Porch was delicious and went down easy, and Genevieve leaned back to watch the tennis match, content to observe and gather information for the time being.

  “Trans rights, particularly with respect to health care. And workplace rights for LGBTQ Americans.”

  Jamie nodded his approval. “Do you think we’ll have more success if we advance a state-by-state strategy or if we try for federal protections on these fronts?”

  Penelope gazed at him for a long moment before answering, and he squirmed a bit in his chair. “Jamie, I’m not here to dictate strategy,” she said. “I’m here to work with you. It’s quite possible that the most effective plan for us would be a two-pronged strategy in which one or more of our organizations works state-by-state and the others pursue something federal. I came here to get to know you both better and to brainstorm together about what’s next for all of us.”

  Jamie seemed mollified—a little cowed, even.

  For the first time since she had sat down, Penelope turned to Genevieve, who was surprised to feel completely at home under her open scrutiny. One thing was for sure, she was a hell of a lot less abrasive than Nic Ford.

  “And I’m not here to grill you,” Genevieve said softly. They shared a small smile, and Genevieve hoped Jamie didn’t feel she was picking sides.

  They shared details of some of the cases their organizations were working on, and when Penelope checked the time on her cell phone, Genevieve looked down at her watch, surprised to find an hour had passed.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to run if I want to make that yoga class.” Penelope stood up, all legs and glamour, even in workout clothes, and Genevieve didn’t want her to go.

  Possibly not the best reaction to a colleague’s departure, she mused.

  “Penelope, it’s been a pleasure.” Jamie stood up. “I guess we’ll see you at noon on Friday. HRC can host our meeting next week.”

  “Sounds great.” She shook Jamie’s hand, then dropped cash on the table to cover her drink.

  “I look forward to working with you, Penelope,” Genevieve said, extending her hand.

  “Likewise, Genevieve,” she said. They shook hands warmly before she turned to leave.

  You’ve got a girlfriend, Genevieve reminded herself. Don’t watch her walk away.

  Well, she wasn’t perfect. But that view certainly was. Damn, this could get dangerous.

  Embarrassed, she turned her attention to Jamie, but he was oblivious to Genevieve’s wandering eyes. He drank the last of his beer thoughtfully for a while.

  Truth be told, she needed a minute alone with her thoughts as well. Penelope was certainly going to shake things up. For one thing, she’d be a dynamite fundraiser. Hell, if she asked, Genevieve probably would have shelled over money herself. It wasn’t just her stunning good looks; she simply made you feel like your opinion mattered enough to make a difference. There was something magnetic about her energy, like she was inexorably pulling you closer to her.

  “I think it’s good,” Jamie said at last. “She’s a good choice, and I’m glad we’re all going to be working together.”

  Genevieve didn’t bother telling him that NCLR didn’t really need his approval for their choice of a new leader.

  “I am too.” She finished her Front Porch and wondered if Penelope often did yoga after a drink. “So I guess I’ll see you next time?”

  “Guess so,” he said. He still seemed a bit uncertain about this new dynamic.

  “Well, I’m heading out,” she said after he had said nothing for several seconds. “Maybe I’ll go for a run.”

  He gave her a wry look. “Uh-huh. I was thinking the same thing.” He paused. “I can’t remember the last time I exercised.”

  “Maybe she’ll be good for us in more ways than one.”

  They paid their bill and left. An hour later, Genevieve gasped for breath, bent over holding her sides. Running after bourbon—definitely a bad idea.

  Chapter 5

  On Thursday night, Victoria picked up Genevieve at six thirty, even though her girlfriend’s townhouse was twenty minutes in the opposite direction from Alistair’s place in Maryland. Genevieve was sticking to her decision that Victoria’s penance for not having consulted her about plans was being the designated driver. She hoped it didn’t mean Genevieve planned to get smashed.

  Absolutely zero parking spaces were available anywhere near Genevieve’s front door, so she double parked, clicked on her hazards, and texted, I’m outside.

  Three minutes later, Genevieve emerged, locked her front door, and bounded down the steps. Casually elegant, she wore slim-fit jeans, boat shoes, and a blousy blue and white sweater. She might as well have been headed to the Hamptons, and Victoria had an image of the two of them walking down the beach together, the salty ocean air on their cheeks. It made her smile. Maybe someday.

  Genevieve got in, dropped a kiss on her cheek, and pulled the door shut. “Hi, honey. How was your day?” She laughed lightly, and the tension in Victoria’s shoulders released. Good—Genevieve wasn’t going to be passive-aggressively peeved at her all night.

  Victoria entered Alistair’s address on her navigation system, and they were off. “Today was my last day of freedom. Tomorrow is our first conference, and then it all begins in earnest.”

  “Ugh. Do you feel the way I always felt on the last day of summer break, before school began?”

  “I don’t know—how did you feel then?”

  “Like my life was ending and everything was terrible.”

  Victoria offered her hand and Genevieve took it. Their fingers wove together comfortably and the contact sent a wave of warmth up her arm and into her heart. “It’s good to know your flair for the dramatic started so young.”

  “Oh, of course. And by the end of the first week of school, I was so over summer and already crushing on someone new.”

  “Dear Lord, how did your parents manage you?” Victoria asked.

  “Just fine, thank you very much. And since you asked, my crush in fifth grade was Jordan Reilly—boy-Jordan. In sixth grade, it was Jose Martinez. God, he was so cute. And in seventh grade it was girl-Jordan. Eighth grade was Ms. Crawford. She was absolutely dreamy. English teacher, of course.”

  Only Genevieve Fornier would mark the passage of time with crushes. “Why ‘of course?’” Victoria asked.

  “Because it’s always the English teacher. There’s something so romantic about analyzing literature. Probably because so many of the texts are romantic. Who should Hester Prynne choose—Chillingworth or Dimmesdale? And everything about Gatsby is romantic, from the alcohol and dancing and aesthetics of the twenties to Gatsby’s love for Daisy. Come on, you didn’t have a crush on an English teacher at some point?”

  Victoria drummed her thumb on the steering wheel, but no one came to mind. “I don’t think so. I wasn’t someone who had a lot of crushes.”

  “Right, what was I thinking? You were one of those people who thought school was for learning.” Genevieve kissed the back of her hand.

  “You must have thought so too—you did end up collecting some prestigious degrees, if I recall.”

  “School is for many things. Case in point: law school. I got a job out of it and some education and some fun times with this girl I really liked.”

  Victoria laughed, as images of walking across the Harvard Law School campus twenty years ago with Genevieve flashed across her memory. “Sounds like there’s a story there,” she teased. “Tell me about her.”

  “Oh, you know, she was pretty ordinary. Boring, really. Honestly, I don’t even remember her.”

  One finger at a time, Victoria extracted her hand from Genevieve’s grasp and then hit her on the shoulder. “Here I thought you spent twenty years hung up on her.”

  “Yeah, well, everyone remembers history differently.”

  Victoria cleared her throat. “Listen, Genevieve, I’m really glad you’re coming with me tonight.”

  “Me too. Alistair seems like a good guy. And he’s important to you, so he’s important to me.”

  “That means a lot. Thanks.”

  Victoria was almost sorry when they pulled into his driveway. Time alone with Genevieve was so precious to her, and it was rare that one or both of them wasn’t interrupted by something work related.

  Genevieve grabbed the pot of jambalaya from the backseat and carried it to the front door. Victoria followed with the salad, and after she joined Genevieve on the front stoop, she knocked lightly on the door. While they waited, she glanced over at Genevieve and nodded at the pot. “Trying to take credit for my work?”

  Genevieve shrugged. “Just because I’m carrying it, doesn’t mean—”

  The door opened, and Alistair’s booming voice greeted them. “Victoria! Genevieve! Ooh, Genevieve, did you cook that? It smells delicious!”

  “Anything for a friend of Tori’s.”

  Genevieve stepped over the threshold into the house and turned back, as Alistair pulled Victoria into a hug. Victoria glared at her girlfriend over his shoulder.

  He led them into the house, calling backward as he walked to the dining room, “What kind of hot sauce did you use? I’ve found with jambalaya, it all comes down to the hot sauce.”

  Victoria laughed at the look of panic on Genevieve’s face, and Alistair turned around and winked. “It’s okay, Genevieve,” he said. “I can’t cook either.”

  They walked through the living room and into the open kitchen and dining room. “Does that need to be warmed up?” he asked, pointing to the pot in Genevieve’s hands.

  “It does. Can I use your stove?” Victoria asked.

  He nodded and moved aside for her. “Genevieve, what can I get you to drink? I was thinking margaritas.”

  “Sounds perfect,” she said. “Can I help?”

  “No need. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Victoria fussed with the stove and poked around some drawers, looking for something to stir with, while Genevieve sat on a stool at the island, and Alistair worked on their drinks.

  “Where’s Marcia?” Victoria asked as she tossed the salad.

  “The screened-in porch. She’s out there all the time now. I think the birds calm her. She had cytoreductive surgery earlier in the summer, and she just completed her first three-week round of chemo. She’s very weak and always tired. But she’ll be happy for company.”

  In addition to the margaritas, Alistair made a cup of tea, and Victoria tried to brace herself for seeing a very different version of Marcia than the one she’d gotten to know over the past couple of years. Alistair patted her on the back, and they carried everything out to the porch.

  Marcia Douglas was sitting on a little love seat, her feet propped up on an ottoman, a blanket draped over her legs. Her transformation was startling. Her cheeks were sunken, her skin looked like paper, and she was so much smaller than Victoria remembered. But her headscarf brought out the bright blue of her eyes, which were sharp and, when they fell on Victoria, glowed with happiness.

  “Victoria, darling, come see me.” She held out her hands, and Victoria took them both in her own. Squeezing them gently, Victoria pushed down her pity for Marcia and Alistair, and gave her a bright smile.

  “It’s so sweet of you to visit.”

  Victoria kissed her cheek softly and stood back. “Marcia, this is Genevieve.”

  “My, my, you’re a lovely thing,” Marcia said, and Genevieve shook hands with her. “Tall too.” She craned her neck. “Sit down so I can really see you.”

  Alistair pulled over some chairs, Victoria made plates for everyone, and they settled in to eat.

  “Marcia,” Genevieve leaned close to her and said lowly, “let’s compare notes about what it’s like to be in a relationship with a Supreme Court justice.”

  Oh Lord, what was Genevieve doing? Victoria glanced at Alistair, and he grinned and shrugged. “I suppose we should have expected that they’d gang up on us,” he told her.

  “When she’s writing an opinion, does Victoria sometimes walk around the house with a pen in her mouth, talking to herself?” Marcia asked.

  “No,” Genevieve replied, “but sometimes, over dinner, she says she has a question about one of her cases, and it will just take a second to explain. And then, forty-five minutes later, all she’s said are sentences, and I’m still waiting to hear a question.”

  Marcia patted Genevieve’s knee. “Well, at least she talks to you about her cases. He thinks I’m not smart enough to discuss them!”

  “Marcia!” Alistair coughed. “That’s not true at all! I just don’t want to bore you.”

  “You know, Alistair.” Victoria set down her empty margarita glass. “I don’t think we need to be here for this conversation.”

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Marcia said. “This will be so much more fun with you two here.”

  The look Genevieve gave Victoria left little room for negotiation. “More jambalaya, anyone?” seemed the best response.

  Marcia and Genevieve ignored her.

  “How ridiculous is it when they get picked up in those huge SUVs for the State of the Union?” Marcia asked. Despite her physical alterations, Marcia very much seemed like her usual self.

  “Oh, I didn’t even know about that! I was out of town last year.”

  “Honey, you’re in for a treat. They get these Secret Service escorts, and they go off to drink with the other justices beforehand in Kellen’s basement like some secret society from The Da Vinci Code or something. And then, poof! Suddenly they’re on your TV screen.”

  Genevieve laughed. “I keep reading all of these articles saying they should start having cameras in the Court, and I’m so glad they don’t. I hope they never do. I’d hate to see Tori’s face on CNN all the time.”

  “Well, gee, tell me what you really think of my face,” Victoria said.

  “Oh, please,” Genevieve said, “I don’t need asinine pundits finding the worst possible screenshot of you and then debating how your hair looked in the courtroom that day. Do you?”

  “I agree, Genevieve. If there were cameras, suddenly Alistair and I wouldn’t be able to go out to dinner with any kind of anonymity or privacy.”

  “That’s what I keep telling Victoria!” Genevieve said.

  “And does she agree?” Marcia asked.

  “I think she’s conflicted. She sees value in the transparency that cameras would bring—she says they add a layer of democracy.”

  “You know,” Victoria crossed her arms, “she’s actually sitting right here. You could ask her.”

  Alistair shook his head. “The sooner you embrace your role as a prop in this conversation, the better.”

  Victoria followed Alistair’s cue and leaned back to listen, as Marcia and Genevieve continued to bond over their roles as partners of justices. Alistair offered to refresh their drinks, and Genevieve paused long enough to nod during one of her tirades about how expensive dry cleaning bills were for justices’ robes.

  By the time they finished eating, the sun was setting and the temperature dropping. Marcia shivered a little, and Alistair went into protective-husband mode.