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  “Oh, Beebs,” Liz said over the phone. “I wish things could be different. I wish you could be here.”

  “Me too, kiddo.” It had, however, long since been decided that their politics would not be a showcase for the family’s black sheep. “How are the kids?” BeBe asked brightly.

  “Bearing up well. Danny’s a little tired. But I guess that’s to be expected.”

  “And Michael? Is he going to be nominated?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And he’ll be running against Josh.” She waited one, two, three seconds for Liz to comment.

  “Congratulations,” Liz said. “I see you’re keeping up with the news.”

  Leaning back in her chair, BeBe put her feet up on her desk. She looked down at her legs, which had never been as long as her sister’s, and at the pale skin that, despite living year-round in Florida, no longer tanned as it had on the Vineyard, but more often burned and made her sprout adolescent freckles that matched her orange hair. “Well,” she said slowly, “it will be an interesting election.”

  Liz hesitated then said, “Yes. Well. That’s one way of putting it.”

  BeBe’s heart ached just a little. “Keep your chin up, kiddo, and everything will work out. It always has. It always does.” She did not add, “But not always the way we want.”

  “I love you, big sister,” Liz replied.

  Bantam Books by Jean Stone

  BIRTHDAY GIRLS

  PLACES BY THE SEA

  TIDES OF THE HEART

  SINS OF INNOCENCE

  FIRST LOVES

  IVY SECRETS

  THE SUMMER HOUSE

  A Bantam Book / April 2000

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Jean Stone.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78520-6

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  To the Omniglow Creative Services Team for moments of brilliance and Friday bake-offs, for Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and impossible deadlines (and for turning down the radio).

  Also to Arie, who has shown me the world … and to Jim—a very special part of it.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I - Year 2000 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part II - 1972 Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part III - Year 2000 Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  1965

  “Daniel is going to be president of the United States of America,” BeBe said, skipping down the path toward their special cove, pulling the elastics from her carrot-colored pigtails. She scooped her hair into a French twist the way Father said made her look like a tart, whatever that meant.

  It was not the first time that Lizzie had seen her sister do something against Father’s wishes. It was, however, the first time she’d heard that Daniel was going to be president. She scooted quickly along the path on this bright, sunny morning and tried to catch up.

  “How can Daniel be president?” Lizzie asked. “He’s only sixteen.” She was only nine herself (well, almost nine), but she knew enough to know that Daniel was too young, that he did not even come close to being the kind of old man it took to be president of the United States, an old man like John Fitzgerald Kennedy or Lyndon B. Johnson.

  Slowing down to walk, BeBe replied, “I didn’t mean today, silly.”

  Lizzie felt the tug in her belly that she always felt whenever BeBe or Roger or even Daniel himself called her silly or childish or anything that reminded her that she was the baby of the family, that she was the kid.

  She pulled at a cattail, one of the tall, fuzzy-tipped weeds that rimmed Martha’s Vineyard. This was the island where summers happened in big, gray-shingled houses, away from the city-street brownstones of Boston. It did not matter how elegant the Boston brownstones were, or how many generations of their family had endured the city summers: once the Steamship Authority had made the island comfortably accessible, the Adams family was ensconced there from June until Labor Day.

  Lizzie ran the soft brush of the cattail along her August-freckled cheek. “Will Daniel be president after he graduates from West Point?” Congressman Carter and his gossipy granddaughter with the buck teeth had come for dinner last night. He had announced that in honor of Mother’s clam chowder—“the best on the Vineyard”—he was going to see to it that Daniel received a commission to the military academy at West Point. Lizzie wasn’t sure what that meant either, but Father had smiled and ladled more chowder into the congressman’s bowl.

  “He won’t be president until long after West Point,” BeBe replied now. “But I heard Father say that in the meantime, he’d make sure the congressman was reelected.”

  Lizzie did not know how Will Adams could “make sure” that anyone was elected to anything. Everyone knew that voting was up to the people, and you could vote for whomever you wanted. Besides, Father was a lawyer, not a politician.

  She tossed down the cattail, wishing she was older, like BeBe, smarter, like BeBe, and, like BeBe, had bumps on the front of her jersey.

  “There’s the president now,” BeBe exclaimed as they reached the end of the path where it opened up to the cove. The silver-dollar-like inlet sneaked in from Vineyard Sound onto land that still belonged to the Indians but that the Adams kids treated as their own. It was their secret place, where they splashed in and out of the water and had picnics along the scrub oak and tall-pine-treed fringes, away from the watchful eyes of fathers and mothers and adults of any kind.

  In the middle of the water sat the old, green wooden rowboat. In it was President Daniel himself, along with Roger, the second-born brother, and a couple of fishing poles that dangled over the sides.

  “Hey, Mr. President,” BeBe shouted, waving her arms. “Any room in your boat?”

  Daniel waved back and smiled his big, white-toothed smile that looked even whiter against his summer-dark tan. To Lizzie there was no boy alive more handsome.

  “When I am president I shall make you both princesses,” he exclaimed, clasping his hand to his chest, then pointing at Lizzie. “Especially you, Lizzie-girl.” She giggled and shook sand from her pink and white rubber thongs. She knew there were no princesses i
n the United States of America, but here in their special cove, anything was possible.

  Daniel picked up the oars. “Come on, brother Roger, let’s save our two princess sisters from the enemies of the kingdom.”

  As he rowed the boat toward them, Lizzie squinted her eyes against the shafts of light that shot from the sun, sliced through the trees, and created a halo around Daniel’s whole body. She leaned into her sister. “Do you really think he’ll be president, Beebs?”

  BeBe studied their brother a moment. She patted her French twist and nodded. “There’s no doubt about it, Lizzie. It’s exactly what our Lord-and-Father wants.”

  Lizzie knew that BeBe did not mean the “Lord” as in God, as in Heaven, but their father, Will Adams, who always got what he wanted. Always. Every time. No matter what.

  Despite the warmth of the sun in the late morning air, Lizzie shivered a little but did not know why.

  Part I

  Year 2000

  Chapter 1

  It had taken twenty-four years to get to New Jersey, twenty-eight if you started counting from when Daniel was killed. Which would only have been right, for that was when it had all begun … all of the planning and scheming and orchestrating that had landed Liz Adams-Barton here today, standing at a podium, acknowledging enthusiastic applause.

  “Thank you,” she said into the microphone at the Sheraton or Hyatt or Marriott, wherever she was. It was not her job to remember. Logistics was what her brother Roger was for: Liz merely had to show up and give a short, impassioned speech that would deliver the votes to her husband. Her husband, Michael Barton, who—not Daniel—was running for president of the United States.

  This afternoon, her passion had been directed toward the Northeast Coalition for Handicapped Americans. For an hour now in the red-white-and-blue-decorated banquet room, the audience of eight hundred had been enrapt by her words and now cheered enthusiastically from their wheelchairs and walkers and crutches. They seemed especially delighted that Liz had brought Danny along, Danny, her twenty-two-year-old son—one of them—who sat next to the podium in his own chair with wheels. She glanced down at him. He responded with a hearty wink.

  Liz smiled back at the crowd. They were not exactly exploiting Danny. He wanted to be there to help put his father—and all of them—into the White House and into the history books.

  All of them included Liz and Michael and the three children: seventeen-year-old Greg, the politician-in-waiting; twenty-year-old Margaret—Mags—the spirited free-thinker; and of course Danny.

  All of them also included Will Adams, Liz’s father, who stood on the other side of the podium. At seventy-eight, he was nodding at the crowd, his faded blue eyes twinkling, the tired lines at the corners of his pale mouth turned up with the pride of accomplishment and the anticipation of a journey nearly won. He was entitled to be proud. Through every stage of the planning and the scheming and the orchestrating, Will Adams had propelled them here to New Jersey where the party’s convention would convene tomorrow, where Michael Barton was expected to win the nomination for the highest office in the land.

  And where Liz would take her own final lap toward becoming the nation’s next First Lady.

  The applause continued; the smile muscles ached in Liz’s cheeks. She reached down and took Danny’s hand. As she gently squeezed his strong fingers, she wondered what her brother Daniel would have had to say if he only could have seen them now.

  “You were brilliant, Mom,” Danny said as Liz slid into the backseat of the handicapped-equipped van next to her son. Further back was Clay, Danny’s ever-present don’t-worry-be-happy Jamaican nurse; up front were Keith and Joe, the Secret Service bodyguards assigned to Liz and Danny, their faithful companions, like it or not.

  Liz sighed. “I wasn’t brilliant,” she said to her son, “but thanks for the kudos.” During one of Michael’s three terms as governor of Massachusetts, she had learned that politics was more about presence than it was about perfection. She pushed a shock of highlighted-blond hair from her forehead. In spite of the fact that the media proclaimed her “stunningly youthful,” right now, Liz felt every day, month, and year of her forty-four years, presence or not. It had been a long campaign, and the real pressure wouldn’t begin until the convention opened tomorrow.

  “You’re much better at this than you think,” Danny continued. “You’d be perfectly capable of running for president yourself, you know.”

  She laughed. “And do what? Run against your father?” She did not mention that she could never run, not because the country wasn’t “ready” for a female president, but because she had not been groomed to be anything but the physical, emotional, and spiritual support—the wife—of Michael Barton. He was the man with the schooling, the experience, and the backing of her father and his essential connections. Surprisingly, Will Adams had not foreseen that a female president would be possible, not in his lifetime or in Liz’s either. It had been one of his few mistakes.

  “Besides,” she added, “why would anyone want to be president? With all those speeches and the long hours and lousy pay? And the way they scrutinize your personal life!” She let out a strained laugh and Danny joined in. Neither of them had the strength to rehash last winter’s “scrutiny,” an absurd tabloid scandal that had suggested Michael was gay because there was no evidence that he had ever had an affair or even considered it. The journalistic sensation had finally died down, deemed “unfounded” by the mainstream media and “simply stupid” by Roger, Liz’s brother and Michael’s campaign manager.

  And Roger might have been the one to know. He had “come out” to the family two years ago when Michael was still governor and had asked Roger to be his presidential campaign manager. Roger had said he didn’t want anything to hurt Michael’s chances at the White House. His wife—who claimed she’d “suspected all along”—agreed to stand by Roger for the sake of the election.

  And so, Roger’s secret was harbored within the walls of the Adams/Barton family, where it was protected, and where it belonged. Their royal blue Yankee blood may have been curdling inside, but, by God, the world would not know it.

  When the tabloid story on Michael broke, Will Adams himself went forth with a press release blasting the media for using the gay issue as the “last frontier” to discredit a candidate. The accusation was untrue, but even if it wasn’t, he said, the issue of sexual preference should not be fodder for the media. His announcement was powerful, but still, the family had held their breaths for Roger’s sake. And for all their sakes, because heaven only knew what the media might dream up next.

  Thankfully, the attack had been dropped. Liz suspected untraceable money had changed hands or that Father had called in favors, but, as usual, she had not asked.

  She shook her head now and patted Danny’s arm. “How about you, honey? How are you feeling?” As with her father, the stress was beginning to become apparent on her son.

  He ran his hand over what would have been thick, dark hair if he had not had it shaved to a trendy quarter inch. Liz liked the look. It enhanced her son’s great bone structure and gorgeous brown eyes. “I’ll be glad when we get to the hotel,” he said. “I need a nap.”

  “Me, too.” Liz gazed out the window at the Atlantic City boardwalk, at the beaches that crawled past in summer-heat slowness. For a moment, she envied the carefree, sun-hat-clad, ice-chest-toting people who strolled toward the gray sand. She wondered how many of them worried about elections or secrets or handicapped sons. “I wish your grandfather had come back with us. He looked as if he should rest, too.” She had tried to talk Will out of going across town to meet Michael at a union rally, then from there to the convention center to schmooze for last-minute delegate votes. Not surprisingly, she had failed.

  “Gramps loves the action, Mom. Hey—this is his dream, isn’t it?”

  Her smile was wry. “Sort of,” she said. She had been careful not to emphasize to her kids that this had been Will’s dream for Daniel, not for Liz, or rather,
not for Liz and her husband. She’d been careful not to canonize Daniel, because he had been human, despite what Will Adams had thought, or still thought to this day. Besides, Liz had not wanted to give Danny anything unrealistic to have to live up to as Daniel’s namesake. She had named her firstborn after the brother she had adored—long before anyone could have predicted the devastating football injury that had given her son a burden more powerful than living up to the legacy of someone’s name. Even though that someone had been Daniel.

  She looked at her son, who was gazing out his window. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she asked.

  “It’s a little late for that, Mom. And no, I’m not always ‘okay’ with this. I’m not okay about a lot of things. But I’ll survive.”

  Liz folded her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes, hating her own helplessness. She could not change what had happened, no one could. All she could do was give speeches on the topics of the day, smile and pretend to stay upbeat no matter how she really felt.

  It was Danny’s turn to pat Liz on the arm. “Sorry, Mom. Guess I’m really ragged out.”

  She rested her hand on top of his. His fingers were sturdy and masculine, callused by pull-ups and dips on the parallel bars in a daily upper-body strength regimen guided by Clay. She remembered that she must be grateful that Danny was only paralyzed from the waist down, that though his spinal cord injury had been precariously close, it had not been higher up on his vertebrae where more devastating, total-body damage could have been done. Still, when she looked at her so-handsome son, when she thought of his future or listened to his words that so often balanced on the rim of depression, gratitude was not always what she felt.

  The van came to a stop. “All ashore that’s going ashore,” Keith called to the backseat.

  Liz peeked out the window. They were not at the hotel, but at some kind of medical center. “We’re supposed to be at the hotel.” She couldn’t help the whine in her voice.