They were walking slowly now, back the way they’d come, no longer pretending to be Leroy and Joanna. No longer laughing. No longer touching.

After a while Phoenix said softly, “What do you miss, Doc? About your old life-before you-”

“Became First Son?” He raked a hand through his hair-a gesture that seemed to embarrass him, because he then jammed both hands between his arms and sides and drew a sharp breath. “Oh, man. So many things. Little things. Everyday things. You know?”

But she shook her head; she couldn’t remember anything different.

It was a while before he spoke again, and then it was in the same slow, self-deprecating way he’d told her about braiding the horse’s mane. “My first year at UCLA, I was pretty lost. Living in the dorm, homesick like you wouldn’t believe. I used to tool around campus on my bicycle, go down to Westwood, walk around the Village and mingle with the tourists. Second year was better. I had friends, I was learning my way around L.A. Even got brave enough to drive the freeways, which opened up all kinds of possibilities. On breaks we used to drive up to the mountains to go skiing, or we’d go to the beach, or maybe the desert. Third year was even better. We’d go to these little hole-in-the-wall clubs to listen to bands nobody’d ever heard of, or for the heck of it, maybe drive down to Venice Beach and wander among the weirdos. Los Angeles was like this great zoo of humanity, and it was all mine, to study or just…enjoy. And then…”

“Then,” Phoenix said with a little ripple of sympathetic laughter, “Papa Brown went to the White House.” But what she could see of his answering smile had no amusement in it.

“It started that summer, actually, right before the national convention. Before I even knew what was happening, these large, totally humorless men had taken charge of my life. I was taken to Dallas, where the convention was being held, to be with my dad and Dixie-I wasn’t asked, you understand, just more or less collected, like a stray piece of luggage. Later I found out it was because my sister, Lauren, had been kidnapped by some sort of militia organization trying to blackmail my dad into pulling out of the race, but at the time I was resentful as hell.”

“I can understand that,” Phoenix murmured.

He glanced at her as if he doubted it. “Anyway, the next couple of years were pretty grim. There’d been a lot of threats-I guess there always are, but it was worse because of Dad’s stand on gun control. So the Service was very tense. There was no more mingling with crowds, no more foolish excursions into dangerous but fascinating parts of the city-which I’m sure made my parents much happier. The bike went to some kids’ charity. Since then-for the last seven years-if I want to go anywhere, I’m driven there in a car with tinted windows. My roommates are Secret Service agents-great people, and I do trust them with my life, but-for some reason they are physically incapable of smiling.”

The last was delivered with a smile of his own-wry, but real. He’d seemed determined to lighten his mood and tone with that cataloging of his grievances, Phoenix noticed, as if he felt ashamed for complaining. Something stirred within her, a strange unrest she did not, for a moment, recognize as anger because it was on someone else’s behalf rather than her own. What was this? Empathy? Highly unlikely; Phoenix had not gotten where she was by getting bogged down in other people’s troubles.

She was silent, distracted, her mind awhirl as she waited for Ethan to open the restaurant’s gaudy red-and-gold door for her. It didn’t occur to her then that perhaps the unfamiliar feelings of empathy were Joanna’s.

Later, back in the brown SUV, steeped in the warm peanuty smells wafting from the two large bags packed full of white cardboard cartons tucked in around her feet, the confused, disoriented feeling persisted. Like getting off of a merry-go-round and finding yourself on the opposite side from where you got on. Suddenly the world seemed different.

“Tell me something,” she said, when Ethan had the car started and everything seemed to be buckled in, lighted up and ready to go. “What did you want…before all this happened, before you got famous? What kind of life did you see yourself having?” The words felt scratchy and unfamiliar in her throat; it wasn’t the kind of question Phoenix would normally think to ask of anyone.

“What kind of life did I see myself having?” He repeated it with a surprised chuckle. Then he took his time answering, and when he did speak, there were no traces of the laughter. “I saw myself opening up my medical practice in a little town straight out of Norman Rockwell, some little town that really needed a doctor, most likely somewhere in Iowa. I’d have a wife and some kids and a modest house, and I’d spend my life helping people feel better.”

“And now?” And why was there an ache in her throat, and a lump the size of Kansas? She looked over at him and saw him shrug as he put the car in gear.

“That hasn’t changed.” He glanced at her, his eyes quiet and dark. Shaman’s eyes. “A wife and kids…helping people. What else is there?”

What else is there? The question screamed like a Klaxon in her mind, trying desperately to drown the timid little voice she didn’t want to hear. The voice she hated, never ever wanted to acknowledge. The voice that could not possibly exist inside her. Not Phoenix.

But it did exist, and she heard it anyway-the voice of the little girl no one thought to invite to the party. What about me? What about me?

Fear-and hatred-of her own vulnerability made her cruel. Where do you fit in his sweet little scenario? she mocked herself? The answer is, stupid-you don’t. No part for you in that play, no way José. A wife? Kiddies? Phoenix? Who are you kidding?

She was astonished when the voice argued, with surprising tenacity for one so timid: Why not? Others have done it-Cher, Madonna, Streisand-why not Phoenix?

The brown sport-utility vehicle rolled through quiet streets lined with old trees and old row houses made of brick and trimmed with curlicues of wrought iron. Behind iron window guards, yellow light cast welcoming beacons in the darkness. People sat on cement steps, talking or making out in the warm, humid night. Somewhere a dog barked…then another. A moment later she heard it, too-the distant wail of a siren. And in spite of the heat, she shivered.

Why not Phoenix? The answer came as it always did, in the faintest of whispers. She shrank back against the seat and tried to block it out, but of course she could hear it anyway-the uncompromising judgment, merciless…final: unworthy. Unworthy.

Ethan noticed Phoenix becoming more and more withdrawn as they drove through the quiet streets, coming closer and closer to his place, and he thought again of sea anemones. It crossed his mind that perhaps she suspected he was taking her somewhere else, some place she didn’t want to go, and that she was preparing herself, armoring herself against an anticipated assault on her emotions. But only briefly. He was too busy shoring up his own defenses in readiness for the reckoning that surely lay ahead of him.

The necessity for doing such a thing made him resentful; knowing he was completely in the wrong made him self-righteous. Full awareness of all that, understanding the workings of his own psyche, made him tense and cross. He argued with himself. True, he was a grown man, he had no business being so inconsiderate and selfish. But-he was a grown man, and if he wanted to spend an evening in pleasant intimacy with a beautiful woman in the privacy of his own home, he had a right to do so, didn’t he? Of course he did. But…

Street parking was hard to come by in Ethan’s neighborhood, since most of the row houses lacked either garages or driveways. For security purposes, however, the Service had designated and the city had so marked the area in front of Ethan’s building as a strictly enforced tow-away No Parking zone. He pulled the SUV into the empty space, stopped and turned off the motor.

“This is it,” he said. “I live on the second floor. Tom and Carl occupy the first. Third floor’s empty.”

He got out of the car and went around to help Phoenix with the food. He had the door open and was leaning over to reach for a bag when a big brown hand closed on the window frame. A deep voice snapped in a quiet Southern accent, “Watch your head.”

Phoenix’s eyes met Ethan’s, then slid past him and upward. “Aye aye, sir,” she murmured cheekily, husky with laughter.

As Ethan moved back to make room for her to get out of the car, he glanced at the Secret Service agent. He wasn’t expecting to see amusement in Tom Applegate’s impassive face, and he wasn’t disappointed. “Ah…about the car-” he began.

“Carl called.” Casting a quick look in all directions, the agent slammed the SUV’s door, then, without actually touching them, managed to herd both Ethan and Phoenix across the sidewalk and up the steps. “He’s out looking for you now.”

“Ah. Look, I’m sorry,” Ethan said, and meant it even though his voice probably didn’t sound like it. Once everyone was safe inside the vestibule, he turned to the agent and added in an undertone, “Please tell me you didn’t call my dad.”

Dead serious, Applegate replied, “No, sir, not yet. I was gonna give you another fifteen minutes.” Behind him, Phoenix smothered laughter with her hand.

“The car belongs to her sound man,” Ethan said. “Somebody’ll have to see it gets back to him. And uh…she’ll be needing a ride home…eventually.” He coughed, annoyed with himself for the twinges of embarrassment. “She, uh…doesn’t drive.”

“Sir, let us worry about the logistics.” Applegate was securing the front door.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.” Gathering up the shreds of his pride, Ethan touched Phoenix’s elbow and they started up the stairs. After a few steps, he paused and looked back at the Secret Service agent, who was now muttering to his wrist. “Listen, shall I-”

“Just knock on my door when you’re ready.”

“Uh-huh. Well…hey, listen, would you care for some Chinese? We’ve got plenty.”

“No thank you, I’ve already eaten. You have a good evening, sir.”

Good evening? As they continued on up the stairs, Phoenix looked over at him and mouthed the word. Her eyes were shimmering with laughter…and maybe something else.

“I believe he thinks we’re settling in for the night,” Ethan said dryly. He was beyond being humiliated by this sort of thing.

“Hmm,” she murmured, “I can see why this would drive you crazy.”

“Well, I look at it this way-it’s only for another year and a half.”

“A year and a half? What happens then?”

They’d reached the second-floor landing. Ethan shifted the sack he was carrying and paused with his hand on his apartment doorknob. “My father will no longer be president,” he said softly. “Nobody kidnaps the children of ex-presidents.” He turned the knob and pushed open the door, reaching for the light switch. He turned on the light, then stood back to let his “date” go ahead of him.

“Well, here we are,” he said-or some such thing. He really didn’t know what he said just then, because as he followed Phoenix, rock-and-roll legend, into his apartment his heart was sinking into a slough of dismay.

Chapter 9

“It’s a bit of a mess,” Ethan said with grand understatement, lunging forward to snatch at the several pairs of sweats draped over the couch, and the socks, running shoes and three days worth of newspapers on the floor beside it. “I, uh…didn’t know when I left here this afternoon that I was…having company.”

He heaved the gathered armload through the nearest doorway and pulled the door firmly shut upon the disasters lurking within. Then, in a heated and breathless state he could not recall having experienced since adolescence, he turned back to Phoenix.

The world-renowned legend of rock and roll was wandering through the clutter in his living room, gazing with undisguised curiosity-even fascination-at the overflowing bookshelves, the tower of CDs that had recently fallen over, strewing plastic cases like toppled dominoes across the floor beside the stereo…his old acoustic guitar propped against the wall. The untidy piles of medical journals that covered every flat surface-except for the top of the television and stereo system, which were unavailable due to the jumble of framed photographs already there-snapshots, mostly, except for Lauren’s professional wedding portrait. They were all there, his whole family: his dad and Dixie-a snapshot of the two of them laughing together, taken while his dad was still governor of Iowa. A photo of Lauren and John and their two boys on horses, with the Arizona scenery spread out behind them. A series of several beautifully composed pictures of Aunt Lucy and Uncle Mike Lanagan and their daughter, Ethan’s cousin Rose Ellen, taken on their Iowa farm by their son, Eric, who was on his way to becoming a photojournalist. One stunningly beautiful portrait done in black-and-white-also by Eric-of Great-great-aunt Gwen, who’d died peacefully the year before at the age of one hundred and five. There were others-Uncle Wood and Aunt Chris, their daughter, Kaitlin. Even a snapshot of Ethan’s mother, Elaine, with her husband, taken during a vacation somewhere in the South Seas.