The next morning, Peter and Whitney had coffee and French toast—Peter in a robe, Whitney in one of his shirts, a pleasant foreshadowing of their married life together. It was their first real time to talk; when he had come in late the night before, she was already asleep. Now she saw that his hair was cut much shorter, taming the blond curls she had always loved, and that his sideburns had vanished altogether. “Why the new haircut?” she inquired. “Not that you don’t look nice.”
He smiled a little sheepishly. “Camouflage. This may come as a surprise, but the counterculture doesn’t exist at Padgett Dane.”
Though it was foolish, Whitney felt a sense of loss, as though another piece of her youth was being swallowed by adulthood. “Here we are,” she said wryly. “Just like Mom and Dad. So tell me, dear, how was your dinner last night? Did all you masterful men decide the fate of the Western World?”
“Just the fate of America,” Peter amended, sounding pleased despite his best efforts. “It was Richard Nixon and a dozen heavy hitters from Wall Street exchanging ideas, with me as a fly on the wall. Your dad was the one who pulled it all together.”
Despite her reservations about Nixon, Whitney felt a certain pride; now and then she was reminded of the respect her father commanded in realms beyond his own. “What did you think of Nixon?” she asked curiously.
Peter sipped his coffee. “I was really impressed. Like Charles says, he’s not flashy or a charmer, but he’s sharp and really knowledgeable, and you can see him taking everything in. I could tell he’s really impressed with your dad. If Nixon’s elected, I think he may be in line for secretary of the Treasury.”
Whitney could imagine how her father’s quiet satisfaction at how far he had come. “Was anything said about that?”
“More that Nixon kept asking Charles about the economy. Each time, he was able to answer right away, with Nixon just listening and nodding.” Peter’s voice softened in admiration. “Your dad is really an amazing guy, you know.”
They were quiet for a time, united in their mutual affection for Charles and, in Whitney’s case, her renewed happiness that Peter had found a man to replace—as much as such things were possible—the father he had lost too soon, just as Charles had found a would-be son to mentor in his chosen world. Taking a sip of coffee, Peter asked, “So how was Janine?”
Whitney felt the innocent query reviving her anxiety. “There’s something wrong,” she said at once, relieved to unburden herself. “At lunch she was distracted and evasive, and later on I found out she’s been fired.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Found out? Not from Janine, I guess.”
“From Laura Hamilton, one of her college friends. After I saw Janine, I called her.”
“Out of the blue?”
“Not really. Janine mentioned that she saw her now and then, and I thought Laura might know if something was going on. Obviously, there is.”
Peter held up a hand. “Please back up a minute. So Janine told Laura but not your mom?”
“No,” Whitney replied somewhat testily. “Laura heard it from another girl at the modeling agency. Anyhow, what difference does it make?”
“Quite a bit.” Peter puffed his cheeks, exhaling slowly. “If it’s true, Janine clearly doesn’t want your family to know. You can’t even be sure it is true.”
“I think it is.”
“Maybe so. But remember boarding school, the way rumors went flying around? Like hearing my senior year that I’d had sex with a girl I’d never even touched. She was cute, so at first I didn’t mind too much. But once I saw how hurt she was, I felt worse than if we’d done it.” Pouring them both more coffee, Peter concluded firmly, “Even supposing that the agency canned her, it seems like Janine wants to deal with it herself. If she cared to involve her family, she would have.”
Whitney crossed her arms. “Obviously. But the fact that Janine conceals things doesn’t make it a good idea. What if she’s in trouble?”
“But what kind of trouble?” he persisted. “Was she drinking at lunch?”
“Not a drop.”
“Then maybe there is no problem.” Peter reached for her hand. “Look, I know you don’t feel that close to her . . .”
“Which must be my problem,” Whitney cut in.
Peter looked at her intently. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. Just that she makes it easier for you to imagine the worst.”
Whitney felt her temper snap. “Then try this, Peter. The night of our engagement dinner, she let some guy she didn’t know screw her up against his pickup truck. I saw them, okay, so don’t ask me how I know . . .”
“Jesus, Whitney . . .”
“She was so drunk she went upstairs and vomited her insides out. When I put her to bed, you know what she said to me? ‘Don’t tell Mom.’ So I didn’t. Now she’s gotten fired from her job and is turning into a skeleton. Do you want me to wait until she jumps off a bridge?”
“I sure as hell hope you’re wrong about the bridge.” Peter paused, rubbing his eyes. “Look, I’m not big on keeping secrets unless I have to. But can you imagine telling your parents—especially your mom—that Janine’s gotten fired and screws guys she doesn’t know? Then what? And what about your own relationship to Janine? Sometimes staying quiet is the best of two bad choices.”
He said this with such feeling that Whitney stopped to study him. “Would you keep secrets from me?”
For a moment, Peter looked confused as to how to answer. “Of course not,” he assured her. “At least not about anything you needed to know.”
“How do you define that?”
“Anything that’s about me or you—the two of us. But until right now, you didn’t tell me that you saw Janine doing this guy. You must have had a reason.”
For a moment, Whitney gazed out the window at the buildings across Madison Avenue, their façades brightening with early sunlight. “I guess so,” she acknowledged. “Maybe I didn’t want to embarrass my sister, or have you think any less of her.”
Peter nodded. “Also, you didn’t need to tell me. And I’m a whole lot safer than your parents.”
“But that’s just it,” Whitney insisted. “Janine is their daughter. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think she’s captive to their whole idea of themselves. She was the first member of my dad’s family to go to prep school, which delighted him no end. When it came time for college, he wanted her to go to one of the Seven Sisters, so he pulled strings to get her into Vassar. When she came out as a debutante, my mother was wound so tight with anticipation and anxiety that I swore I’d never do it . . .”
“But you did, right?”
“And mostly hated it. I kept imagining Mom comparing us . . .”
Hearing herself, Whitney stopped abruptly. With a renewed calm, Peter said, “I think you’re playing with dynamite, Whitney. In eleven weeks, we’re getting married. It’s not a very good moment to create a family crisis. There’ll be plenty of time for that later on.”
The timing could not be worse, Whitney knew. “I just worry that there’s something else—that getting fired means she’s spiraling downward. Do you know how she got into modeling in the first place? It wasn’t her idea at all.”
“Whose was it?”
“Mom’s. The summer she turned fourteen, Mom thought Janine seemed depressed and pretty down on herself. So she got Janine into teen modeling to ‘give her confidence a boost.’ Ever since then, Janine’s been all about her looks. I’m not so sure that Mom did her any favors.”
Absently, Peter ran a hand across his formerly unruly crown of hair. “Janine’s a little squirrelly,” he conceded. “But first she has to believe she has a real problem that needs fixing. Or else it’s you against the three of them, the snoopy sister saying terrible things out of jealousy or spite. The last thing I want is for you to hurt yourself.” His smile was tentative. “Remember that history paper about Lord Melbourne you helped me write?”
“All I remember is that it was brilliant.”
“A-minus, thanks to you. I’ve already forgotten most of it. But Melbourne said something about government that stuck with me: ‘That which is not necessary to do, is necessary not to do.’ Maybe that applies to families, too. At least for now.”
Peter was no scholar, Whitney reflected, but he had a sense of people—much like Charles or Clarice. Perhaps she worried too much about his future. “Part of success,” she had heard her father tell him, “is figuring out what people want before you speak or act. Always keep your own counsel until you know the consequences.”
“So,” she inquired, “what would Lord Melbourne do now?”
“Right now? He’d realize there was still an hour before work, and find out what you were wearing under that shirt.”
Whitney smiled a little. “Do you think that really qualifies as ‘necessary’?”
“Indispensable,” Peter responded with great assurance, and led her to the bedroom.
For the rest of the day, Whitney looked at furniture for the apartment, writing down places to which she and Peter might return. Intermittently, she called Janine from pay phones without result, deepening her anxiety. If Janine was still working, as she claimed, wouldn’t she want to be near the phone? But perhaps she was working—photo shoots could last all day. Of course, not finding her was in some ways a relief; Peter’s misgivings enhanced her sense that she was thrashing about in a pitch-black room, more likely to break the china than find a wall switch. When Peter appeared with tickets to see George C. Scott and Maureen Stapleton in Plaza Suite—a surprise gift from her father—Whitney resolved to put her worries aside. And on her return to Martha’s Vineyard, when Anne asked about her trip, Whitney temporized by starting with Peter and the play.
“I love Neil Simon,” Anne enthused. “What I wouldn’t give to be that clever.” Arranging fresh cut roses in a vase, she inquired casually, “How was Janine?”
Whitney paused to compose her answer. “The fitting went fine. But when I asked her what was new, she acted a little edgy. She seemed more interested in discussing the bona fides of Peter’s groomsmen.”
Her mother gave a tight-lipped smile. “Sounds normal enough to me. Sometimes, though, I think Janine breaks hearts just for practice. Looking as she does is an asset, but it carries with it a certain responsibility to be kind.”
A terrible burden, Whitney thought but did not say. “I just wondered if she’d mentioned anything about her work.”
“Only that she’s busy. Why do you ask?”
“For one thing,” Whitney said carefully, “she seemed too nervous about gaining weight, when that’s not her problem at all. Sometimes I wonder if depending on her looks for a career is good for her. Like that’s all she has to offer.”
Anne looked at her askance. In her flattest tone, she responded, “I don’t know what you’re saying, Whitney. Janine’s not insecure in the least.”
Once again, Whitney felt the barrier between them. It was as if Anne was defending herself against a threat posed by her younger daughter, perhaps even a betrayal. Not for the first time, Whitney felt like an alien presence within the family—the people who, with Peter and Clarice, she loved more than anyone. Whatever their imperfections, and her own.
“Anyhow,” Whitney assured her mother, “it was good to see her.”