On a warm, humid evening in early August, the Danes and Barkleys attended a charity dinner to support the purchase of land for nature preserves. It took place on the lawn of a rambling summer home overlooking Quitsa Pond, evoking for Whitney her last sail with Ben. The men wore blazers—often navy-blue like Charles’s and Peter’s—the women bright summer dresses. Whitney’s dress was pink, cut slightly above the knee, while Clarice’s yellow miniskirt revealed the tan, slender legs that were her pride. Waiters in black bow ties and white cloth jackets dipped in and out among the guests, serving canapés and drinks on silver trays. To Whitney it seemed much like other such evenings—pleasant enough but ultimately boring, a gathering of lemmings whose chatter was as bland as the hors d’oeuvres. Deciding that a glass of wine might improve her perspective, she drifted away from Peter and her parents, and realized the waiter approaching with a drink tray was Benjamin Blaine.
Despite his lack of expression, she sensed an awkwardness that matched her own. Recalling that Ben and his brother had catered parties in high school, she wondered how this felt to him after his years at Yale and the murder of his candidate-hero. As he held out the tray, she mustered her warmest smile. “Hi, Ben. It’s nice to see you.”
“And you, Lady Dane.”
Whitney took a glass of white wine. “Lady Dane? Didn’t the Rolling Stones record that?”
Ben had the grace to laugh. “I preferred ‘Under My Thumb.’ Enjoy the party, Whitney.”
As he started to leave, she said swiftly, “So when are we sailing again? It was a nice day, I thought. At least mostly.”
He stopped briefly, glancing at her sideways. “I don’t have my appointment book with me. But you know where I live.” Then he was off again, circulating among the guests.
Gazing after him, Whitney sensed someone at her shoulder. “Isn’t that your friend?” Peter said. “The outfit looks good on him.”
To Whitney, this attempt at bluff humor carried a trace of belligerence. Before coming, Peter had enjoyed a cocktail or two with her father, who insisted on at least one glass of single malt scotch before Vineyard charity events—the spirits would be paltry, he groused, the wine second tier. But while a tumbler of Macallan reliably elevated Charles’s disposition, it seemed to have left Peter a little fuzzy of tongue.
“Friend is overstating it,” she told him. “We’re friendly, that’s all.”
Still looking toward Ben, Peter said nothing. Whitney sensed that his brain had slowed a little, calibrating his reactions with less facility than was usual for the easy, openhearted young man everyone liked so much. “Why don’t we find our table,” she suggested. “These new pumps are hurting my feet.”
There were seven people at the table for eight—to her mother’s distress, Janine had chosen not to come for the weekend, pleading fatigue from days of photo shoots. Clarice sat between her parents, a genetic mixture of them both. While George Barkley’s sandy hair, blue eyes, and fine features were the prototype for his daughter’s good looks, Clarice’s vitality came from her energetic if somewhat fidgety mother Jane, a diminutive brunette whose quick tongue never quite concealed the insecurity that had caused Clarice to dub her “Our Lady of Perpetual Anxiety.” Tonight her worries were no doubt exacerbated by the fear that her husband stood on fiscal quicksand. As often, Whitney was grateful for her father, sitting between her and Anne with his accustomed air of tranquil authority. But Peter made her edgy; he was drinking more wine than normal, and a flush stained his cheeks and forehead. Across the table, Clarice’s gaze moved from Peter to Whitney, her eyebrows slightly raised, before flickering toward someone standing behind them.
Turning, Whitney saw Ben passing with dinner plates in both hands. As he paused to give her a fleeting glance, Peter held out his wine glass. “Fill this for me,” he demanded.
Ben stopped where he was, regarding Peter with a long, cool glance, silence his only response. Peter thrust out the glass toward him. “Wine,” he demanded.
Still, Ben took his time to respond. “I’m serving dinner now. That explains the plates I’m holding. But someone will be over soon enough.”
“I’m asking you,” Peter insisted with rising belligerence.
Ben’s smile, a brief movement of his lips, suggested his disdain. “Yeah, I got that. But maybe you should ask for coffee.”
Embarrassed, Whitney glanced at Clarice. She was studying Charles, who, to Whitney’s surprise, was watching Ben with the utter lack of expression she saw only when all his faculties were trained on assessing another male. The others were not as self-possessed: George Barkley looked away; his wife rediscovered her wine glass; and Whitney’s mother shot Peter a surreptitious look of worry.
Before Peter could respond, Ben left him holding his glass aloft. “Can you believe that?” Peter asked, his voice louder in their silence.
Ignoring this, Charles still watched Ben walk away. To her relief, Whitney noticed a tall, solemn-looking waiter approaching their table. He gave her a faint but reassuring smile, then addressed Peter. “May I get you something?” he asked politely.
Unlike Ben, he had an inherent gentleness of manner. Mollified, Peter said, “A glass of red wine, thank you.”
“Of course.” Filling Peter’s glass, the young man glanced briefly at Clarice. “Would anyone else care for wine?”
“A final glass for me,” Charles said, which Whitney took as a tacit directive to Peter. Then the moment passed, allowing Whitney’s mother to remark on Clarice’s hemline.
Upon their return home, Peter and Whitney remained on the lawn. Even in the moonlight, his chagrin was apparent. “You were pretty quiet tonight, Whit.”
“Was I?”
His shoulders hunched. “Didn’t handle that very well, did I?”
“You treated him like a menial, Peter. It’s not like you.”
“Ever meet someone who makes your hair stand up? There’s something about this guy. You saw how insolent he was.”
“Only after I saw how insulting you were. Can I ask what brought that on? Other than scotch, that is.”
He shifted his weight. “I guess I don’t like you hanging out with him.”
“We’re not ‘hanging out’ . . .”
“He’s going after you, Whitney. Maybe you don’t think so, but he is.”
Was he? she wondered. She found this hard to imagine: in the hours they had spent together, Ben had done little to suggest that she was other than a mildly diverting specimen of her class in his interregnum of loneliness and uncertainty. “He knows I’m getting married,” she said firmly. “He’s no more interested in me than I am in him . . .”
“Then why were you upset?”
“I wasn’t upset. I was embarrassed, and I felt badly for you. This wasn’t about him at all.”
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want you apologizing for me, Whitney. I don’t want him thinking he’s that important.”
“I won’t, and he doesn’t. So please let it go, all right?”
At length, Peter sighed in apology. “So tell me we’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Rising on her tiptoes, Whitney gave him a kiss. “We’re fine now,” she assured him. “And you’ll be fine tomorrow if you take some aspirin.”
Peter smiled ruefully. “I hope so. Good night, Whit.”
Pensive, she watched him walk slowly toward the guesthouse. When she went inside, her father was sitting in the living room. “Can we talk a minute?” he asked.
Tense, Whitney sat across from him. “I guess this is about Peter.”
Charles nodded. “He didn’t handle that well, it’s true. But your mother and I felt for him, and his behavior should give you pause for thought.”
The remark, calm but faintly accusatory, aroused Whitney’s stubbornness. “It did, actually. I was thinking you should cut back on cocktail hour. I’m not the one who primed him with scotch, after all.”
Her unaccustomed sharpness caused Charles to flush. “And I’m not the one who struck up a random friendship with another man.” His voice rose. “Every instinct I possess tells me that this man is a human stick of dynamite, whose mere presence in your life could blow it up. You may think nothing of spending time with him, but others will. Especially Peter. No man wants people believing him a fool, and no man wants to be one.”
“What are you implying, Dad?”
“About your intentions, nothing. I’m simply suggesting that you act with the care appropriate to a woman about to marry a fine young man.”
“I’m not a child,” Whitney objected, “and Peter has no reason to be jealous. I can’t shun someone just because of what other people may think.” She softened her voice, hoping to persuade him. “I don’t want to treat Ben as poorly as Peter did. He’s had a tough time all his life, and a worse one lately. He got himself into Yale on a scholarship, then dropped out to campaign with Bobby Kennedy. He’s devastated by what happened, and now the draft may get him.”
Charles put curled fingers to his lips. “You seem to know a lot about this boy.”
“I’ve always been a decent listener, haven’t I? Actually, he’s pretty annoying, though I admire his determination to succeed. In fact, Clarice says he reminds her of you.”
Charles’s eyes narrowed slightly. In a cooler tone, he said, “Really.”
“I don’t see it,” Whitney consoled him. “Except that you’re both overly opinionated, and better at arguing than listening, you’re nothing alike.”
Charles allowed himself a smile of self-recognition. “I’m the soul of tolerance, Whitney.”
“Of course you are. If it weren’t for Ben’s politics, I’m certain you’d adore him.”
Charles regarded her in contemplative silence. “You do make him sound interesting,” he responded in a more suitable tone. “Certainly the part about resembling me. Perhaps you should invite him to dinner. That might relieve whatever awkwardness you feel, and put your mother and me more at ease. It’s even remotely conceivable that I’ve been a bit too harsh.”
Whitney felt a stab of apprehension: the image of Ben with her family filled her with misgivings.” I don’t think that’s necessary, Dad. Let’s drop it.”
“Suit yourself,” her father said easily. “But he did fish you out of the water, and we’ve always welcomed your friends. Once Peter returns to Manhattan, why don’t you see what Ben thinks.”
After a moment, Whitney nodded, resolved to do nothing of the kind.