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To his relief, Bo and Eddie did not look too aghast, merely
interested.

“Okay,” Zach went on, “maybe not the china pattern, but yeah,
all the stuff most guys want to run away from. I can’t stop thinking about her,
even when I’m trying to move on to another girl.”

“In my very educated opinion,” Eddie said, “other girls tend to
be distractions from what you really want.”

“Yeah,” said Bo. “What is it you really want?”

Zach took a large gulp of beer and let out a lengthy belch.
“The whole thing—love and family, stability, even kids one day. Yeah, kids. I
want kids, how crazy is that?”

“It’s not crazy at all,” said Eddie. “Maureen and I are having
loads of fun working on that. Kids are awesome. It’s the parents who screw them
up. All you got to do is promise you won’t be that kind of parent.”

“That’s getting ahead of things. We’re not even back on
speaking terms these days.”

“Why the hell not?”

“After we… After I—”

“Nailed her,” Bo supplied.

“Yeah, it was in the boathouse up at Camp Kioga. Shane Gilmore
figured it out, I think.”

“Now, there’s a tool for you. Can’t stand that guy,” Eddie
said. “What the hell do you care?”

“I don’t, but Sonnet’s father is running for Senate, and
Gilmore’s driving around with a Delvecchio bumper sticker on his car, so he’s
supporting the opponent.”

“Whoa, I didn’t know she was Jeffries’s daughter,” Bo said.

“Like I told you, she’s complicated. Anyway, I saw a stupid
rumor about the candidate’s daughter hooking up at a wedding—did I mention we
hooked up at Daisy Bellamy’s wedding?”

Bo refilled Zach’s beer glass yet again. “Drink up. It’s gonna
be a long night.”

* * *

Sonnet rushed into the restaurant approximately ten
minutes late to find Orlando in the foyer, jabbing his finger at the keypad of
his phone.

“Sorry,” she said, slightly breathless. “I got caught in the
rush-hour craziness.”

He put away his phone and bent to brush her cheek with a kiss.
He was impressive, a tangible presence, exuding the class and polish of his Ivy
League graduate degree, his looks an attractive balance between his Cuban mother
and African-American father. After fulfilling his service requirement for West
Point, Orlando had gotten an advanced degree in political science from Columbia
and had become an expert at managing electoral campaigns. He was known as one of
the best in the business, stopping at nothing to advance his candidate’s
cause.

“Just curious,” he said in his half-teasing way, “does rush
hour come unexpectedly every weekday?” He softened the critique with his
trademark smile.

Sonnet furrowed a hand through her hair—it was now a fuzzy
mess, thanks to the rushing and the rain. Yes, she had emerged from the subway
to find the sunshine had turned to rain—and of course she had no umbrella.

“I got caught in the rain,” she confessed.

“You should carry an umbrella.”

She hated seeming scattered and disheveled around Orlando, who
was always the soul of organization. And here she was, committing the trifecta
of blunders. She had lost the key to his apartment. She had lost her mobile
phone. And to top it all off, she was late.

“I don’t blame you for being mad,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s okay. Nothing to get mad about. I’m
on-time enough for both of us.”

She summoned a smile and took his hand. Orlando Rivera was
brilliant, professional and knew the importance of being prompt. No wonder he
was in charge of getting her father elected to Congress.

It was surreal to Sonnet, the idea of her father becoming a
U.S. senator. But it was not surprising; Laurence Jeffries had always been a
larger-than-life figure. Although he was her birth father, he’d taken on the
proportions of myth. Yes, she admitted that. But it never kept her from hoping
they would build something sturdier on that foundation.

As a kid, she’d fantasized about having him in her life more
than a couple of times a year. Then she’d been accepted to a major college, and
everything had changed. Suddenly she had done something remarkable, winning a
scholarship for a world-class education, and her father not only took note, he’d
reached out to her. She still remembered the expression on her mom’s face when
Nina had handed her the phone. “Laurence wants to speak to you.”

Her father almost never called. There was usually a stilted
conversation on Christmas, late in the day after all the presents and feasting,
and sometimes on her birthday, when he remembered. So for him to call out of the
blue had been extraordinary.

“You’ve made me proud” were his first words to her that
day.

Her heart had taken wing. Sure, she knew she’d be justified in
asking him why he’d never been more than a modest monthly check to her up to
this point, or asking him why he couldn’t have been there for her during her
not-so-proud moments, like when she’d been caught skipping gym class, or when
she’d stolen a sex manual from the library, or was left on the curb after her
first date, because she’d refused to put out.

But instead of hurling recriminations, she’d opened her heart
to her father. They’d talked at length about her future and her goals. She’d
once thought she wanted to teach or somehow work with children, but her dad had
convinced her that she would have more of an impact on the world with an
international career. He was passionate about global affairs and about the
possibility of bringing about positive change in the world, and that passion was
infectious. Broadening her focus, Sonnet had pursued international studies with
single-minded determination, intent on proving herself every bit as worthy as
the two trophy daughters her father had with the woman he’d married.

She pulled her mind away from her dad’s “other” family—his
legitimate family. Angela, his lovely and accomplished wife, and his daughters,
Layla and Kara. Sonnet herself had a glorious family on her mother’s side—the
big Romano clan of Avalon—and for that, she would always be grateful, just as
she was grateful for her vibrant career and this new, huge opportunity offered
by the fellowship.

Maybe in the excitement over her news, Orlando would dismiss
the fact that she’d lost his key.

“I can’t believe you lost my key,” Orlando said after she’d
sheepishly explained what happened. He shrugged out of his cashmere overcoat and
handed it to the coat check girl.

“I’m really sorry.” Sonnet handed over her coat as well. “I
don’t know what else to say. I’ll have another one made.”

“You can’t. It’s a co-op. The building supervisor has to get a
duplicate. I’ll take care of it.”

“Sorry,” she said again, probably for the dozenth time. He was
being nice about it, but she almost wished he’d tell her it was a huge pain in
the ass and get the scolding over with.

“I know. I’ll deal with it. But listen, since we’re taking this
step, there’s something we need to talk about.” He paused, took her hand and
lifted it to his lips.

She smiled, taken in by the warmth in his eyes. “Kissing my
hand in public, Orlando? I’m a fan.”

He smiled back. “And I’m a fan of you. I just wanted to talk
about the whole key thing—the whole sleeping-over thing.”

She bit her lip. Maybe the fellowship was not going to be such
welcome news to him after all. “I love the sleeping-over thing. I love that you
gave me a key.”

“I love it, too, don’t get me wrong. That’s why I need to ask
you…”

…to marry me.
Sonnet heard the
words in her head, and even though they hadn’t been spoken aloud, she got
chills. She pictured herself saying yes, flinging her arms around him, being
hoisted off the floor and spun around as they shared a joyous kiss.

“…because of all the attention he’ll be getting as we get
closer to election season.”

“I’m sorry, what?” She flushed, embarrassed by her own flight
of fantasy.

“I was just saying, let’s try to be discreet about you staying
at my place.”

“Right. This is the twenty-first century, after all.”

“You and I know that. But there are still plenty of voters who
could take issue with the idea that the candidate’s daughter—”

“—who happens to be a grown-up with a life of her own—”

“Sorry, I don’t make the rules. Honey, all I’m saying is let’s
try to keep our private life just that—
private
.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to, what, post our status on
Facebook?”

“Of course not. I’m afraid some dumb-ass from the opposition is
going to try to make an issue of it.”

“Then why did you bother giving me a key—oh. I get it now. You
gave me a key so I didn’t have to be buzzed up every time, which is totally
indiscreet, right?”

“Honey. I gave you a key because I want you in my life. I might
want you there permanently, if you know what I’m saying.”

“God, Orlando, how did you get so romantic? ‘I might want you
there permanently?’ Seriously?”

“It’s true, I might. But I’m not going to break down and
propose right here and now in the middle of a crowded restaurant.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“But I am going to propose. And it is going to be romantic and
you’re going to say yes.”

Goose bumps suddenly covered her arms. But then, questions and
second-guessing kicked in. Was he going to propose because he loved her and
couldn’t live without her, or because it would make his candidate’s daughter
look less like a slut to the electorate?

She brushed aside the cynical thought. When had she turned into
such a skeptic? Or had she always been this way?

A large, imposing silhouette filled the doorway.

“Hey, my father just got here,” she said. “Can we talk about
the key later?”

Orlando was already striding across the foyer, his hand
outstretched. “Laurence, how are you?” No comment about General Jeffries being
tardy.

Sonnet felt a swell of pride and excitement as the two men
shook hands. Her father was every inch the military man, looking as polished as
the brass buttons on his swirling greatcoat.

Standing between the two of them, she felt like a princess,
flanked by visiting royalty. The host led them to their table, where he held the
thronelike upholstered chair for her.

“So there’s news,” Sonnet said once they were all seated. “Good
news.”

“I’m always up for good news.” Her father regarded her
warmly.

She paused, savoring the moment. “I got the Hartstone
Fellowship,” she said. “The call came today, and I have an official letter.”

Orlando gave a low whistle. “That’s fantastic.”

“Sonnet, I’m so proud of you.” Her father ordered a bottle of
champagne. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but proud as hell.”

“Thanks. I’m still pinching myself.” She beamed at them both as
the sommelier brought a bottle of Cristal and poured three flutes. “It’s so
great that we’re together, celebrating. I was going to send you an email but I
wanted to tell you in person.” She’d been brimming over with the news all
day.

“You deserve it,” said Orlando. “I know how hard you worked for
this.”

“He’s right,” her father agreed. “We’re going to miss you when
you’re overseas.”

Sonnet blinked. “How do you know it’s an overseas
assignment?”

He glanced up at the chandelier. “That’s usually the case. Am I
wrong?”

“Never,” she said, but he failed to catch the note of irony in
her voice.

“With your background and language skills, you’d excel in a
foreign location.” He waved a hand to summon the waiter. “I think we’re ready to
order.”

“I have the final numbers on the fundraiser.” Orlando handed
Laurence a printout. “I thought you’d like to see.”

“We exceeded our goal for this stage of the campaign,” said
Laurence.

“That’s great, Dad. It’s good news all around,” Sonnet said.
She really wanted to talk more about the fellowship, but didn’t want to
monopolize the conversation. “Maybe we should buy lottery tickets.”

“I’ve never been one to leave things to chance,” her father
said. “Better to make your own luck.”

“Agreed,” said Sonnet. Her father was something of a control
freak. He had been ever since she’d gotten to know him during her college years.

Orlando and her father talked shop—polls, demographic studies,
campaign strategies, and she listened attentively. When their meal came, there
was a pause to appreciate the perfectly prepared food, served with deftness by a
waitstaff that worked like a well-oiled machine. She flashed on a memory of her
childhood—Sunday dinners at her Romano grandparents’ home, with all the aunts,
uncles and cousins diving into delicious but simple food, served family style.
The food was simple but plentiful, the family noisy but bighearted.

“Wow, it’s crazy to think that by next year, I’ll be the
daughter of a U.S. senator.” Sonnet took a bite of the wild mushroom risotto,
savoring the sherry and cream flavorings.

Laurence tried the wine and accepted it with a curt nod. “I
assume you mean crazy in a good way.”

She smiled as the waiter filled her glass. “Of course. It makes
me really proud.”

“I wish I could say the election is going to be a slam dunk.”
He sliced into his steak.

“We don’t hear you saying that,” Sonnet said.

“I have to be honest with you,” said Laurence. “Delvecchio is
getting desperate, and he’s known to fight dirty when he’s slipping in the
polls.”

“Are you saying he’s slipping in the polls?”

“He most definitely is.”

“So we can expect him to fight dirty,” said Orlando.

“We can.” Laurence swirled a bite of rare meat in the Bearnaise
sauce. “And Sonnet, I have to tell you, he’s bound to send someone snooping into
every corner of my life.”

“Including me, you mean.” A knot of tension formed in the pit
of her stomach.

“I wish I could deny it. Delvecchio is a master at negative
spin. He could find a way to make Santa Claus look bad.”