“It was chosen for me,” Stone said, “by my cousin Dick Stone, who died a few years ago. He left the house to a trust and lifetime occupancy to me. I subsequently bought it from the trust.”

“Such a lovely place to be,” she said.

“It certainly is.”

—

EVERYONE CHATTED COMPANIONABLY for another hour before dinner was announced, and the hosts led them through a comfortable saloon to the dining room, where place cards had been set out on a gleaming dining table, set with beautiful china, silverware, and crystal. Stone found himself between Emma St. Clair and the Times editor’s wife. Their husbands were on opposite sides of the table.

“Tell me, Christian,” the editor said, while a first course of foie gras was being served, “anything to the rumblings that have reached me about your considering a run for the presidency next time?”

“You may have heard rumblings,” St. Clair responded, “but there is no quake, nor will there be. I lead far too nice a life to exchange it for a political hell.”

“Is that what you think Washington is these days?”

“I suppose it’s no hotter than usual, but it would be hell for me. There isn’t even a presidential yacht anymore.”

“Wouldn’t this suffice?” He waved an arm.

“As long as it stays out of the Potomac, yes.”

“Stone,” Saltonstall said from the other end of the table, “I hear you’ve bought a place in Santa Fe.”

“A friend was leaving town and offered it to me, pretty much furnished. I couldn’t resist.”

“Do you ever practice law anymore?”

“Occasionally, but I try not to be caught at it. Anyway, an iPhone and a laptop make an office these days.”

“You are a wise man, Stone,” St. Clair said. “I operate much the same way, to the extent I can.”

“He’s spent more time on the design and building of this yacht the past two years,” his wife said, “than on any sort of productive work.”

“Darling, I’m surprised you find all this unproductive, and anyway, you spent just as much time on the interiors as I spent on the rest.”

“Where did you have her built?” Stone asked.

“I bought a little boatyard on the bay,” he replied, “built a larger shed, and hired a yacht designer, a manager, and a workforce of thirty craftsmen. I find you get more attention from the builders if you’re not competing with other people’s yachts. We built Breeze and the two launches in less than two years—record time.”

“Will you keep the yard?” the editor asked.

“I will, along with a staff to maintain the yacht. I sent the others off with a nice bonus, and they have all already found work in other yards. Breeze looks good on their résumés.”

“That’s a brilliant way to build a yacht,” Stone said.