“I can’t afford to lose a dollar,” he said, laughing. But he was sensitive, and he could tell she was not in the right mood. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t usually talk to you about politics.”

“Why not? Politics is my life, and yours, too.”

“You get pestered all day. Our time together is about relaxing and having fun.”

“Make an exception.” He picked up her foot, lying alongside his thigh in the water, and stroked her toes. She had beautiful feet, she knew; and she always put varnish on her toenails. “Something has upset you,” he said quietly. “Tell me what it is.”

When he looked at her so intensely, with his hazel eyes and his wry smile, she was helpless. She said: “The day before yesterday, my grandfather was jailed for trying to register to vote.”

“Jailed? They can’t do that. What was the charge?”

“Loitering.”

“Oh. This happened somewhere in the South.”

“Golgotha, Alabama; his hometown.” She hesitated, but decided to tell him the whole truth, although he would not like it. “Do you want to know what he said when he came out of jail?”

“What?”

“He said: ‘With President Kennedy in the White House, I thought I could vote, but I guess I was wrong.’ That’s what Grandma told me.”

“Hell,” said the president. “He believed in me, and I failed him.”

“That’s what he thinks, I guess.”

“What do you think, Maria?” He was still stroking her toes.

She hesitated again, looking at her dark foot in his white hands. She feared that this discussion could become acrimonious. He was touchy about the least suggestion that he was insincere or untrustworthy, or that he failed to keep his promises as a politician. If she pushed him too hard, he might end their relationship. And then she would die.

But she had to be honest. She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “Far as I can see, the issue is not complicated,” she began. “Southerners do this because they can. The law, as it stands, lets them get away with it, despite the Constitution.”

“Not entirely,” he interrupted. “My brother Bob has stepped up the number of lawsuits brought by the Justice Department for voting rights violations. He has a bright young Negro lawyer working with him.”

She nodded. “George Jakes. I know him. But what they’re doing isn’t enough.”

He shrugged. “I can’t deny that.”

She pressed on. “Everyone agrees that we have to change the law by bringing in a new civil rights act. A lot of people thought you promised that in your election campaign. And . . . nobody understands why you haven’t done it yet.” She bit her lip, then risked the ultimate. “Including me.”

His face hardened.

She immediately regretted being so candid. “Don’t be mad,” she pleaded. “I wouldn’t upset you for the world—but you asked me the question, and I wanted to be honest.” Tears came to her eyes. “And my poor grandpa spent all night in jail, in his best suit.”