“I lost a friend, too. I’ve never been sorrier for anything in my life.” It cost him to walk to her, to take her hand. “You didn’t ruin anything, Syd. At least not alone.”

“I need a friend, Peter. I very badly need a friend.”

He brushed a tear away with his thumb. “Willing to give me another shot?” Smiling a little, he took out his handkerchief. “Here. Blow your nose and sit down.”

She did, clinging to his hand. “Was that the only reason it didn’t work. Because we couldn’t handle the bedroom?”

“That was a big one. Other than that, we’re too much alike. It’s too easy for us to step behind breeding and let a wound bleed us dry. Hell, Syd, what were we doing getting married?”

“Doing what everyone told us.”

“There you go.”

Comforted, she brought his hand to her cheek. “Are you happy, Peter?”

“I’m getting there. How about you? President Hayward.”

She laughed. “Were you surprised?”

“Flabbergasted. I was so proud of you.”

“Don’t. You’ll make me cry again.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He kissed her forehead. “Come out in the kitchen. I’ll fix us a sandwich and you can tell me what you’ve been up to besides big business.”

It was almost easy. There was some awkwardness, little patches of caution, but the bond that had once held them together had stretched instead of broken. Slowly, carefully, they were easing the tension on it.

Over rye bread and coffee, she tried to tell him the rest. “Have you ever been in love, Peter?”

“Marsha Rosenbloom.”

“That was when we were fourteen.”

“And she’d already given up a training bra,” he said with his mouth full. “I was deeply in love.” Then he smiled at her. “No, I’ve escaped that particular madness.”

“If you were, if you found yourself in love with someone, would you consider marriage again?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to think I’d do a better job of it, but I don’t know. Who is he?”

Stalling, she poured more coffee. “He’s an artist. A carpenter.”

“Which?”

“Both. He sculpts, and he builds. I’ve only known him a little while, just since June.”

“Moving quick, Sydney?”

“I know. That’s part of the problem. Everything moves fast with Mikhail. He’s so bold and sure and full of emotion. Like his work, I suppose.”

As two and two began to make four, his brows shot up. “The Russian?”

“Ukrainian,” she corrected automatically.

“Good God, Stanislaski, right? There’s a piece of his in the White House.”

“Is there?” She gave Peter a bemused smile. “He didn’t mention it. He took me home to meet his family, this wonderful family, but he didn’t tell me his work’s in the White House. It shows you where his priorities lie.”

“And you’re in love with him.”