Sarah sat on the stairs. She didn’t want to intrude upon her father, but she didn’t want to leave him. She waited a little while. Then she saw his shoulders were moving and, although there was no sound, she realized he was weeping.

She couldn’t help herself, she had to go to him. She came back down the stairs, and stood by the piano, and put her arms around him and held him.

“You think I don’t love my brother?” he managed to say, after a little while.

“I know you love your brother.”

He nodded slowly. “I love my brother. What should I do? What can I do?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

He half turned his face to look at her. The tears were streaming down his cheeks to his mustache.

“Promise me, Sarah, promise me you will never do such a thing as Herman has done.”

“You want me to promise?”

“I could not bear it.”

She paused, but only for a moment. “I promise.”

Perhaps it was for the best.

Verrazano Narrows

1968

EVERYONE AGREED THAT Gorham Master was going to be successful. He was sure of it himself. He knew exactly what he wanted, he had it all mapped out, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

At Groton he’d been impressive, and now he was a sophomore at Harvard. If his studies at the university were important to him, so was baseball, and he’d shown himself to possess the true outfielder’s instinct for reacting to a ball as soon as it’s been hit. Men liked Gorham and so did women. Blue bloods liked him because he was a blue blood; and everyone else did because he was friendly, and polite, and a good sportsman. Employers, in a few years’ time, were going to hire him because he was intelligent and hard-working, and knew how to fit in.

His closest friends would have known two other things about him. The first was that, though not lacking in bravery, he had within him a decided streak of conservatism and caution. The second, which was related to the first, was that he was determined to be as unlike his father as he could.

But it was because of his father that he’d returned to New York from Harvard this chilly February weekend.

His mother’s message on Wednesday had been clear. Come sooner rather than later. And when he’d arrived at her Staten Island house on Saturday evening, Julie had been direct.

“You know I hadn’t seen your father for a couple of years when he called me the other night. He wanted to see me to say good-bye. So I went, and I’m glad I did.”

“Is it really so bad?”

“Yes. The doctor told him he has cancer. The prognosis is that it won’t take long, and I hope for his sake that the end will come soon. Naturally I told you to come at once.”

“I can’t quite take it in.”