“Yeah, which means it’s even less likely the police are gonna come in here trying to bust people.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s one way to look at it.” She tosses back half her glass in one go.

“Braden Hart, is that you?”

I turn at the sound of my name. Representative Brown, standing nearby in a small group, greets us with a warm politician’s smile. She touches the arm of the man she was talking to and shakes his hand, and then walks toward us. After a few steps, she looks over her shoulder to make sure her husband has also gracefully exited the previous conversation and is following her.

“No way,” Sara whispers. “She knows who you are.”

I turn to her and laugh. “Yeah, my family went skiing with them two Christmases ago,” I say.

“What?”

“Try to pick your jaw up off the floor. She’s going to want to talk to you.”

Sara doesn’t get a chance to answer me before they are standing in front of us, Representative Brown in a classic blue pantsuit and her husband, in classic Palo Alto fashion, sporting dark jeans and no tie, although his hair is more gray than not.

“Mr. Brown,” I say, reaching for his hand. “Congresswoman Brown, how are you?”

“Well, you know.” She shakes her head. “You plan and plan these things and then it’s always something you didn’t anticipate that goes wrong. This time, it’s the caterer.”

“Let’s hope no one wanted the vegetarian option,” Mr. Brown says gruffly.

She nods, making a face.

“At a meeting of Democrats near San Francisco? I’m sure that won’t be an issue,” I say.

They both laugh.

“I have the best staff around, though—they’ll sort it out. I’m not too worried,” Rep Brown says, ever the diplomat. “But I’m sorry, here I am going on about catering and being rude...” She looks at Sara. “Why don’t you introduce us, Braden?”

“Oh, right, this is my girlfriend.” I rest a hand on the small of her back.

“Sara Jones,” she says, reaching out her hand.

“Ah, that’s very sweet,” she says, shaking Sara’s hand. “I’m glad you brought her—young love is such a beautiful thing.”

She looks back and forth between us, glowing. I just smile awkwardly and avoid looking at Sara. Love is a bit of a strong word.

“You know, we were your age when we met.” She looks at her husband and smiles.

Sara coughs and covers her mouth so as not to do a spit take with her champagne. “Really?”

“Yes.” She turns back to us, nodding. “I was one of the first girls allowed into our university.”

“And she was the smartest in our class, boy or girl,” Mr. Brown interjects.

She pats him on the arm.