“Loosen up, Charlie, baby,” he said with a lazy grin, swaying slightly on his feet. “You’re on recess.”

“How long you been married, Congressman?” Lola asked.

“We’ve been together since ’41,” Charlie said. “Got married when I got back from France, in ’45.”

“Jeez Louise, I haven’t been alive that long,” said Freckles.

From the other side of the house, where construction workers had been laboring since that morning, came the sound of a power drill, temporarily drowning out everything else.

“When’s the last time you did some drilling, Congressman?” asked Freckles once the noise had stopped.

They all laughed, including Lola. Charlie gave an insincere chuckle.

It had been a couple weeks. Or maybe more. More, definitely. The travel and the jet lag hadn’t been very conducive to his and Margaret’s love life. Charlie living in DC Monday through Friday and coming home only on weekends didn’t help either. Dwight’s nightmares meant that when he was back in New York, their bedroom now slept three. His drinking was also causing him to stay up later and her to turn in earlier, if he admitted it to himself.

The cold front had been making its way east. A cloud blocked the sun and now there was no denying an uncomfortable drop in temperature. The young women began to shiver theatrically. “Come inside and let’s find a way to warm up, shall we?” Lawford said. Charlie marveled that this sort of line worked. His blinding smile and impressive pedigree probably helped.

Lawford and his companions headed indoors while Charlie remained in the hot tub with Lola, both sunk nearly to their chins in an effort to stay warm. He looked over at Sinatra and Judy seated at the poolside bar, wrapped in terry-cloth robes. They whispered with purpose, then they also rose to go inside. He looked back at Lola, who smiled invitingly. Nervously, Charlie looked away. Then he looked back. She was still smiling at him—brazenly, cheerfully, clear about what she was conveying.

And then she took off her bikini top.

Charlie tried to catch his breath; she was like a Botticelli. The booze was disintegrating the wall he’d constructed between righteousness and desire. No one there would care. Who would know?

He looked away, toward the large windows of the living room, through which he saw Judy take a seat on Sinatra’s lap. A newly hung portrait of President Kennedy stared past Sinatra and directly at Charlie.

Kennedy. Charlie thought of the president and his brother and what they were doing to Charlie’s father; he thought of the disdain he’d long had for President Kennedy’s legendary extramarital duplicity. These were angry thoughts, punctuated by girlish laughter from wherever Lawford and his party had retreated.