"It's a little bigger a job than I once thought," he said, settling in at the round oak table in the kitchen, "but I still intend to make a dent in it."

"I remember you talking like that during our first or second night of bar-hopping together at the Academy. I kept trying to stay cynical and believe that you were an idealistic jerk, but this little voice inside me kept saying that this was a guy who might actually be able to do it. Then, when you drank me under the table, I really decided to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"That was beginner's luck, and you know it. You must have had a virus or something."

"Speaking of which, it should come as no surprise that I can't offer you a beer, but I can brew you some coffee, or—or some tea."

"Tea would be great," the president said, placing a manila folder in front of him. "While I'm in apology mode, sorry I couldn't make it in for your dad's funeral. I appreciated your letting me know he had passed."

"And I appreciated that you would take the time to call from South America."

"Your dad was a bit . . . quirky, but I always did like him."

"He was very proud of you, Drew, you being a fellow Annapolis grad and all."

The instant he spoke the words, Gabe wished he hadn't. Cinnie's pleas notwithstanding, he had done what he could to deal with Fairhaven and his father's reaction to it. He hadn't meant the statement to come out the way it did.

"I'm sure he was very proud of you, too, Gabe," Stoddard said, a bit uncomfortably, "what with your M.D. degree and all those medical missions you've been on, and that youth foundation you're running."

"Thanks. Hey, speaking of sires, how's yours doing?"

"Same old LeMar. Still trying to micromanage everything, including me. He tells me he's bought his way onto a Russian space shot. Fifteen million and he becomes the first seventy-five-year-old to soak his hemorrhoids in the international space station tub."

"Fifteen million. God bless him."

"Hey, come on. When we're talking about my father, it's like Monopoly money. Just do the math. The ten billion or so he's worth minus the fifteen million or so he spent is . . . um . . . take away three, carry the one—still ten billion or so. I wouldn't be surprised if he paid in cash with bills he pulled out of his sock drawer."