The vice presidency didn’t come with a dedicated aircraft—Air Force Two simply referred to whichever plane the vice president was on board. It could be any one of a number of aircraft that were shared among the cabinet. The planes tended to be cozy affairs, with fewer amenities than Air Force One—a perk to which Lombard was very much looking forward. At the fore of the plane was a small office, but you couldn’t seat more than three or four comfortably. Lombard preferred his people clustered together, so he spent flights midcabin, where eight could work in relative comfort at a pair of open tables.

At the table across the aisle, his wife was being quizzed on the biographical details of the key individuals on this afternoon’s campaign stop. People responded to a personal connection—ask after their children by name and they never forgot it. It was an old political parlor trick, but it took practice and study. Grace Lombard glanced up and smiled wearily at him. Although she had never been a fan of the campaign trail, he had yet to hear her complain in twenty-five years. In his opinion, it was precisely her disinterest in the trappings of power that made her so appealing to voters. So many in the public eye cultivated an image of being normal and down-to-earth, but his wife was the genuine article. He knew that she helped to balance him. They made an ideal team in that way.

“Leland,” he asked his chief of staff. “What are my dinner plans?”

“Senator Russell. After your speech,” Reed said without looking up from his laptop.

“Push it back. See if he’d let me buy him a scotch at the hotel around eleven instead.”

Reed stood with his phone and walked down the aisle to make the call. Lombard looked back across the aisle to his wife’s assistant, Denise Greenspan.

“What’s the name of the restaurant my wife likes so much with the view of the Bay Bridge?”

“Boulevard, sir. On the Embarcadero.”

“That’s it. Get us in there. Seven thirty.”

“How many, sir?”

“Just two.” He smiled at his wife, who blew him a kiss across the aisle.

Abigail Saldana was nodding her approval at the idea. The personal sacrifice and forced intimacy required of political campaigns was daunting. Duke Vaughn had taught Lombard that lesson. It was hard to work on them without investing in the couple at the center. Particularly to the young, idealistic staffers who did the thankless grunt work, this wasn’t merely a job. This was their family, and they needed to believe in their candidate. A quiet dinner with his wife would be good for everyone’s morale. The same way children were reassured by small acts of affection between their parents.

“Ben,” Grace stage-whispered. “Everyone’s been pushing so hard. How about we send the team out while we’re at dinner?”