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looked little like her mother. Except, Caroline allowed with a slight smile, that she had her mother’s vanity. The rest, to Caroline’s regret, seemed to come from her father. The height—at five eight, Caroline was five inches taller than her mother. The auburn-tinted’black hair, usually subdued into straightness by brush and dryer. An aquiline face that her Yankee forebears might have described as having “character”: a widow’s peak, high cheekbones, long
    nose, full even mouth, her chin cleft and strong. Every feature would have been a little too emphatic, Caroline thought dryly, if they hadn’t invented television; it was the media people who began writing, much to Caroline’s public indifference and secret pleasure, about her style and aristocratic good looks. After all, Caroline had thought, it was comfortingly better than “headed straight for menopause, with cellulite lurking around the corner….” Which was not, if you please, a suitable description for a high federal judge. Four-forty. Why, Caroline asked herself, was this so very important to her? What would she be if her ambitions turned to dust? In her heart, she did not wish to know. Her ambition worked for her—it filled her life with interest and challenge. Filled her life, period. Some things should not be tampered with. Perhaps, Caroline reflected, she had been foolish to come here. Even now, she was impulsive; she had merely learned to stifle her impulses or, at worst, conceal them. Returning here had been an impulse: almost no one but her secretary knew where she was; no one at all knew that this home had once been hers. Slowly, Caroline walked to the screen porch. It faced west across the water. Outside, a sea breeze whistled through her father’s roses. Near them, on the lawn, was the smooth, flat rock—larger than a table—that her father had ordered hauled there. On his vacations from New Hampshire, he would sit at the rock, facing the water, writing his opinions in longhand …. Nearly five o’clock. Caroline sat in a wicker chair next to a glass end table with a telephone on top. Lifted the receiver, once and then twice, checking for a dial tone. Five-ten, then five-fifteen. Five-sixteen. The telephone rang.
    “Caroline.” The rheumy voice sounded far away. “It’s Walter Farris.” Caroline composed herself, trying to decipher his tone. “Walter, how are you?”
    “Fine. Dandy, actually. Tell me, do you have a moment to speak to the President?” Caroline gave a startled laugh. “Well, I was planning to mow the lawn …”
    “Just a minute. He’s right here.” Caroline felt her face flush. “Caroline,” came the familiar soft drawl. “Mr. President?”
    “Walter tells me you want to go on the Appeals Court.” A moment’s pause. “I must, Mr. President. I haven’t waited this long for a man to call me since the Winter Prom.” A genuine chuckle, a sally enjoyed on two levels. “Well, Caroline … it’s yours.” Caroline felt a sigh run through her, and, with it, all pretense of lightness vanished. “It’s not easy to tell you, Mr. President, everything this means to me.” She paused, voice softening. “I’ve worked for this since law school. And I’ll work even harder to deserve it once I’m there.”
    “I know you will. Anyhow, Walter wants to speak to you. Do stop by and see us when you come back for the confirmation hearings, okay?” A moment’s pause. “Congratulations, Judge Masters …. “
    “Caroline?” Farris again. “You’ll need to rev up for the confirmation hearings. Jennifer Doran from the Justice Department will be in touch, to help you prepare. She’s been through it all before …. ” Putting down the telephone, Caroline barely remembered how the conversation had ended. There were tears in her eyes. So strange, Caroline thought, to want something so deeply for so long that you cannot believe you have it … She sat there, tears running down her face now, very glad that no one