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Millicent Mannings Hollander in a very special way.”
    Francis’s smile was of the locker room variety. “You old dog,” the president said.
     
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    On Tuesday morning Millie spoke to a group of fourth graders at a public school in D.C. Sharing her love of law and learning with children was one of the things she enjoyed most. She hoped a seed would be planted in those who might otherwise have considered dropping out by the time high school rolled around. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be talking to a future Supreme Court justice.
    Today’s appearance was different. Millie’s closest friend in town, Helen Forbes Kensington, had prevailed upon Millie to allow a camera to videotape the session for future public relations use. Helen, having reached a seventy-million-dollar divorce settlement from publishing tycoon Richard Kensington eight years ago, could support whichever causes she chose. Women’s reproductive rights were at the top of her list. She served on the board of the National Parental Planning Group, and often appeared as a media spokesperson.
    At lunch, over Pelegrino water with lime, Helen congratulated Millie on her answer to a delicate question from a little girl who asked why she could not pray in school. “You handled that brilliantly, kiddo,” Helen said. She was Millie’s age, but the best plastic surgeons in the country had made her look twenty years younger, especially in the soft lighting of the upscale restaurant Helen had chosen.
    “I wasn’t handling anything,” Millie said. “I was merely trying to explain to them why separation of church and state is a good thing. That’s hard for a fourth grader to understand.”
    “I don’t think she wanted to understand. It was like she was planted just to make you look bad. Wouldn’t put it past them.”
    Them. Millie knew exactly to whom Helen was referring. She often referred to conservative Christians as them .
    “You’re a little paranoid,” Millie said.
    “It’s not paranoia if it’s true.” Helen reached for another jicama-date canapé from the appetizer plate. “There are fronts opening up all over the place now, and frankly I’m getting a little frustrated. I just heard this morning about an informed consent case down south.”
    Millie said nothing. In conversations with friends she had to walk a fine line between innocuous opinions and subtle politicking. Helen usually respected that line.
    “It is an insult to women,” Helen said. “These laws assume we don’t know what’s going on, we’re stupid or incompetent to make decisions. When is this country going to grow up?”
    “When you are elected president,” Millie joked, trying to change the subject. Talking with a friend who was so issue driven had to be done delicately. Millie wanted no undue influence on matters destined for the Court.
    Helen understood and smiled. “Okay. So why don’t you tell me about this super secret meeting you had the other day.”
    “Not super secret.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing much. Just a meeting with Senator Sam Levering.”
    Helen let her jaw drop melodramatically. “You stinker! You didn’t tell me!”
    “It was an informal meeting,” Millie said. “He just asked me if I wanted to be chief justice.”
    Helen let out a celebratory howl. “Now we’re talking! Oh, honey, I knew this day would come.”
    “It hasn’t come just yet,” Millie cautioned. “But it may.”
    “And Sam Levering is on your side? You cannot miss, girlfriend. Do you want it?”
    Millie took a sip of water. “Of course I want it.”
    “This is great. This is wonderful. We have to celebrate. How about you and I dress to the nines and hit Antonio’s tonight?”
    “Sorry,” Millie said.
    “You don’t want to go out with your nearest and dearest friend?”
    “I have other plans.”
    Helen put her elbows on the table. “What aren’t you telling me?”
    Millie couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Sam Levering called me last night and