It was then that her iPhone chimed. She jumped to her feet, certain the text was from Joseph. She groaned when she saw it was from her father.
Zoe, I landed in Kinshasa last night. I’m really looking forward to our dinner tomorrow. Let’s plan on seven o’clock at the Intercontinental. I’ll book a table at the Savannah Grill. It will be a joy to see you again.
She walked the length of the pool, and then swam another ten laps for good measure. When she climbed out, the sun was gone and the garden had fallen into deep shadow. She dried off and walked home, slower this time, drinking in the twilight. She gave thought to calling Joseph but couldn’t think of a legitimate excuse. Letting herself into her flat, she remembered something her father used to say: “Patience is a necessary evil.”
She smiled at the irony. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The following evening, Zoe sat on the couch in her flat, staring at the clock and dreading the forced march of time. She crossed her legs, certain that the black dress and pearls she had selected were too formal. Although the Intercontinental was one of Zambia’s premier hotels and her father would be wearing a suit—a Zegna, no doubt, with a crimson tie—Lusaka was worlds apart from Paris or New York. Still, it was the look he would be expecting, the Zoe Fleming who had dazzled the deans at Stanford and Yale Law, the daughter of elegant Catherine. She twisted her watch—a diamond-encrusted Charriol the Senator had given her as a graduation gift—and felt like a fraud.
When six thirty came, she collected her purse and left the apartment. The air was cool in the dwindling light, and a crescent moon hovered over the trees to the west. She drove to the Intercontinental in a daze, wishing she could have declined her father’s invitation. It would have been easy to contrive an excuse—a critical business trip, a long-planned holiday with friends. But St. Francis had lost a third of its donors after the financial crisis, and SCA was struggling to stay afloat. They needed her support, as did the children they served, and she needed her father to run interference with Atticus Spelling. For the thousandth time, Zoe wondered why her mother had named Spelling as her trustee. He was Catherine’s antitype—calculating, institutionally minded, and instinctively bleak. It was a mystery that had baffled Zoe for a decade.
After parking in the hotel lot, she entered the lobby and made her way to the Savannah Grill. The restaurant was located on a covered terrace overlooking the pool. She saw her father at a candlelit table for two, studying the menu. She also saw his security detail—two men in suits, one by the grand savannah window and the other sitting by the pool, looking ridiculous.
The Senator stood when she appeared. “Zoe,” he said, kissing her cheek, “I’m so glad you could come.”
She touched his arm. “Hi, Dad.”
He seated her formally and then returned to his place. Almost immediately, a uniformed waiter appeared, and Jack asked for a bottle of champagne.
She searched his face. “What are we celebrating?”
“That you’re here, that I’m here. Do I need a better reason?”
She twisted her watch. “Why are you here, Dad?”
Something like annoyance flashed in his eyes. “Is it such a crime for a man to want to take his daughter to dinner?”
“An interesting opening. I should think there are less contentious ways to begin a conversation between us.”
He thought about what he’d said, and his eyes darkened. “Hardly intentional.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He grimaced. “I’m in Africa to—”
“I know why you’re in Africa,” she said, cutting him off. “You’re here to satisfy your constituents that the cuts you’re proposing to the foreign-aid budget don’t stand a chance of making the Dark Continent any brighter. So what difference does it make if a few hundred thousand AIDS patients die an early death?”
He looked wounded. “You accuse me of heartlessness. You know as well as I do that I voted for PEPFAR, not against it. I’m not suggesting that it be eliminated, just reined in a bit.”
“That’s not what your campaign is saying,” she retorted.
He gave her a calculating look. “That’s just politics.”
“Precisely,” she said.
He took a sharp breath. “It’s been eleven years. I thought by now you would have …”
The anger in her eyes seemed to interrupt his train of thought.
Would have what, Dad? she almost said. Gotten over it? Are you really that naive?
She allowed him to stew in discomfort until the waiter appeared with the champagne. The Senator took his glass and looked out over the gardens. Zoe left hers on the table untouched. When the waiter asked if they wished to order, she shook her head.
“Give us a few more minutes, please,” she said kindly.