Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson

have to do this, you know.”
    “And leave her to badger you and Peter? Just don’t sit me next to her at the wedding. I haven’t the stamina.”
    “You have my blood oath,” Whitney pledged. “But if you really need a buffer, bring someone.”
    For an instant, Clarice looked oddly vulnerable, then gave a dismissive shake of her head. “At this particular moment, there’s no one I can imagine running the gantlet of our parents.”
    “Maybe not now. But for you, four months is a lifetime.”
    “For me, Whitney, the next four
hours
will be a lifetime.”
    Brighter-eyed than before, Janine marched into the room and headed for the front door, saying over her shoulder, “Let’s go, Clarice.”
    “Adventure calls,” Clarice said to no one in particular. “I can hardly curb my excitement.”
    She followed Janine, each weary step miming the resignation of a death row prisoner in a thirties movie, trudging toward the electric chair. Recalling with some guilt her uncharitable remarks to Charles, Whitney reflected that her best friend deserved a better friend.
    Alone with Peter in the guesthouse, Whitney described Clarice’s painful sacrifice. “Maybe Clarice will meet a guy,” he suggested helpfully. “To hear your mom, Janine draws them like flies.”
    “Does that include you?”
    He lay back, head propped on his pillow, as though considering the question. “Can’t see it, Whit. Your sister wears me out. There’s nothing peaceful about her.”
    “But to look at?” Whitney persisted.
    “Maybe for some other guy. But to me she looks unreal, like some girl in a perfume ad. Now if you asked me about Clarice . . .”
    “She’s not interested,” Whitney cut in tartly. “At least not yet. She’d want to be sure you’d ripen into a titan of Wall Street. Besides, I hear she’s a real taskmaster in bed.”
    Peter sat up, resting on his elbow. In feigned challenge, he said, “You don’t think I’m up to it?”
    “I don’t know yet,” Whitney said, and felt champagne and wine overcome her reticence. “She might want you to use your tongue.”
    He looked up at her in surprise, intrigued and a bit embarrassed. “You guys actually talk about that?”
    It was too late to back off, Whitney realized. Sitting beside him, she said primly, “In a scholarly sort of way.”
    Peter took her hand. Hesitant, he offered, “You’d like that, I guess.”
    Whitney felt herself flush. “I think so. After all, you’re the only guy I’ve been with.”
    Peter’s face softened. “I know that. But I can’t do it while you’re dressed.”
    Squeezing his hand, Whitney stood to lower the blinds and close the curtain. A single lamp cast shadows across the brass bed. She sat beside him again, wordless.
    Kissing her gently, Peter reached for the zipper on the back of her dress. “I’ve never done this.”
    “I know.”
    Naked, they lay facing each other, Peter’s lips brushed her nipples, then her stomach. Lying back, Whitney opened her legs.
    Tentative, Peter moved his head. She felt his tongue flick once, withdraw, then flick again. Sensing his reluctance, Whitney tried to aid her own excitement by imagining a stranger who had no inhibitions. That she could summon no image but Peter frustrated yet comforted her.
    At last, eyes shut tight, she began to feel the pleasure she had hoped for, murmuring softly. Misunderstanding, Peter stopped. For a moment, Whitney tensed in frustration. Then she stretchedher limbs and then reached out for him, concealing her disappointment. They had a lifetime, after all.
    Later, they lay holding hands as they gazed up into semidarkness. “Do you think I’m a coward?” he asked.
    Whitney tried to decipher this. “About the draft? It’s me who’s the coward, sweetheart. I can’t imagine losing you.”
    Peter rolled onto his side, looking into her face. “But what must your dad think? After all, he served in World War II.”
    Whitney chose not to mention how much the draft had