Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson Page A

haunted him, or that this had prompted their September wedding. “Dad loves you,” she assured him. “He did this for himself as much as you.” But nothing she said, Whitney knew, could change the uncertainty beneath his careless good looks and prep school air of confidence, or her unspoken reservations about Peter’s attempt to follow her father’s path.
    Quiet, she thought about what had drawn Peter to her. When she had finally dared to ask, months after they had first met, he had said, “To start, I thought you were cute and smart—and quiet, in a nice way, not trying to show off. But pretty soon I realized how special you are.” He paused, trying to find words for feelings deeper than any words he had. “Ever since I met you my life is so much better. To me, no one else could ever be like you.”
    For a time, Whitney had wished that Peter could conjure some magic phrase to make her specialness seem real. But she came to understand that they completed each other. It was Peter who got Whitney out of her books and into nature; he was always up for an adventure—skiing or whitewater rafting, or a hike in the wooded hills of New Hampshire. Generous and open-hearted, he allowed Whitney to see herself not as the less-favored sister, but in the mirror of a lover’s eyes. In turn, Whitney helped him surface thoughts that had been hidden; coaxed him to deal with conflict rather than avoid it; showed him how to prioritize the scholastic demands that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. Someday, Whitney hadhoped, she could help Peter channel his cheerfully competitive nature into a career that was his own.
    Peter understood his lack of clarity. Before taking the job at Padgett Dane, he had mused on this aloud. “I’m not sure where I’m going,” he confessed. “Whenever I picture the future, I see a comfortable house, and kids and weekends on the Vineyard, golfing or walking the beach or sailing with other couples. What’s harder to come up with is what I do from nine to six on weekdays. When I’m on the lacrosse field, or with friends, I know what I’m about. But pretty soon I won’t.”
    For Whitney, this kindled a new thought. “Did you ever think about coaching?”
    Peter looked perplexed. “Not really. Growing up, everyone I saw was like my dad or yours. The only coaches I knew were the ones I had.”
    “But you liked them, right?”
    “The good ones, sure. They encouraged me in all sorts of ways.”
    Whitney felt the stray thought ripening. “It just feels like you, Peter. Maybe you should consider it.”
    But now, Whitney thought as she lay beside him, their future was resolved—free from the uncertainties against which Charles had protected them. For another wistful moment, she wished that the current of her life were not moving quite so swiftly.
    “When you imagine our life,” she asked him, “how do you imagine
me
?”
    The question seemed to puzzle him. “As my wife,” he answered. “As a mom. Helping me the way you always do. You’re in every picture I come up with.”
    “But not at work. The Dane in that picture is my dad. So what am
I
doing between nine and six?”
    Peter frowned. “I guess you’re reading, or with the kids, or girlfriends. What my mom did.”
    “That’s a role, Peter, not a person. And I’m certainly not your mom.”
    Peter scanned her body. “God, I hope not,” he said with a quiver of feigned horror. “I’ve never seen Mom naked. But seriously, what do you want to do?”
    Whitney hesitated. “A lot of the things you mentioned, I’m sure. But maybe I’ll try to write.”
    “Write what?”
    Uncertain, Whitney struggled to describe an image of herself so tenuous that it seemed beyond her gifts. “Stories,” she confessed. “Things I just make up out of what I know or see.”
    “Will you have time for that?”
    “Hard to imagine, isn’t it? But maybe I can give up bridge club.”
    Peter laughed out loud. “Touché, Miss Dane. Would you like me to