So why tell her this? And could it be true? Tiffany was watching, waiting for a reaction. She was determined to say nothing, just in case Tiffany was reporting back to someone. She always suspected intrigue among Donald’s children — and she would not tell Donald about this, not yet; she would first discuss it with her mother. Whether it was true or not, this was a morsel to be saved, molded, used in the best way.

“I must get ready for my Pilates, Tiffany,” she said firmly. “See you in Cleveland.”

Donald called just after she ordered the orchids. He had some meetings, but his big event of the day was a luncheon organized by the Republican National Committee.

“How is it going?” she asked.

“Great. Did you see the polls, honey? Can you believe this?” His voice had an ebullient pitch. He still did not entirely believe this was happening — his lead in the polls, the new veneer of being taken seriously. She could tell from the disbelieving urgency of his actions, and from the way he flipped through cable channels and scanned newspapers for his name.

“Remember I told you: You will win,” she said.

She always tried to sound casually believing, as if the polls were merely incidental, and her faith had conjured his victory. But she was as startled by his rise as he was.

When she had first told him “you will win,” that balmy day in Florida last year, drinking Diet Coke in tennis whites, she had meant he would win at what he wanted: the publicity, the ego polish. It would help his TV show, and impress those business associates tickled by fame. But she had never meant he would actually win the Republican primary, nor had she expected the frenzy of media coverage he received. Americans were so emotionally young, so fascinated by what Europeans knew to be world-weary realities. They were drawn to Donald’s brashness and bluster and bullying, his harsh words, even the amoral ease with which untruths slid out of his mouth. She viewed these with a shrug — he was human, and he had his good points, and did Americans truly not know that human beings told lies? But they had followed him from the beginning, breathlessly and childishly. There were days when every television channel she switched to had his image on the screen. They did not understand that what he found unbearable was to be ignored, and for this she was grateful, because being in the news brought Donald the closest he could be to contentment. He would never be a truly content person, she knew this, because of that primal restlessness that thrummed in him, the compulsion to prove something to himself that he feared he never would. It moved her, made her feel protective. Even the way he nursed his grudges, almost lovingly, unleashing in great detail slights from 20 years ago, made her protective of him. She often felt, despite the age gap of more than two decades, that she was older than Donald. Her response to his agitations was a curated series of soothing murmurs. Be a little calmer, she told him often. In bed, she had learned to gauge Donald and know when he expected her to gasp. On nights when she did not have the mental energy to act, she would tell Donald, “It is not a good night today,” and he would kiss her cheek and leave, because he liked her air of delicate mystery.