I considered what Edwards had said. There was merit to it. I had my own interests in mind as I turned the key to fire up the Suburban and realized that I was the one who had stayed up all night with the senator, watching and planning and scheming. If I stayed close to him, it was possible that I’d accompany him through national campaigns and, ultimately, find a job in the White House.

Sitting behind the wheel of the Chevy, I flicked on the wipers and let them clear the dew off the windshield. With sunrise still more than an hour away, I needed the headlights to get home, but as I drove my future seemed so bright that I could have used some sunglasses.

Two weeks after the election, more than twenty million Americans opened People magazine to find a glamour shot of John Edwards lounging on a sofa in a rust-​colored Ralph Lauren sweater with a gilt-​edged book in his hands. The magazine’s cover announced its annual Sexiest Man of the Year award-winner Brad Pitt-and the senator appeared as Sexiest Politician. (I thought back to the day of the People photo shoot, when the photographer had asked him to roll up his pants legs and stick his legs in the Edwardses’ backyard pool. Elizabeth had refused, saying it wasn’t “presidential.” The staff had just been glad they’d remembered to have the pool cleaned.) The brief article accompanying the photo quoted North Carolina secretary of state Elaine Marshall on his “clean-​cut boyish charm” and noted that Mrs. Edwards said, “I feel very safe in his arms. He’s someone who’s there to protect you. That’s more enduring than someone who just looks good in a suit.”

For weeks, months, and even years to come, John Edwards would face some fairly merciless teasing about the People photo, and he would make a concerted effort to look less youthful and more senatorial. (The right haircut would help enormously.) But in a business where name recognition is essential to survival, his cameo appearance in the “sexy man” issue was priceless. This is because People reaches a huge number of people who never read a serious newsmagazine or tune in to Meet the Press. Short of appearing on a reality TV show, there was no better way to reach these voters than People.

Brody Young took his time.

Cheri’s due date came and went, and when her obstetrician finally decided to induce labor, the little guy still waited a full day to make an appearance. When he finally arrived at 2:40 A.M. on May 26, 2001, he had to torture us a bit-turning blue and refusing to breathe-until the medical team finally got him to take a big gulp of air and say hello to the world. At eight pounds nine ounces, he was a sturdy little guy, and Cheri, with her background in neonatal and pediatric nursing, seemed to me to be the most attentive mother in the world. She would need all of her strength and expertise, because in her first few months as a mother, life was going to challenge her in some extraordinary ways.

At the time Brody was born, our house was undergoing a major renovation. When we brought the baby home, we had access to the basement and the second floor, but the first floor, including the kitchen, was blocked off with plastic sheeting and the walls had been taken down to the studs. In the same period, my job was becoming even more demanding, and the senator and his family had come to rely on me-and reward me-in new ways. I was not just the senator’s aide. In his eyes, I was a friend, and we spent increasing amounts of time hanging out like a couple of buddies. I knew that unlike Mrs. Edwards, the senator was not insatiably curious about policy and public affairs. She might read briefing books to relax. He liked to lie on the couch and watch stupid movies like Tommy Boy with Chris Farley or sports.

We went regularly to UNC basketball games together, usually taking our kids and giving Cheri and Elizabeth the nig Fht off. If we were traveling, I would call ahead and have the hotel staff tape the game and cue it up on a tape player in his room. If we happened to be at the senator’s beach house on the coast, we’d take a run, buy some ribs, and follow a bunch of superstitious rituals-changing seats or even moving to a different room-that we hoped would bring good luck to the team. In March, we went to Atlanta to watch the 2001 Atlantic Coast Conference tournament. When we checked into the Ritz, the staff thought I must have been with former United Nations ambassador and Atlanta mayor Andrew Young and put me in the presidential suite. The senator quickly suggested I take his regular room and give him the suite, which I did. Duke beat UNC in the finals (by sixteen points-ugh), and after the game, as we eased out of the VIP parking lot in my Suburban, I revved my engine as if I were going to run over Mike Krzyzewski, the Duke coach, as he walked in front of us toward the team bus. “Don’t do it, Andrew!” shouted the senator, and we got a big grin out of Krzyzewski.

For a couple of North Carolina boys, first-​class treatment at the ACC tournament represented the ultimate male bonding experience, and I could feel, as we spent time together, that Edwards considered me a true friend. Occasionally, when he asked me to do something above and beyond the normal call of duty, he’d smile and say something like “You know how much I appreciate everything, Andrew. You aren’t staff, you are family. You know that, right?” He said it like a big brother and with so much casual sincerity that I believed him and would, naturally, do whatever task he might request.

I had worked hard to win the senator’s trust, to become invaluable. And the more I heard about his ambition and dealt with the staff in Washington, the more I began to believe that if I wanted to capitalize on my connection, I would have to leave Raleigh. An opportunity arose days after Brody was born when Will Austin, the scheduler in the senator’s Capitol Hill office, gave notice of his resignation due to a family emergency.

A senator’s scheduler is far more than the keeper of the appointment book. He or she occupies the desk closest to the senator’s private office and is the one who controls who will see him and who will be left waiting. In a business where “face time” is the most valuable currency, the scheduler gets a daily, if not hourly, supply. The scheduler is trusted to know a senator’s whereabouts at all times and becomes the one person relied upon to settle conflicts or enforce a time-​out when the demands get too great. Because of this power, the scheduler can be more important even than the chief of staff, legislative director, or press secretary. Will Austin was a great scheduler because he put the senator’s needs first, juggling appointments and events to accommodate his need for rest and exercise and his low tolerance for boredom. There were times when Edwards would come into the office, tell Will to hold all his calls and meetings, and just close the door. Will kept the hordes at bay.

On the evening after Will had announced he was leaving, I met the senator at the airport in Raleigh. He got into the car, skipped the pat on the shoulder and “Good to see you, Andrew,” and reached for the Chardonnay. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do about Will leaving,” he said. “I don’t have anyone I want to put in there.”

“How about me?” I said without thinking.

“Would you want to do it?”

In fact, I had been thinking about a change for several months. My work in Raleigh had become routine, and I felt I needed a new challenge. I had even started to talk to Cheri about working on Capitol Hill, if only to see if I could keep up with the high-​powered people on the senator’s staff there and make myself available for further advancement. Will’s spot seemed like the perfect option.