January 20, 1993. We were going home. For four extraordinary years, home had been the White House, but when we woke up that morning, it felt like a foreign place. Our bed, along with our tables and chairs, already were in Texas. George had been telling people that I almost had gone, too. He was right. Once we lost the election, I had tried to ignore the hurt and turned my mind toward Houston and a new life.
George, on the other hand, was presidential until the very last moment. He worried about the staff and where they would go. And he had to cope with the larger problems of Iraq, Somalia, and...