We’re halfway through, and Ivanka Trump remains as much of a mystery as ever. Like Hillary Clinton, she has a West Wing office, and like Nancy Reagan, she has a wondering, matchless fealty to the president. She would never snatch her hand away from his, like Melania did; she would never even roll her eyes, like the Obama girls did, when they had grown tired of the turkey pardon. To Ivanka, God help us, Donald Trump is the measure of a man.
In Washington, she is known as a good dinner partner, interesting and interested, her golden beauty enhanced by candlelight and crystal. Old friends and former teachers remember her as thoughtful, hardworking, smart. Tabloid parents usually produce a tabloid child, but Ivanka has spent her life taking careful steps, and Trump could do far worse—often has done far worse—in appointing someone to a White House position. Ivanka’s no Bobby Kennedy, but neither is she Omarosa. You could spend a thousand hours in a thousand conversations with her, and she will never, ever criticize the president. Her fealty to him is absolute—as is her brothers’ and sisters’ loyalty to her. Even sibling rivalry, rich with potential in this family of three mothers and two immolating divorces, is subsumed in the family certainty: Ivanka is our treasure.