by J J Arias
“George,” Josephine started as she leaned over and gripped her clammy hand. “Has there ever been a story I couldn’t spin?” she asked, a single eyebrow raised in question. “Remember when you were running for your second term as city commissioner and spent all that time and money preparing for Y2K?” she asked with a knowing smirk.
She allowed her shoulders to relax. “And you made that jerk Hoffman look like a tool for not caring about the possibility of a technological apocalypse.”
“And that was after it turned out not a damn thing happened when January 1, 2000, rolled around,” she finished. “But the only thing people remembered was that Hoffman was a lazy luddite and you were proactive in coming up with a contingency plan to keep your constituents safe if the worse should happen.”
George nodded. Jo had managed more than a few miracles in the last twenty years. But how could she possibly spin this? To the outside world, she was in a conventional marriage. Her husband wasn’t expected to be carousing with gorgeous strippers, or even homely ones.
“Just give me a little time. I’ll find out more about the girl and you’ll see, we’ll come up with something,” Josephine promised.
“You’re right,” she confirmed, refusing to let her thoughts race ahead to images of defeat and open mockery. It wouldn’t do to be anywhere but the present.
George pulled out her own phone and shot a text to Nathan, telling him to get straight home and not speak to anyone. Then she started reading everything she could find online about the freshly minted scandal. The only way over it was through it, and the longer they waited to put out an official response, the worse it would look.
* * *
An ornate security gate with the state seal fashioned out of wrought iron in the center rolled noisily open to allow the black SUV inside. George stared out from the backseat as the car took its familiar trek. If she failed to win re-election, her days of ambling up the bumpy cobblestone were numbered. A pit grew in her stomach. She wasn’t ready to stop calling this place home.
The Governor’s Mansion, a grand exercise in colonial revivalism, loomed large at the end of the long, circular driveway. Red brick covered the sprawling building, with white shutters flanking the more than thirty windows. Roman pillars extended from the ground through to the second-floor balcony. From the moment she’d crossed the threshold, George was at home. The mantle of leadership was her reward for fierce determination and hard work. She couldn’t sit idly by and let it slip through her fingers. She would clutch it more tightly than ever before. No. She would win. By any means necessary.
“Good evening, Governor,” a man in a black suit greeted as he held open the front door. The grand foyer, a testament to Floridian decor, had remained unchanged since the 1960s.
George replied with a strained smile before breezing past the stuffy entrance. She maintained a casual pace down the long corridor with various publicly accessible rooms. As soon as she was out of sight of most staff, she took the private stairs two at a time up to Nathan’s side of the private wing.
“It’s not what you think,” Nathan, his neat but thinning blond hair a stark contrast to his dark, stubble-covered chin, bolted from his favorite armchair near the window overlooking the vast garden. “I didn’t think anyone had any idea I was there,” he explained, his dull blue eyes imploring her to believe him.
“How could you take such a risk?” she asked, unable to understand his negligence.
“Georgie, I’m really sorry,” he replied, shaking his head. “It was for Chuck’s birthday. The guy promised me complete privacy, but the garage—”
“I’m glad you felt comfortable placing my future in the hands of some guy,” she snapped impatiently. Her pulse shifted from a gallop to a sprint as she paced the sitting room. Nathan’s explanation was not nearly as reasonable as she’d hoped.
“Hey.” He caught her wrist and stopped her from completing another loop around the coffee table. “Listen, I am sorry,” he added softly. “You know I’d never intentionally—”
“I know,” she replied after a long exhale. Nathan had always been a devoted friend and their arrangement wasn’t always easy on him. “I know,” she repeated as the tension eased from her shoulders. “This is just such a bad time.”
She reclined in the chaise lounge like a Victorian lady taking refuge on a fainting couch.
Nathan sat across from her on the floral print sofa.
“Well,” she said as she massaged the back of her neck, “was she worth it? I thought you were still seeing that woman in Minneapolis.”
“I am,” he replied.
George raised a sculpted eyebrow. “So why were you leaving that place with an exotic dancer?”
“You’ll never believe it,” he said as he took great pains to unsuccessfully stifle a chuckle. “She has political aspirations and wanted some advice about where to start,” he explained with a shrug. “Actually, she’s a Goode Girl who recently graduated from your alma mater.”
George narrowed her eyes at his amusement. “Well, isn’t that a fantastic connection. I’m sure the media will have a field day when they discover that little tidbit,” she said as she pressed her fingers against her eyelids.
“She’s wicked smart. Phi Beta Kappa, Magna Cum Laude - all that jazz,” he added as he leaned against the armrest. “We spent quite a while chatting.”
George stared at him through one squinting eye. “Oh, and when did she tell you that? When she was waving her G-string in your face?”
Nathan laughed. “And when was the last time you had a G-string in your face?”
George resisted the urge to throw something at him, muttering a curse under her breath instead.
* * *
Despite a long walk with her dogs and a vigorous thousand-meter swim in the pool, George failed to outrun her worries. The news cycle had shifted its focus to an electrical fire at a local high school for the night, but she was sure the vultures would be circling her soon. In yoga pants and a loose sweater, thinned from decades of use since freshman year, George slipped into her second favorite place in the world.
The library, her wood-paneled Shangri-La, waited for her like an old friend. Under a canopy of tray ceilings and embrace of thousands of books, George shuffled to the cart stocked with aged bourbon. Cleo and Victoria wasted no time rushing to their beds on either side of the huge unlit fireplace, where the ornate, stone mantle held her personal pictures.
“Better make that two,” Josephine said as she closed the French door behind her. It was an excess of caution. No one would dare disturb them there. In the partially public home, the gym, library, and bedrooms were the only areas off-limits to anyone outside George’s extremely small inner circle.
Without so much as glancing over her shoulder at the unexpected company, George opened the mini freezer next to the cart and retrieved another large square of ice.
“That bad, huh?” she murmured, handing Jo the partially filled glass.
“Well,” Josephine replied after a sip, “it could be worse,” she added in a typical display of optimism.
George slipped a leg under herself as she sat in the brown leather armchair across from Josephine, who’d taken her usual seat at the corner of the matching couch across from her. Surrounded by the silence of the tomes, George reviewed the dossier Jo had managed to put together in a matter of hours.
Stapled to the inside cover of the manila folder was the woman’s picture. The woman whose existence had become a threat to George’s career. Mila Dortch. She read the name printed at the top of the file before scanning her strong, angular face framed by a straight, blonde bob and icy blue eyes. In a different life, she would’ve found her absolutely stunning, but all she could see was a massive problem. As she debated whether the young woman looked familiar, Josephine’s smoky voice derailed her thoughts.
“On paper she looks quite intelligent,” she said as she pulled out college transcripts for George to peruse. “Graduated last semester with high hono
rs.”
“Mid-twenties is a little long in the tooth for college, isn’t it? Why did it take her eight years?” she asked, guessing how old she probably was when she graduated high school.
“Looks like there was a gap before she started, and she’s been going part-time. My investigator made a note about a sick parent. Her mother died when she was young. I’ll dig deeper, but that might explain the break,” she said as she made a note in her phone. “She’s got a clean history without so much as a parking ticket, political science major, sterling credit, and hasn’t taken a single loan in her life,” she rattled off the information attainable with a thorough background check.
George closed the file and tossed it onto the coffee table between them. “That would be admirable, if she’d chosen a different job.”
“It could be worse,” Jo repeated with a shrug. “At least she’s a registered independent,” she added before pulling off her blazer and relaxing into the backrest.
“Oh no.” George swallowed hard. “What are you thinking?” Anytime Josephine started rolling up her sleeves she knew it was about to get serious.
“Hear me out,” she started, sending George’s stomach plummeting. “It’s been a year since we instituted the future leader’s immersive program. She applied the last time it was open. What if this well-qualified applicant was among this year’s lucky scholars?”
“How would that help?” George asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Nathan was there to extend the good news in person,” Jo explained with a self-satisfied grin curling the corner of her mouth.
“Why wasn’t he seen making this personal invitation anywhere else?”
“Well, someone has to be first,” she replied with a shrug. “It’s no one’s fault the media happened to spot him when he’d only just begun.”
George drained her drink without savoring it. “You don’t think it’ll come off as a little too convenient?”
“She applied along with thousands of other hopefuls. That’s easily verifiable. She does meet the admission requirements for the program. The positions are funded by a private trust set up by a long-dead governor, so there’s no public money to follow. I don’t anticipate even the appearance of impropriety,” she added confidently.
George was silent as she mulled over the possibility. Could bringing her in make it worse? The comments might die down if she remained connected to them.
“What about her job, Jo? I mean, how are we going to address that? I can just hear the mockery and the outrage.”
“This girl,” Jo pointed at the folder, “has paid her own way through college while working a legal, full-time job. She probably started doing it to care for her widowed parent during an illness. I would dare anyone to try and shame her for that in this political climate.”
George’s bright, brown eyes flashed with a sparkling blaze of possibility. “You really could sell anything. I don’t know how Marcel ever wins a fight with you,” she added with a throaty chuckle before standing to refill their empty glasses.
“Who says he does?” she replied with a laugh. “So, what do you think?” she asked as she accepted the fresh glass.
George dropped into her chair with a sigh. “Who’s to say that she’d even go along with it? What if she doesn’t accept? Or worse, goes to the press with an account of our bribery in exchange for her cooperation?”
Josephine clinked their glasses together as if they’d just celebrated a rousing toast. “You leave that to me, alright?” She drank the whole drink in a gulp before standing.
“Where are you going?” George asked as she followed her to the door with her eyes.
“There are usually five young adults in the program. I’m off to inform the other lucky four,” she replied with a wink before disappearing, leaving George alone with her dogs and her thoughts.
Chapter Three
“I didn’t know this was zoned for residential use,” the driver commented as he drove the black town car through the manufacturing sector turned art district.
“It hasn’t,” Josephine informed him as she glanced up from her phone and out the back passenger window. Acres of long abandoned industrial buildings had found new lives as art studios, shops for artisanal wares, and nightlife. The rusted steel had been painted over with bright murals and lawfully sanctioned graffiti. At the center, what used to be a lumber yard had been converted to an expansive community garden, compete with vegetable patches, fruit trees, and a bee and butterfly sanctuary.
“Stop at the end of the block,” she instructed when they turned the corner.
“Creamatorium,” he muttered as he parked in front of an ice cream shop with a Day of the Dead theme. “The indecency.”
“These are certainly not our base supporters,” she remarked, her eyes tracking a pair of man-buns atop two thin lumberjacks who, despite their blue-collar get-ups, had clearly never seen a day of manual labor in their lives. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Humidity and the scent of cold-drip, single-source coffee blasted Josephine in the face as soon as she emerged from the cool confines of the car. After a series of galleries, a record store, and a vintage toy shop, she came to a closed loading dock.
Where she expected a door to an apartment building, Josephine found a rolled down metal sheet painted with the image of Albert Einstein in a 1920s flapper dress. Looking for the entrance, she looped around the sealed warehouse before ending up back where she started.
“Looking for someone?” a voice asked.
Josephine turned toward the sound to find a young woman, her straight, blonde hair cut in a long bob. Despite her visible perspiration, yoga outfit, and the mat rolled under her arm, she was perfectly composed. “Ms. Dortch.” She smiled. “Just the woman I’m here to see.”
Dazzling blue eyes dropped to Jo’s feet before springing up to her face. She’d never been so thoroughly examined by a person twenty years her junior.
“My name is—”
“I know who you are,” Mila interrupted. “Which is lucky for you because I would have given you the slip like the so-called journalists who’ve been trying to get me on the record,” she added, unfazed, as if important people turned up on her doorstep on a regular basis.
Without further comment, she turned and led Josephine through a painted door and up a narrow set of stairs. By the third landing, Josephine ditched her struggle to keep up and paused to recline against the bannister. Convinced the workbag she’d been carrying had been replaced with bricks, she dropped it on the floor. Catching her breath couldn’t have been harder if she’d been dunked underwater.
“Just one more,” Mila encouraged as she picked up her bag for her and started back up the steps.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, pushing through the burning in her legs and stitch in her side. By the time Josephine made it to the top, one of the three apartment doors was open and Mila was on her way back to her with a bottle of cold water. “Thanks,” she managed unevenly.
“I was hoping Governor Fernandez would come herself,” she said as she showed Josephine into her large studio. Despite her use of the word hope, Mila’s cool exterior reflected little in the way of excited desire.
Josephine was still working on catching her breath as she scanned her surroundings. Where the buildings outside had been an explosion of color and kitsch, the inside of Mila’s home was an ultra-modern exercise in minimalist design. White walls and dark hardwood floors were the feature of the sparsely furnished space. Josephine guessed the scant furnishings were not for lack of funds; the pieces appeared expensive and deliberately selected to fit the same style.
“Well, I come bearing her message,” she replied after taking a seat on a thin, black leather couch where Mila had placed the traitorous workbag.
“Let me guess. She wants to pay me off,” Mila asserted calmly as she sat at the other end of the sofa, one leg tucked under the other. Despite the carefree position, her posture was straight and her shoulders back with an air of pr
ide.
The certainty with which she spoke forced a chuckle from an unsuspecting Josephine. “Nothing as sensational as all that. This isn’t a television drama.”
Mila raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I can’t imagine your boss is too thrilled with her husband being connected to a dancer, of all people. She must want this to go away, especially since it came to light just as she announced her re-election.” She frowned slightly. “Senator Blankenship is already having a field day with the news. He’s got a staffer making new memes with the picture daily. Apparently, it’s not always illegal to have your photo taken and used without permission.”
Josephine took a longer than necessary sip of her water as she contemplated Mila’s response. She’d already known Mila was interested in politics, of course; her newly minted college degree told her that much. But she hadn’t guessed how informed she’d be.
“I’m here to offer you something,” she said after quenching her thirst. “You applied some time ago for the future leader’s immersive fellowship program. Are you still interested?”
In response to the question, Mila relaxed into her seat. Despite her stone-cold exterior, she was visibly deliberating the offer. Whatever she had been expecting upon recognizing Josephine, that question obviously hadn’t made it to her list of possibilities.
“I wasn’t selected during the round for which I applied,” she countered, pushing Josephine to admit there was some gamesmanship involved.
“The program was on a temporary hiatus,” Josephine replied with a suppressed smirk as she set her empty drink on the glass coffee table.
“And just my luck, it’s back in full swing?” she asked, her left dimple on display as she smirked knowingly with one side of her mouth.
“You are a very strong applicant,” Josephine admitted as she crossed one leg over the other. “Governor Fernandez wishes to extend you the opportunity to join her new team of fellows for the term, should you be inclined to accept.”