“This isolation gradually leads to widespread discontent among the voters until the alienation is nearly universal. The irony of it all is that the politicians inside the Beltway don’t have a clue. It is only when the voice of the American public becomes louder than the whispers of the lobbyists will the legislators begin to listen. I am counting on you to make a difference.”
Postlewaite was speaking to a group of privileged children, but among them were two types that held his fascination: the children of politicians, and a scattering of those poised and talented offspring of parents of average status, whose presence was made possible by their genius. They had no reason for being there other than their almost cradle-driven ability to bring notice to their talent of working a room and speaking their mind. It was in these prodigies that he privately maintained the most hope.
Out of this class of possibles, he had filtered two young hopes for the future. Max Masterson, the son of his friend Senator John Masterson, was the first offspring of notice, and a fiery girl from South Carolina, Scarlett Conroy, was the other. They were bright, savvy, and promising, and his private focus was on them. The other kids were destined to hold positions of high office, but they didn’t possess that gusto that would propel them to the top.
u ChAPTER FOURTEEN
A visit to the Masterson estate, named Fairlane after automaker henry Ford’s nineteenth-century estate home in Dearborn, Michigan, was a journey into the finer aspects of the past. Luke Postlewaite had driven this path hundreds of times, but he never stopped marveling at how entering through the automated gate made him feel like he was entering a nineteenth-century utopian fantasy. The red bricked driveway wound between huge live oaks, the Spanish moss dripping in light green swatches from the lower branches. In each direction, the natural beauty of the wildlife preserve was enhanced by trees and plants that were indigenous to the eastern United States.
The home of John Masterson, a massive stone castle designed by a team of architects trained in their youth by Frank Lloyd Wright and Buckminster Fuller, spread over a full acre. Perched at the top of a cliff above the Potomac River, the house was surpassed only by the beauty that could be seen through each massive window.
The grandeur of the home was enhanced by the use of state-ofthe-art computer controlled imagery that projected the art of the masters on the walls at preprogrammed intervals. In the foyer, a waterfall flowed under the stairs from the second floor sleeping quarters, giving the impression that the visitor was walking into a Maxfield Parrish‒inspired paradise. The entire back of the home was glass and opened onto a grotto surrounded by flowering plants. A geodesic dome allowed natural light to enter each room and could be adjusted to allow more or less light at the whim of the owner. holographic sculptures appeared to talk as the visitor moved from room to room, quoting inspirational phrases in an intimate whisper that changed on each pass. The effect was a seductive invitation to a sanctuary where the troubles of the world were left behind, and as traditional as the façade appeared, the technological innovations of the interior afforded each visitor a unique experience.
The senator had spent the early years of his ownership of the property restoring the land to the era before Europeans first set foot in the region. his knowledge of native flora and fauna had reached the point where local professors at the surrounding universities’ biology departments could no longer answer his questions, and he resorted to spending occasional afternoons in their online research libraries to satisfy his urge to learn. The plants that he found were rare, but not by their ability to adapt to the environment. They had been scraped from the landscape over centuries of urban development and were gone, for the most part.
A wild turkey ran ahead of his Cadillac Escalade, wary of his intrusion. It ran in a zigzag pattern until it spotted a gap in the sparkleberry bushes and then disappeared as fast as it had come into his path. he slowed, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to savor the feeling of calm escape that the approach provided. he crossed a small bridge over a rocky stream. Then the driveway straightened out, and the pillars appeared. The white of the house contrasted with the green of the trees.
There was no lawn. The senator saw no utility in copying the high maintenance English tradition of converting natural space into a golf course. Instead, he had planted wildflowers, the seeds spread by the sack load, and in the thirty-two years since he had bought the house, they spread to fill the space previously occupied by the previous manicured green space. The lawn had been replaced with the special colors that only those wild seeds could provide. The effect was a palette of colors out of a Monet painting, and at any season of the year, even winter, the colors greeted the eyes of visitors with a special flourish.
he drove past the front entrance and circled around to a large parking garage hidden by a grove of sugar maples. Their leaves had turned bright red with the approaching autumn, providing a flashback to the days he’d spent in college at Ann Arbor, where the smell of burning leaves combined with the distant roar of football fans at Wolverine stadium. But that was forty years ago, and he had to attend to the task at hand. Minuteman Masterson had summoned him to Fairlane for a reason, and he didn’t have the luxury of living in his memories for long.
“Postlewaite, you old goat! You’re late!” The senator stood behind him with his camera equipment slung from his shoulder. he seemed to delight in sneaking up on people, and his bemused smile betrayed his amusement at surprising his longtime friend and campaign advisor.
“You’re the old goat! have you looked in the mirror lately? You look like you just slept under the bridge!” Masterson stood in front of him, dressed in bib overalls, flannel shirt, and work boots. By contrast, Postlewaite’s trademark three-piece suit and bow tie were definitely out of place, and he shed his gold silk tie in one smooth movement, tossing it on the passenger seat as he retrieved his briefcase.
“Come on in! I was about to have some brandy and cider to take the chill out of my bones. Care to join me?” he didn’t bother to wait for a response. he knew that Luke had a weakness for good brandy, and he kept the liquor cabinet well stocked with vintage Armagnac varieties, collected over fifty years by his favorite vintner at the Capitol.
The senator poured, and Postlewaite settled into a chair near the wood fire roaring in the cavernous fireplace. he wasted no time in formalities, as if he was in a hurry to get on with his retirement. On the Senate floor, he was known to go into a rage at filibusters, moving to end discussion and calling the vote within minutes of any long-winded speech. If the words continued beyond his patience, he would storm out of the chamber and instruct his legislative assistant to page him on his communicator when the “blowhards,” as he loudly called them, were done “wasting my time and the taxpayers’ money.”
Postlewaite knew that their meeting would be short, direct, and no-nonsense, and he would be out of there within an hour. It must have been important for his old friend to call him out to speak to him in person, he thought, or it would have been handled in summary fashion over the phone.
“Luke, I have been thinking about my own demise.” he paused, and waited for Postlewaite’s bushy brown eyebrows to settle back into their customary position.
“Ten years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. Back then, the doctors said that they could contain it, but they couldn’t remove it without killing me. They did a good job, keeping me going all this time. But now it has metastasized to my lymphatic system, and once it does that, they say I’m a goner. I told them last week that I don’t want to lose my hair or my sex drive, but they told me that chemo wouldn’t work anyway.”
“John, I never knew. You’re my closest friend, and you didn’t tell me a thing.” he paused, considering what he would do if placed in the same situation. John Masterson was a proud man who wouldn’t want well-meaning friends to begin a deathwatch while he had productive years left. Postlewaite pondered the revelation, realizing that he was the only person who knew outside of the team of physicians who had si
lently kept the senator alive for over a decade.
“Well, I always wondered if you were still boinking at your age.”
They both laughed long and hard, until tears streamed down their cheeks. The relief brought by their laughter was like a tonic, making the news easier to take. They were both talking about Adrianna.
“You were one of the few who knew how much I cared for her. I was devastated when she left us.” Masterson stared out the window at a hummingbird, its wings a blur as it hovered over a coneflower.
Postlewaite hesitated for too long before asking the question outright, not wanting to step inside the senator’s mind. It was an unspoken message, and Masterson anticipated that the truth needed to be told. “I loved her, Luke. I just couldn’t commit to marriage, and at some point, she decided that she had waited long enough, but she stuck with me.” he paused and returned to staring at the hummingbird, which apparently had alerted six of the bug-sized birds of the bounty outside the window. They buzzed loudly, their wings flapping faster than the human eye can follow. After a minute of silence, he continued.
“She was happier that evening than I had seen her. Before we took the limo to the party, I took her out in that garden, right there.” he gestured toward the grand vista outside of the windows. “There was a beautiful sunset. I sat her down on that bench there and got down on one knee. I asked her forgiveness for keeping her waiting all of those years, and for the second time that day, I asked her to marry me. They never found the ring. It disappeared at the same moment they took her life from me.” A tear formed, and he looked away, not wanting to show his emotions. It was a feeble attempt, but the senator was unaccustomed to revealing a crack in his composure. Postlewaite took the opportunity to speak, softening the moment for his old friend.
“John, I loved her, too, you know that. I kicked myself for introducing her to you after your reelection party, and the only reason I didn’t kick your ass for stealing her away from me was the way she looked at you . . .” Now they were both reminiscing about her. They hadn’t spoken of Adrianna since her funeral six years before.
A photo of Adrianna, flanked by Masterson and Postlewaite, revealed the three in happier times. It showed them smiling and tanned in the back of a fishing boat. Adrianna had just landed a huge marlin, which was stretched lengthwise at their feet. Even then she had her head turned toward Masterson as he stared directly into the lens. The object of her adoration was unmistakable.
“To this day, I swear that bomb was meant for me. Why would someone want to kill her? She was a beautiful soul without an enemy in the world.” Masterson took a long sip of brandy. This time, he drank it straight. his standby cider sat unused in a pitcher on ice. “Sober times sometimes call for strong spirits,” he remarked as the brandy had its desired effect.
he replayed the memory in his mind once again. A bomb had exploded at a black-tie party attended by most of their peers, sponsored by the Patriot Group. It was an intimate gathering, not more than fifty. Masterson was there with Adrianna and had excused himself to confront a party crasher who he had seen standing close to her, whispering in her ear as she stood across the room. he noticed that the man looked like one of Pryor’s assistants, a man known in political circles by the name of “Darkhorse.” Can’t be. He wouldn’t show his face in this crowd, Masterson had thought. As he approached the dance floor, he noticed that the man who had spoken to her was moving quickly toward the main entrance, and he took off in pursuit.
As Masterson reached the outer hall, he saw the figure bounding up the escalator toward the exit door. his pursuit ended when the metal door slammed shut, and as he turned to reenter the ballroom the explosion came and the lights went out.
his next recollection had come from the hospital bed, where he had lain unconscious for more than a day. “Three lie dead, scores injured in Patriot Bombing” ran the banner heads and cut-lines from the major news agencies. Masterson found out that Adrianna was dead by the media account on the internet, who described her as “Senator John Minuteman Masterson’s beautiful longtime companion.” No mention of her unique and wonderful spirit or her intelligence. Just that she was pleasing to the eye, and the senator had kept her around.
Neither his doctors nor his friends had the guts to break the news of her death. he had to see it on the internet from the surveillance video every twenty minutes for three days. he finally filtered out the news account. he had memorized every second, but he didn’t want to relive the horror of it all, as if turning it off would stop the constant replay in his mind.
Max was nineteen when she died. he was off at school when news of her death hit the airwaves, and he was on a plane within an hour. he didn’t take it well. She was the first woman he had ever loved, from the moment he had been placed in her arms. She had tutored him seven days a week, and they had accompanied the senator on his many trips. Max would have a room in the hotel suite, and Adrianna slept with his father. Sometimes late at night, he could hear their lovemaking. It was natural to him, and he developed a natural outlook toward sex as a result. he had lost a mother, teacher, and friend.
They huddled at the grave site in the rain for more than an hour after the other mourners had left, not speaking, just staring. Father and son felt her loss in the same way. They had lost their first love. The father had lost her as a man loves a woman, and the son felt the loss as a child loves a mother. Now the father was doing his best to prepare his son for another loss.
u ChAPTER FIFTEEN
I doubt if I will be around for Max’s thirtieth birthday, and I know I won’t be here for his thirty-sixth.” he paused again, while the eyebrows joined in the middle below the scowl of his advisor’s wrinkled forehead. “Luke, I know that this won’t happen for another fifteen years, but I want to hire you to run Max’s election.” This time, the scowl turned into unabashed surprise.
“Senator, I have been your man for twenty-five years, and you have always been able to count on me to help you run for any seat you chose to pursue, and I’m damn good at what I do.”
“Yes, my friend. That’s why I chose you.”
“I just have one question.” This time it was his turn to pause, and during the break in conversation, he looked at the senator for some sign of dementia that would explain his bizarre statement. Finding none, he proceeded. “Senator, what in Betsy’s brassiere are you talking about?” Luke had a colorful way of describing his feelings about matters at hand.
To dispel any thoughts that he had become suddenly detached from reality, Masterson launched into his plan, detailed and complete, that described his strategy for Max to attain the office of president of the United States. By the time he had concluded, Postlewaite had twenty-three pages of notes. Together with the information wirelessly transferred to his database from the senator’s home database, the plan was complete in every aspect. Together with the material that had been meticulously compiled in anticipation of the meeting, he would leave the Masterson estate with the most innovative and optimistic plan for a campaign that he had ever imagined, even in his youthful forays into politics. he hoped that he would still be around to implement the plan when Max became old enough to actually run for the office.
One aspect of the plan that was glaringly evident was the lack of opportunity given for feedback on the idea. Senator Masterson had a plan, it was his plan, and he knew it was controversial. he didn’t want conventional thinking to mess it all up.
“Postlewaite, I have already transferred your fee into your bank account. I assume you’ll take the job once you see how generous it is. I want you to begin working behind the scenes immediately.”
“But Senator, I can’t start running a campaign fifteen years before the candidate qualifies to run! I have other projects I’m working on! I can’t—”
“I don’t want to hear that you can’t. I only want to hear about how you can. I have hired you on a fifteen-year retainer to devote all of your efforts to the campaign. Oh, and by the way, don’t talk to Max about it
until I have told him he’s running.” Anticipating the outcry, he preempted the response. “I know, I know. he knows I want him to run. he just doesn’t know that I’m serious about it. You know how I get when I set my mind to things.”
Postlewaite smirked and snorted loudly in response. They locked in a mutual gaze that signified that the senator had found a campaign manager. It was irrelevant that the candidate was oblivious that he would be running for president, or that the plan would not be carried out until after its architect was dead.
“how are we going to fund this thing?” Max’s new campaign manager was already working on the clock, which he anticipated would occupy all of his thoughts for the next fifteen years. It was a life-defining job, and he took his goal seriously. If the senator wanted his kid to be president, by God, he was going to deliver. That’s the reason he had been picked for the job.
“I already funded it. The investments will mature one year before Max’s thirty-sixth birthday, and when they vest, they will automatically transfer to the campaign account, and you’ll be rolling.”
u ChAPTER SIXTEEN
When a young man has a beach house in the panhandle of Florida, and he is attending law school in the frigid Midwest, he immediately becomes the companion and best friend of all of his pale classmates. Max didn’t complain. The thought of spending ten days in Florida after a brutal Michigan winter was an abiding dream by the time cabin fever kicked in. his childhood years in Virginia were punctuated by frequent vacations to the Florida beach house, and the annual pilgrimage to Apalachicola meant he would be accompanied by up to twenty of his classmates, male and female.
Although he never pursued women, they seemed to be drawn to him like moths to a candle. his male friends wanted to be around him for that reason, too, even if it meant sleeping on the floor like puppies. The girls got the beds. All except Max. he kept the master suite to himself. The door was open to anyone, unless, of course, he was busy, and he was busiest with Debbie, his default roommate for the duration of his time back in Florida. Debbie was preoccupied with keeping the other girls from visiting, and Max just enjoyed being the object of female attention.
At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) Page 5