The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  When the host turns the conversation toward social issues, the questions become more volatile. Family values and abortion rights, welfare reform and health care funding.

  I swallow a thousand cotton balls and volley the right words back, carefully phrasing my answers to ensure they won’t be misconstrued in editing cuts.

  But the victory is hollow. Both Jared and Sasha are angry with me. I’ve got more skeletons than clothes in my closet. And no matter how good a face I put on during this talk show, I know the other shoe is about to drop.

  ***

  Sasha marches into my office on Monday and flicks on the TV in the corner. Cable news roars to life as she boosts the volume.

  I hit save on my laptop and push back from my desk, taking my cup of tea to the small sofa. “What is it?”

  Sasha remains standing. “Just watch.”

  Ours is an uneasy truce. I turned in a decent performance on the talk show and came back from New York to see a two-point jump in the polls this morning. Sasha pointed out that’s within the margin of error, but it’s something.

  Right now, I need something positive to keep me grounded. To keep me going.

  The commercial ends and motion graphics take us back to the headline news anchor, she of the gleaming-white teeth and Botoxed forehead. An unflattering photo of Shep, his eyes cutting to the side and his face looking gaunt and haggard, appears over the anchor’s right shoulder.

  “To recap, new information that has yet to be confirmed by the Conover-Colton campaign reveals that Shep Conover may have a secret family,” the anchorwoman reports. “Hospital intake records indicate that in 1972, he was named as the father of an infant born in Branson, Missouri, to an unmarried woman identified only as Mary, listed as indigent.”

  I blink, frozen in place. God, Shep looks guilty. We’ve been picked apart by the Republicans over family values, and now this.

  “Conover was unmarried at the time. However, his name does not appear on any birth certificate for a baby born at that hospital in that timeframe and no supporting documents are available to connect him to a birth,” the anchor continues. Stock video pans the exterior of the Branson hospital. “Hospital officials won’t confirm whether the document is official, since it falls under health privacy laws, and repeated calls to the Conover campaign have not been returned.”

  Sasha snorts. “Repeated calls. They didn’t give us ten minutes before they took this live.”

  I turn to her, my wide eyes begging for truth. “Is this … real?”

  She shrugs. “Every campaign has a meltdown moment. This is ours.”

  The anchorwoman continues, “A Jackson-Sharp spokesman issued a brief statement: ‘If Conover can’t be honest about his own family history, how can America trust him to lead our country in a morally upright way?”

  “Where’s Jared?” My heart goes out to him, imagining he’s caught in a swarm of media bees, each intent on stinging new information out of him.

  “With Shep. In Missouri. He just called me.”

  I don’t miss the fact the he called Sasha, not me. “We need to go there.”

  “And miss your one-on-one with the Times? I don’t think so.”

  I stand, squaring my shoulders. “This isn’t just politics. This is personal. Someone had to do a hell of a lot of digging for that information. This is timed to hurt Shep in the worst possible way and I need to be there for him. To stand up with him.” I turn back to my desk and grab my laptop and a few papers.

  Sasha’s still rooted to the spot, her arms crossed. “I can’t let you fuck up this campaign just because Shep’s got some personal garbage to get through.”

  “I’m not fucking anything up,” I tell her, and deep in my gut I know I’m doing the right thing. “Trust me on this.”

  ***

  The news cycle spins full-tilt while we’re in the air and Sasha remains glued to the channels, flicking among them and taking notes. She’s in full damage control mode.

  I fire off a series of emails, including an apology to the Times reporter—I make it good—and a note to Jared that we’re on our way.

  My stomach twists and bunches with the turbulence on the plane. I’m drowning in a spiral of secrets and yet I didn’t realize Shep wrestled with his own.

  “Shep’s squeaky-clean,” Jared told me this summer. Did he really believe that, or does he know more?

  We touch down and Sasha spends the ride from the airport to Shep’s Springfield campaign headquarters on the phone. I glean that there will be a press conference, that Shep’s wife of thirty-eight years, Miri Conover, will attend, and that his adult children won’t be there.

  I touch up my makeup on the car ride to the conference site and we make it just in time. The conference room is strewn with chairs, wires crisscrossing the floor between camera units and the podium. I follow Sasha and our press coordinators to a back room where Shep, Miri and Jared are deep in a discussion.

  Sasha signals Jared for an aside. He barely glances at me and I feel colder, alienated. “You ready?” she asks him.

  “We’re going to do the minimum. Personal matter, no questions.”

  “That’s not going to fly. They’re going to hunt this person down and interview the shit out of them.”

  “Doubtful,” Jared says. “Shep thinks he made it go away. Untraceable.”

  “Then how did this come out now?” Sasha flips the cover of her tablet open and shows Jared the screen. “Our numbers are plummeting. Either he comes clean, or he pulls a miracle out of his ass.”

  “Respect, Sasha,” Jared warns her. “He’s going to do this the way he wants to. And I’ve got no reason to push him otherwise. We don’t know who this person is or if he’s got an axe to grind with Shep. We don’t even know if he knows of his connection to Shep.”

  “We don’t even know if the baby was a boy or a girl. But someone’s going to put it together.”

  I pull back from their fierce whispering and grab a bottle of water to settle my churning stomach. I’m not even supposed to be speaking at this circus, just standing behind Shep in solidarity, but my insides twist and cramp with nervous anticipation.

  I pull out my phone and scroll through messages, though there’s nothing from Jared. No communication since he left me in the hotel room. I’m wearing the locket, a physical sign of apology, a white flag indicating surrender.

  When Sasha touches my elbow to indicate it’s time to go out in front of the sharks, Jared doesn’t even look at me.

  I climb the stairs up to the small platform at the front of the room on shaky legs, my body in full revolt. I haven’t eaten in ages.

  “I’m here today to share some personal details that I hope you will understand are just that—personal,” Shep begins, his deep, smooth voice quieting the crowd. “It is true that I have four children. Three of them with my beautiful wife Miri, who has stood by my side for thirty-eight years. And one of them I lost.”

  The crowd holds its collective breath and my head swims, as if the air has been sucked from the room. I struggle to focus.

  “I’m not proud of the way things ended with that child’s mother, when I failed to take responsibility for the person who is my first son.”

  My eyes flash to Sasha’s. This is new information—a son. Her expression remains a smooth mask of concentration on Shep.

  He continues, “I can assure you I’ve regretted my decision that estranged me from his mother and forced me out of his life.”

  My adrenaline spikes as I draw parallels, remembering Shep’s reaction when I told him I was pregnant and his insistence that I tell Jared that he is the father of my child. How dare he preach what he didn’t practice? How dare he keep me in the dark from something so fundamental to who he is?

  “We all have secrets. Every one of us.” Shep pauses to let that sink in as he scans the room. My insides clench and whirl as his gaze lands on me. “The question is how we live with them, what we do to make them right, or if we go on living in the shadows. I
’ve made amends to that child and to his mother in every way I know how. And I’ll thank you to leave my family to heal in privacy as you consider how to live with your secrets.”

  The room shifts and tilts, my vision narrowing to the pinpoints of light that illuminate the stage. I drag a breath into my lungs but it hitches and my throat closes. My knees buckle.

  Another sharp pain pierces me, and then blackness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “We have to call a family member,” a woman’s voice argues. “You’re not authorized to make medical decisions for her.”

  “We have a power of attorney on file.” Sasha’s whisper is low but insistent, permeating the haze in my brain.

  “But it doesn’t authorize you. It authorizes Jared Rankin.” the voice answers.

  “He’s no longer her campaign manager. I am. And that means I decide. You’re not contacting her mother.”

  I crack an eye open and see a nurse, arms folded, doing battle with Sasha. “Why don’t we just bring Mr. Rankin in here and have him decide?”

  “He can’t. He’s not aware of the full extent of … the situation.”

  “I’m here,” I croak.

  Sasha whirls to face me, her expressions morphing from anger to relief to frustration. “Good.” She turns back to the nurse. “Let’s give the congresswoman a little while to gather her wits and then let her decide the best course of action.”

  “I’ll send in the doctor.” Thwarted, the nurse stomps out of the room.

  I blink to clear the cobwebs from my mind, my head pounding with pain. I lick my dry lips and try to form a question. “What … what’s happening?”

  “You fainted. Fell off the stage and hit your head.” Sasha smiles ruefully. “Way to make a scene. No better time to end Shep’s press conference.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “The clip’s already got a hundred thousand views on YouTube. Your name might be Grace, but you were anything but graceful.” She chuckles and I can tell she’s stalling, trying to cheer me up before the next blow.

  “But—?”

  “But you lost some blood. The doctors are trying to figure out if your pregnancy is … still viable.”

  My heart stops. The room blurs and the monitors intensify, blaring their beep … beep … beep so I can hear nothing else. I blink again, seeing Sasha’s lips move, but not hearing her words.

  Viable. As if my baby were a medical condition, a switch to be flipped, an issue to be dealt with.

  Tears slide down my face and I can only form one word. “Jared?”

  “He doesn’t know, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s got his hands full with Shep. Considering where you two left things, I figured I’d be the best person to be in the room with you right now.”

  I reach out and squeeze her hand. “Are you still pissed at me?”

  “I’m over it. You can’t have both me and Jared mad at you.” Sasha shrugs, her normally prickly bitchface relaxing. “It would make moving forward with this campaign impossible. I promised I was in your corner. Always. So I’ve got Mac and Eric running interference at the door, keeping everyone else out, until you’re ready.”

  “Is Jared … here?”

  “No. I told him not to come.” She sits in the chair by my bedside and scoots closer to me. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  “No one does, except you and Shep and Mama Bea.”

  “If … if you miscarry, you never have to tell him,” Sasha says quietly. Her words cut me to the core, pragmatic and awful. “Maybe the time isn’t right. Maybe this is your body saying it can’t handle a baby and a campaign all at once.”

  I shake my head, hating that a decision can be reduced to this. “It isn’t right. I know I fucked up, not telling him. It was like I was frozen, and he had to say the magic words.”

  “Which are?”

  “That he wants to have a child. With me.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not something he’d volunteer out of the blue. I know how he’s built. He hedges bets. He doesn’t give more than he can pull back at any moment. The fact that you’re even in a relationship with him is kind of a miracle, considering his track record.”

  My eyes widen, searching her face for more details.

  Sasha backpedals. “I’m sorry I said that. Let history be history. The point is, you’re never going to get those magic words, or anything close, unless you outright tell him.”

  “And then what?” I’m begging for reassurance.

  “Then let the chips fall. Either he’s in or he’s out, and then you’ve got a whole slew of decisions to make. But it’s not fair to assume he’ll react one way just because of his past. You never know—maybe having a deadbeat dad will make him want to be a good father.”

  A light knock at my door makes Sasha sit up straight and I turn to see a tall man in a goatee and doctor’s coat, clipboard in hand.

  “Congresswoman Colton, how are you feeling?”

  “Like shit,” I confess. Sasha chuckles at my curse.

  “You got a nasty gash from your fall, so I imagine that’s pretty accurate.” He steps to the side of my bed opposite Sasha and inspects my scalp, pressing it so I hiss in pain. “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being unbearable pain, how bad is it?”

  “Six. But it’s a twenty-six when you touch it.”

  He makes a note on his chart. “You’re due for another dose of painkillers, so we’ll get those to you as quick as we can. You didn’t need sutures, just a bit of glue.”

  “You glued my head?” I stare at him. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. You’d be surprised how well superglue works for certain injuries.”

  I shake my head but it amplifies the pain, so I force myself to lean back on my pillow and take a few breaths to until the throbbing subsides. “What about … my baby?”

  The doctor wheels a stool over and takes a seat so he’s at eye level with me. “Would you like to speak about this privately?” He eyes Sasha.

  I reach for her hand and she clasps mine, squeezing. “No. She can stay. She knows everything and I’d rather have her here with me.” I exchange looks with her and a small smile forms on her lips, like a sister who shares my secrets. She nods a silent thank you.

  “There’s a rupture in your uterine wall. We’re not certain if this pregnancy is viable.”

  My blood goes cold and I shrink in the bed, the hospital’s sharp sting of antiseptic invading my senses. Suddenly my hospital gown is scratchy, the IV tube taped to the back of my hand throbbing, and I want to claw my way out of here. To escape.

  A sob builds in my chest and I choke it back, desperately trying to hold panic at bay. “How will you know?”

  “We’d need to keep you here on observation. There are no guarantees. We have a heartbeat, so that’s encouraging.”

  A heartbeat. Proof that my child is real—and at risk. “What do I have to do?” My question is a prayer and a promise. Anything. I’ll do anything to keep it.

  “It’s early enough in your pregnancy that if this compromises your health further, you will need to decide whether to continue with the pregnancy. We count anyone over thirty-five as a geriatric pregnancy, so you’re in a high-risk category.”

  I snort. “Geriatric?”

  The doctor’s smile reveals gleaming white teeth and he holds up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “There’s no choice here, doctor. I’m keeping this baby,” I tell him fiercely.

  “Then you’re going to need to stay on bed rest for at least the next several days and possibly for a matter of weeks. Considering your candidacy…” He trails off, but the message is clear.

  If I go back to this crazy pace on the campaign trail, I could lose my child.

  Sasha clears her throat. “There doesn’t need to be a candidacy.”

  I spin to look at her, disbelief painted all over my face. “Is Shep—?”

  “No, Shep’s fine. Licking his wounds but soldiering on to November.
I mean you. If what you want is this child, then we have to seriously consider a new running mate. Shep will understand. There’s no way you can campaign from this bed.”

  The doctor stands, his news delivered. “I’m going to see about those painkillers. I’ll leave you to decide what’s best.” He strides to the door, then pauses. “For what it’s worth, Congresswoman Colton, I love your moxie.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bed rest would have sounded fantastic when I was dead on my feet after a sixteen-hour day.

  But after sixteen hours with nothing but painfully slow Wi-Fi on my laptop and soaps on cable, I’m done with it.

  They won’t let me get out of bed except to pee.

  The hospital air makes my sinuses too dry.

  The bed is too hot or too cold, my ass is paralyzed from sitting still, and I’m even irritated by the shape of the ice cubes in my cup.

  The fucking ice cubes.

  Mac and Eric are my lifeline, guarding the door from entry by anyone but Sasha and the medical staff. Mac brings me a stack of trashy magazines and chocolate, then Eric tracks down a charger cable for my dead cell phone.

  Twenty-seven new messages.

  More than half of them from Jared.

  Fuck.

  I call Aliza with an update to calm her frantic messages after she saw my fall on YouTube.

  “I’ll drop everything and fly out there right this minute,” she offers.

  “No. There’s nothing you can do. Now it’s just a waiting game.”

  Sasha promised me she’d hold news of my condition except to tell the press that I was in good condition and more details would be coming later. Presumably after she’s had time to figure out with Shep and Jared how to replace me.

  I’m bitter at the thought. I’ve poured every ounce of my energy—and every last shred of hope—into this opportunity, only to have it torn from me by this unseen force. This tiny person who is only just surviving in my belly.