by Rachel Cross
He seemed surprised, as if he’d thought she’d beg him to stay, which irked her more.
Keila closed the door behind Mark and tried to make sense of her whirlwind morning. Twenty minutes ago she’d been sure she had both the career and the man she wanted. Then, abruptly, nothing in her future was secure and she felt bewildered and alone.
She tried to concentrate on the fact that in just days she’d be home. Home. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to be eating her mom’s famous sweet, coconut tembleque, with her older sister’s fiercely protective arms around her and her niece beside her, making her laugh.
She thought about calling them now, but she knew they’d only focus on the fact that she’d be moving back and brush aside the detail that she didn’t really have a job.
So instead, she called her best friend, Cate Nowak. Cate was pragmatic and realistic, and she’d understand why Keila was feeling ambiguous. But when Cate didn’t pick up, Keila left a message and decided to pack, to give her hands something to do. For once, she didn’t feel like practicing.
Yanking her suitcase from the minuscule closet and wrenching a few drawers open, her mind wandered off to the months ahead as she steadily worked on packing. Would she and Mark work things out or break up for good? Would she be a regular member of Second City Symphony, or would she be applying for teaching positions and auditioning for orchestras in other cities?
Before she could gauge how she would feel about the negatives, Cate called. And, Cate being Cate . . . she already had a great idea.
One week later . . .
A stack of papers fell with a neat smack on Jake Kelly’s desk. “Internal polls,” Cate Nowak, his press secretary, said.
Jake didn’t bother to look up. “I already went through them. I’m still behind in a number of key constituencies but I’ve made significant progress; the community meetings are working,” he summarized dismissively. “Eighteen communities down, fifty-nine to go before February 5th. We’ve got time.”
Tyrone, Jake’s best friend and campaign manager, walked up to him. “Did you happen to see how low support for you is among working middle class voters, especially Hispanics, in every area except the South Side and parts of the West?”
“Unless the pollsters get to the root of the problem, there’s nothing I can do except continue to get my message out. My numbers are up in the neighborhoods I’ve visited. Let’s concentrate on what’s working.”
“The root of the problem is a long memory. Your father’s shady real estate deals and his no-holds-barred push for gentrification, Jake. He would’ve razed a popular Hispanic neighborhood if they hadn’t fought back. Every one of his deals benefited the wealthy and stuck it to the rest. People are having a hard time separating you from your father,” Tyrone explained, not mincing words.
Jake almost flinched at the mention of his late father.
“It’s an unfortunate history that has helped shape people’s image of you,” Cate agreed, subtly weaving her favorite word into the conversation.
“I can’t help where I come from any more than the next person. What I want to know is how we can get them to focus on the fact that everything I hope to accomplish is well thought out and out in the open?”
“They won’t listen until we fix your image, Jake!” Cate argued. “Socialite-toting playboy, born with a diamond encrusted—and possibly stolen—spoon in your mouth. How do you expect them to listen to you with an image like that?” she asked, more gently.
“How can you be sure that’s how people see me?” Jake asked, masking his vulnerability with a hard look. He got up and walked toward the window in front of his desk, focusing his attention on the large, restored brick mansion directly across the street where the first of his two nonprofit centers was housed.
Filip Nowak, Cate’s grandfather and the man who’d been like a real father to him, was sitting on the sun-spangled front steps, sharing a bag of chips with a few local kids.
Jake usually felt comfortable in his office, the blue-grey walls, white molding, plush black leather seating, and tempered glass conference table and desk all inviting him to focus on work. But today he wanted to be outside, under the warm sun, instead of in here, worrying about his image.
A fourth generation Chicagoan, Jake felt his city was as much a part of him as his family. He loved Chicago’s dramatic history, storied cultural diversity, rich architecture and most of all, its vibrant communities—no two neighborhoods were alike. His entire adult life had been dedicated to giving back to the city that had allowed him to hide out and disappear, and learn and discover, when things had been too miserable at home.
He’d taken plenty of heat from his father, first majoring in Social Policy at the University of Chicago instead of attending Ivy League colleges, and then taking a philanthropic route.
Right now, though, he knew there was only so much he could do with his organization if the city’s government wasn’t working to its full potential. The next step was to work on the inside, as the city’s mayor. But he couldn’t get there without enough votes. And he wouldn’t garner enough votes if he didn’t fix his image.
Sucking in a frustrated breath, he turned from the window and blinked when a cell phone was placed inches away from his face. “Here, don’t just take our word for it,” Tyrone said before hitting play. “Meet Charles and Edith Mallard.”
A grainy video popped up on the small screen and Jake watched a confused elderly couple sway in and out of focus before beginning to speak, the man too close to the speaker. “He seems earnest when he talks about his ideas, but in general, his demeanor is cold and distant. Every week I see a picture of him out with a different woman, and that tells me something about his level of commitment to people in general.” Charles put his arm over his wife. “How can a man who can’t commit to one woman at a time commit to a whole city?” The time on the video ran out just as the man’s wife was going to speak and her frozen image stared back at Jake, her lips puckered in what seemed like disapproval.
Tyrone hit a button, went back to a thumbnail screen, and expanded another video. “Miriam Gutierrez,” Tyrone said, and a good looking, older woman with short, reddish brown hair and dark brown eyes got closer to the camera, hesitated, and began to speak. “I just don’t connect with him. He’s too . . . Hollywood, I think. Some people like that, but I prefer someone more human. Even the women he escorts around town don’t seem human; they don’t even have meat on their thighs.”
“And this is Javier-”
“I get it,” Jake interrupted just as Cate held up a page taken from the society section of The Chicago Tribune. The paper displayed a full-color picture of him wearing a tuxedo, escorting a leggy, busty, golden-haired woman, who, he had to admit, didn’t have much meat on her thighs.
“Supporting the arts shouldn’t affect my approval ratings in a negative way,” Jake pointed out, trying hard not to grin. He’d had a really good time with his date after the art show.
“It’s not the event, it’s your date. You took a local socialite, and damn it, Jake, a well-known airhead.”
“Hey! Lots of men prefer women who don’t put pressure on them, okay? And honestly, Cate, I date around because I don’t have time for a relationship, yet I have all these events I need to attend. And I don’t have time for a relationship because I’m devoted to the city. That’s a good thing. The people around here know that.” Jake gestured to the neighborhood just outside the window, where he had set up his foundation eight years before.
Tyrone sighed. “The people here know you well and they’re immune to the Jake Kelly image the media portrays. But others haven’t had the chance to get to know you and when they listen to the media describing you in ‘most-eligible-bachelor’ terms, you really do come off as, well, way too Hollywood, man. It makes people believe Mike Summers’s camp when they make those subtle remarks, about The Chicago Youth Project being another tax haven for one more power-hungry Republican on the rise.” Tyrone looked up and their eyes locked.
“I’m running as a conservative independent, and Mike Summers doesn’t have any concrete ideas on how to fix this city’s problems,” Jake shot back.
“But they know you lean right, and a Republican hasn’t won a mayoral election here since 1927.”
Cate took advantage of the moment. “Listen, Jake, Mike is a family man and he includes those toothy kids and wife of his in every single photo op. The fact that you’re young, single, and good looking puts your personal life under extra scrutiny. You have to be more careful. Family men only get that extra scrutiny when there’s a scandal involved, that’s just the way it is.”
“All right, I get it.” Jake put his hands up. “What can I do to fix this?”
“Finally,” Cate exhaled and wasting no time said, “First, you can go on—”
“Except go on She Said, She Said,” Jake clarified. Cate had been nagging him about going on the popular women’s gab fest disguised as an afternoon talk show for weeks.
“Why not?” Cate asked. “Mike Summers and his wife have been on, and every Illinois politician looking to drum up local support has gone on.”
“Because those women are sneaky,” Jake circled his finger in the air. “They ask way too personal questions and they try to get you to talk about your feelings.” The last word was spoken as if he were talking about a killer airborne disease.
“Forget She Said, She Said,” Tyrone intervened. “There are a few other specific things we think you can do to turn this around. One, you should fly solo from now on; the social media will grab onto that right away. When they ask you why, just say you’re tired of dating just anyone and that you’re too busy to look for that special someone because you’re married to the city.”
Jake nodded. He could do that, and it wouldn’t be a lie. He was tired of dating, he did plan on being married to the city, and if he had his way, he’d be too busy to find that ‘special someone’ for the rest of his life. “What else?”
“Two,” Cate jumped in. “We need to get a reporter to take pictures of you with the kids you play touch football with every day. Someone to ask those kids what you’re really like and how they feel about you.”
“You know I don’t want those kids to feel like they’re being used.”
“They know you, Jake, and they’ll understand—I’ll bet anything they’re all dying to talk about you and let the world know who you really are.”
Tyrone made a good point and Jake stifled a sigh. The kids would have a blast showing off. “I’ll think about it. Number three?” He looked up, and zeroed in on Cate.
“Right now you need advisors in two key areas. You should validate the communities you’re struggling in most by hiring people from within them,” Cate said.
He could do that. Jake needed someone with extensive business expertise to help him find ways to attract and retain small businesses and people to advise him on enhancing sports and music programs in the public school system.
“Let’s get to work then, and see if we can turn these numbers around.” He looked at his watch. Cate had scheduled an informal Q&A session with reporters, but that wasn’t for another two hours, and he wanted to play a little football or basketball, blow off a little steam.
“At least your looks are working for you,” Cate smiled, watching him. “Women twenty-four to forty-four absolutely adore you.” Jake smiled, not quite innocently, as he turned to leave. Tyrone rolled his eyes.
“Listen, Jake, before you go, I’d like you to block out half an hour sometime this week to meet a friend of mine, Keila Diaz. She’s a violinist with a master’s degree in music education, she helped successfully expand a music program in Pittsburgh, she just moved back to Chicago, she’s a third generation Hispanic Chicagoan from Belmont, with lots of family in Humboldt and Bridgeport, and spread throughout the city,” Cate’s voice was full of enthusiasm.
“Wait, I thought we were going to hire Julia Hamilton for that position. Her family is well-known, musically speaking, and that’ll bring attention and support to the program,” Jake reminded her.
“Julia Hamilton?” Cate repeated, her lips tightening into a thin frown.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Tyrone came up beside her.
“Didn’t you hear my friend’s qualifications? My friend is tailor-made for this. What does Julia Hamilton know about the public school system? She shouldn’t be hired just because her family is well known, that’s exactly the type of thing the voters are tired of. Like the voters you’re having trouble with, my friend comes from a working middle class background. Her mother is a teacher and her father was a police officer, killed in the line of duty.”
“Calm down, she sounds great,” Jake spoke up, knowing all too well how worked up Cate could become. “I promise I’ll give her serious consideration. Just have her come in as soon as possible so we can settle this. You know my schedule.”
“Fine, I’ll have her here as soon as possible.” Cate spoke under her breath as she walked briskly across the room, picked up her purse, and fished out her cell phone.
Chapter Two
Keila enjoyed the ride on the L train that day, even though it was nearly an hour long and she had to switch lines at the Loop. Time flew as the train rumbled its way down to Chicago’s South Side. She leaned her head against the window, her face inches away from apartment dwellers and shopkeepers in some parts, and old, architectural details in others. She was so happy to be home.
Colorful ethnic enclaves she hadn’t been to in years passed before her, and her mouth watered as she remembered favorite dishes at some of those neighborhood dives.
At 1:15 P.M., she got off just a few blocks away from mayoral candidate Jake Kelly’s campaign headquarters. Septembers in Chicago were usually mild, but it had rained the night before and that day was particularly humid. Keila smoothed down the front of her hunter green pencil skirt and aired her blouse before beginning to walk, teetering a bit on the uneven cement sidewalk because she was wearing three inch heels; the only shoes she could find in a last minute search through her still-packed boxes.
It was Friday and she’d only just gotten back last night. But Cate had called to tell her that though the contract position as an advisor to Jake Kelly’s campaign was still available, she had better get her butt down to his headquarters because they were also considering, of all people, Julia Hamilton, for the very same reasons that Julia had been chosen over Keila last time they’d been up against each other.
Julia had her strengths, but Keila knew she was infinitely more qualified for this particular position than Julia. As she walked, she silently reviewed the material Cate had emailed her, feeling confident and pleased that she just might get the chance to help kids have better access to music education.
Then, a car swished by, spraying the dirty remnants of last night’s rain on Keila’s ivory blouse. She stopped, softly squealed, and hung her arms out in front of her. Closing her eyes and slowly letting out a breath, she slid the strap of her purse in front of her shirt, effectively hiding the damage, and marched on.
• • •
It was 1:20 P.M. and Jake was back in his office. “Okay, Cate, do your thing.”
Cate reached up and deftly fixed his blond hair with her fingers. Jake had the habit of running his hands through his hair whenever he was reading, had an idea, or was deep in thought, and it happened often enough that his closely cropped, military-like haircut usually ended up spiking out in all directions. To the world, though, he was always impeccable. And he wanted to keep it that way, even though Cate argued that his messy hair humanized him.
“Listen Jake, I called my friend and—” Cate began, but Tyrone walked through the door and at the same time said, “Jake, a few more things. Try to be more informal with the press, okay? Sit down with them—don’t stand behind the podium all the time, you’re not the mayor yet. Also, try and throw in a joke or two.”
“He’s right. Don’t treat them like the enemy when they can be your best ally, too. Be more access
ible. In fact, go in alone,” Cate added.
She then proceeded to mess his hair up again. Jake breathed in, held the air for a moment, and let it out, deciding he had to learn to put more trust in his team.
By the time he entered the makeshift press room, his suit jacket was off, and his sleeves were rolled up, both courtesy of Cate. Glancing around, he saw there were two reporters from the Tribune, two from the Sun-Times, and one reporter each from two local TV stations.
He smiled and greeted each with a handshake. Instead of positioning himself behind the old podium up front, he pulled an empty chair out and sat down in front of them, joining in on their Cubs conversation, grateful they’d been talking about the Cubs.
Any worthy Chicagoan could talk Cubs.
As the sports conversation wound down and he waited for the reporters to gather their notebooks and recorders, he shifted his focus toward the end of the room where a gleam of light coming from the double doors caught his attention. He then quickly did a double take.
It was her. His pin-up girl. The one who’d been invading his thoughts, on and off, for the past two months. Hell, she’d even made her way into one unforgettable erotic dream, swaying and dancing for him.
Except now she was here: in his campaign headquarters, leaning over, fixing the strap on one of her heels, her hair half covering her face.
He looked away and took a moment to recover, feeling things he had no interest in feeling, all over again, the first of which was shock.
What the hell was she doing there?
His first thought was that she was a reporter, but that didn’t make sense. He distinctly remembered she was from out of town, and though Chicago was the third largest city in the U.S., a small press conference wasn’t news-worthy elsewhere.
His next thought horrified him. Was she a psycho stalker who’d spent the last two months hunting him down?
But the moment she straightened and looked his away, he dispelled that ego-stroking notion. She was every bit as shocked as he’d been, and, unlike him, she wasn’t hiding it. Her head tilted, her finger shot out, and she gaped. Jake schooled his expression into one of complete apathy and glanced at her as if he hadn’t recognized her.