“I think the American public would disagree. When I’m done with you, not even Jared will be able to salvage your reputation.”
I move quickly, scooting through the small space at the side of my desk opposite Lauren. I make quick strides to my inner office door and open it, raising my voice for the benefit of Trey. “This meeting is over, Mrs. Darrow. It looks like we won’t need to meet again.”
Lauren stalks toward me, as if she’s still making up her mind whether to physically hurt me. Instead, her tone is measured, like a teacher correcting an errant pupil. “When you see it, you’ll want to blame me. But you’ve got it wrong. Jared knew enough not to put you in that situation, and yet he did it anyway. He exposed you. Jared brought you down to the gutter, Grace. And you’re going to hate him for it.”
***
I close the door behind her and sit in stunned silence, unwilling to flip open my laptop, check my messages, or come back to reality.
I thought when the Conover opportunity dried up, and then when Jared ended things between us and told me to go to Darrow, that I was done. That I’d been tested past the limits of what one person can take in a day or a week or a couple of months.
Is that all it’s been? It feels like a lifetime and I’m reeling. With this last threat, I believe I’ve truly hit my limit. I can’t take anymore.
My desk phone blinks with unheard messages, my in-box groans under the weight of unread proposals, and my desk is stacked high with this morning’s papers—Shep Conover’s on the front page, but for the wrong reasons. His admission to the hospital is explained away as fatigue in the news story, but the headline, Candidate Conover Hospitalized, is lethal.
Now, more than ever, I want to see Aaron Darrow go down, but I don’t know if Shep’s up to the task.
I run my nails through my hair, scrubbing at my scalp, letting the tingle soothe me. I massage my temples, kick off my heels under my desk, and ultimately cross my arms on my desk, put my head down, and close my eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The rap on my office door startles me from my catnap. I grunt out a “Come in,” and Trey peeks his head inside my office.
“Someone’s been a bad girl.”
I frown at Trey. “Give me a break, OK? I stood up for what mattered. I defended our bills.” I say our because Trey’s been essential to this process—the research, the writing, and the heart. I lost a family and he lost a brother. We’re in this together.
“I meant you’ve been bad in a whole different way.”
He lays a tablet down on my desk and a grainy image floods the screen.
My head’s tipped back, my lips are parted. My hands are deep in a man’s hair while his face is buried against my neck. And my knee is hitched up against his hip while his hand snakes beneath my skirt, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination about what we’re doing.
The only thing this photograph doesn’t reveal is the man’s identity. Jared.
“I take it this is Mr. Bouquet?”
I nod mutely, my eyes stinging. But, fuck, I’m all cried out, right? Right? Can’t I just be done with this week after Jared and the Dragon Lady and the interview from hell?
I switched off my phone on the shuttle back from New York, and now it feels like a grenade in my pocket if I pull the pin by switching it back on again.
“You pissed off the Darrow campaign good,” Trey says. “I just got a Google Alert for this.”
I check the time in the corner of the screen and mentally count it back. Lauren left my office just over an hour ago.
Jared knew enough not to put you in that situation, and yet he did it anyway. He exposed you. Lauren’s words come flooding back, and now I see the bomb she planned to drop. Jared brought you down to the gutter, Grace. And you’re going to hate him for it.
She’s right. I do hate him for this, for lecturing me about earth tones in my wardrobe, yet failing to protect me from such a stupid, public spectacle. It’s a massive lapse in judgment.
Almost like he set it up.
Did he mean to create this Achilles heel? Damn him. Damn Lauren for throwing down her trump card. My reputation as a serious congresswoman is toast, thanks to a romp caught on camera.
I scrub my face with my hands, at a loss. “That’s it. Put a fork in me. I’m done.” I heave a shaky breath and let the tears come.
I’m going to be the butt of every joke.
The slutty widow.
The congresswoman who talked family values one day and slept around the next.
The woman with a near-stranger’s hand up her skirt, splashed across the national news.
But never, ever the vice president. This is a deadly blow. This is Darrow’s retaliation for going so far off script.
I sit until the silence is too much. I peek up at Trey from behind my hair and he’s looking at me like I’ve grown another head.
“You’re done?” he asks.
I hang my head. “Honestly, Trey, what else can I do? I can finish out my term. I can try pushing the rock uphill with our legislation. But this is not something I can recover from. Like, ever.”
“Bullshit.”
“Look, I’m not going to try to stage a comeback like Eliot Spitzer. I know when I’m beat. This is beat, Trey.”
“Spitzer resigned over a prostitution scandal!” Trey explodes. “Point to this picture and tell me exactly what you’re doing wrong.”
“I’m in love with him.”
Holy shit, where did that come from?
“Baby girl, I already knew that. But focus, OK? Point to this picture and tell me what, other than the fact that you two are wearing clothes and nowhere near a bedroom, is wrong with this?”
I look again and see the expression on my face: pure desire, I’m acting on instinct. I see Jared’s broad shoulders and strong hands, my ankle hooked around the back of his thigh as he presses me against the sandstone wall outside my apartment entrance.
I look closer. I recognize my black shift dress. That was the night of the bad seafood with the Darrows, and the night Jared waited outside my apartment and scared the life out of me when I came home.
Somehow, a photographer knew to be in the right place at the right time to take this picture. Did the Darrows set me up, or did Jared?
Considering this picture was released in retaliation for my Knox on Politics interview, I think I have my answer.
“Well?” Trey prods me, and I realize he’s still waiting for an answer. “Two consenting adults in love. How terrible for America. There’s nothing wrong with this picture, except that it’s intended to harm you.”
“But it’s public!” I moan.
“You’re not going to hell in a handbasket, Grace. You’re not with a prostitute or a married man or an intern. You’re not a married woman—you’re free to do this and live your life. And you’ve been pretty much dead to the world of dating, but the world can’t expect that to continue.”
“Well, it’s going nowhere fast,” I say sourly. “This picture is ancient history. It’s over.”
“Not by a long shot.” Trey slides a pink message slip across his desk to me. “You really should answer your cell phone more, Grace, because I think I’m developing a little crush on Jared Rankin’s sexy voice. He can consult for me any time.”
My eyes snap up to Trey’s, realizing he knows Jared Rankin and Mr. Bouquet are one in the same.
“You know who he is?”
“Please. You underestimate me.” He sniffs. “Now call that man back.”
He leaves, pulling my office door closed behind him, and I read Trey’s pink slip:
He wants me to write, “Grace. Can I please speak to you for one fucking minute?” I told him the swearing was unnecessary, but he said it was “totally fucking necessary.” So I told him to have a nice fucking day.
I laugh at Trey’s color commentary on the message and pick up my office phone and dial. It rings and goes to Jared’s voicemail.
Damn.
I can
’t leave a message, and so I put the receiver down quietly in the cradle when I hear the beep. I pack up my laptop and go back to the outer office where Trey’s on the phone, ably handling another press inquiry for comment.
“I’ll be happy to ask her to comment, but as you can see by the photo, she might be otherwise occupied this evening.”
My eyes widen with alarm. “Trey!” I hiss.
“See you at home, Mama Bea,” he says, and puts the phone down with a smirk.
“Gah! You just about gave me a heart attack.”
“Well, you gave Mama Bea one, so we’re even,” he says. “She wants to know why you haven’t brought your fella by and properly introduced him.”
I roll my eyes. “I haven’t properly anythinged with him,” I say.
“I can see that,” Trey says drily, and I give him a sour look for the double entendre.
“I’m going to get out of here. Try to actually sleep tonight.”
“I’ll hold down the fort.”
***
I’m looking for Jared as my cab pulls up to my apartment, but he’s not lurking in the doorway. I don’t know why I thought he would be here. It’s not like we parted on good terms.
We just parted.
The end.
So why did he call me?
Damage control. That thought hits me and drags most of the remaining energy from my limbs. It’s a chore to punch the elevator button and unlock my apartment door. And it’s quiet inside, no signs of Jared.
Just memories of him. Here, there, everywhere.
I drop my keys on the bar, touch Ethan’s picture, and flick on the lights. One, two, three. The familiar cadence gives me pause and I return to Ethan’s picture again. My little boy. Lost.
A new part of my heart was born with him, a part of me grew up with him in love that could cover mountains, that could do feats of superhero strength. And a part of me died as I buried him, bereft from the loss of the best part of me.
The best thing I ever did, ever made.
My child.
My only one.
Ethan’s picture centers me. This loss today, of my dream to become a running mate, and then maybe vice president, doesn’t feel as important compared to that.
But losing Jared? That hurts deep in my bones.
And losing the opportunity to make a difference, to change the world in some way that could save another mother from the loss of her child? That matters most of all.
I know what I have to do. Darrow is a threat to that opportunity—big and real. He could still win this nomination, win the White House, and cut the guts out of any legislation I put forward.
And so I call Trey and ask him to book me a flight to Missouri.
Chapter Forty
The cab drops me in front of the only place in all of Springfield, Missouri, that I can think of: Conover’s campaign headquarters.
Huge banners in the plate-glass windows of some defunct retail store read, America stands with Conover and Conover for America. Behind the glass, a hive of haphazard desks host dozens of young, T-shirted volunteers talking on phones and tapping away at computers.
Their energy is intoxicating.
I push open the glass double doors and step up to a reception desk that was probably most recently a cash register stand. “May I help you?” an elderly woman asks. She beams at me like I’ve just brought her pie.
“I’m here to see Senator Conover.” I pray he’s not out golfing or some other active-lifestyle photo op to prove to voters that he’s healthy as a horse. Early news reports said he was released after a battery of tests that all proclaimed him dehydrated and tired, but healthy.
“Oh, he’s in a meeting right now, dear. Do you have an appointment, I hope?”
“No, but I’ll wait. If that’s OK?”
“Of course. And have you registered to vote?” She offers me a clipboard with a voter registration card.
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m already registered in Oregon.”
The woman looks at me more closely. I’m in linen slacks and knit tank, not looking particularly congressional after my early morning flight, but my wild brown curls are unmistakable. “Congresswoman Colton?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad to meet you.” She stands and shakes my hand. “I’ll go interrupt the senator.”
I thank her and take a seat on a vinyl chair, watching the buzz of activity in this space with mounting excitement. After a few minutes, the volunteer leads me to a small conference room with a round table and a few chairs.
I wait as she goes to retrieve Conover, but when the door flies open, it isn’t him. It’s Jared.
“I asked you to call me for one fucking minute, and you couldn’t even do that?” Jared’s eyes burn with intensity.
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“You didn’t leave a message.” Jared’s arms are crossed, his posture wound tight.
“I was a little busy,” I say, and cross my arms to mirror him. “They generally frown on using your cell phone when you’re on a plane.”
Jared stalks toward me, but I remain seated. He towers over me and I tilt up my chin, but my gaze doesn’t waver. I’m stronger than all of the shit that’s been dumped on me in the past forty-eight hours. Jared’s dumping me included.
“Why are you here?” he asks, and he drops into the chair next to me. “I mean, I only asked you to call me. Not fly here like some nut on a mission.”
I laugh a little at that. “Yeah. It would be crazy to hop on a plane and just show up at your doorstep.” The way he did to me. Multiple times.
Jared reaches a tentative hand toward my cheek but I balk and pull away. I can’t do this if he messes with my heart again.
“Stop it, Jared. We’re over, even if I’ve got to deal with a news cycle of old pictures of us.” The pictures are just weeks old, but they seem like ancient history considering the rift between us now. “You hurt me, but that didn’t derail my purpose. I’m in Washington for a reason. Even if those pictures poison my future in politics, I’m going to make every second of the rest of my term count.”
“They backfired.”
“What?” I can’t be hearing him right.
“Lauren leaked those pictures. I know it. They went all over the evening news, which made everyone tune in to Rick Knox last night.”
My eyes widen. I avoided the news last night and slept through Knox’s show as exhaustion finally caught up to me. “Then how did they backfire?”
“Because everyone thought they’d get a look at a congresswoman caught with her lover, but instead they got a poised, smart politician systematically dismantling Darrow. His numbers dropped six points this morning.”
I’m stunned. Lauren just threw her grenade and it flew back and landed in her camp. “I had no idea,” I whisper.
“So why are you here, Grace?” His voice cracks a little and I detect regret and sadness. He made his choices. And now it’s time for me to make mine.
“I’m here to volunteer. For Conover. I torpedoed any chance I had with Darrow on that talk show, but I got really clear about something last night. He can not win. Under any circumstances. And so I’m here to help in any way I can to get Conover to the convention, to help him win the nomination.”
Jared’s face cracks into a grin. “I hope you brought more clothes than that.” He nods to my casual attire.
“Why? Your volunteers are wearing T-shirts.”
“Grace, if you’d answer your phone for one fucking minute, you’d know why I was trying to get through to you yesterday. Conover wants you. As his running mate.”
***
“Grace. Impeccable timing.”
Conover breezes into the conference room, cutting the tension between me and Jared and lighting up the room with his gleaming smile. Not a hair is out of place and his shirt is starched and spotless. You’d never know he was in the hospital three days ago.
“Thank you, Sen—ah, Shep.”
“So I’d l
ike us to work together to win the White House. How does that sound to you?”
I take a breath, the speech I prepared on the plane evaporating from my brain as the heady phrase win the White House entices me like perfume. I finally force out, “Thank you for considering me, sir.”
Shep takes the seat opposite me and leans forward. “I get the feeling you’ve got a ‘but’ coming.”
I nod quickly. “While I’d be honored to join your ticket, I can’t. I don’t think we’re a good match, Shep. There are some things about me that I’m willing to change, like the cosmetic things Jared’s coached me on the last several weeks. But you have to know that my core principles are unchanging. I can’t fall in line with your platform.”
“You can’t or you won’t?” Conover’s brows knit, giving me his complete focus.
“Both. I believe in my bills, and my own platform. We’re not too far apart on most issues, but I’m just not going to soft-pedal my unpopular stuff like gun control and environmental legislation to get elected. I can’t and I won’t. I’m a congresswoman first, Shep, which makes me a pretty lousy running mate.”
Shep sits back in his chair, pursing his mouth thoughtfully. “If you didn’t come here to be my running mate, why are you here?”
It’s an echo of Jared’s question, and even the timbre of their deep voices match. “I’m here to volunteer. I want you to win almost as much as I want Darrow to lose.”
“Almost as much?” Shep repeats, laughing. “That’s damning me with faint praise.”
“I can’t apologize for that. I’m more loyal to my principles and my constituents than I am to you. I’m loyal to my purpose in Congress.”
Shep nods once. “Good to know where your loyalties lie.” He stands, extends his hand to shake. “Thank you for that, Grace.”
“Thank you, Senator.” I stare at my shoes, wondering if he’s going to let me stay and volunteer for a couple of days. I feel like it’s the least I can do.
The Phoenix Candidate Page 18