The Power and the Glory

by Kimberly Lang

  “Uh-oh, sounds like the senator’s a little upset about this.” Ethan didn’t bother to cloak his bitterness. “Good.”

  “Maybe for you, but not for me. I’d rather not be wasting time spinning ridiculous press. I’m the one who has to get him reelected.”

  “It was your choice to work for him.”

  “Yes. Because I can see beyond my own petty interests and childhood issues best worked out with a therapist.”

  Ethan muttered something under his breath, but Brady wasn’t interested and hung up after a terse “goodbye.” Ethan couldn’t get past his own problems with their father to see the bigger picture. Douglas Marshall might be a lousy excuse for a father, but he was a damn good senator. Granddad’s legacy, oddly enough, was in good hands.

  And that’s what was important, even though Ethan couldn’t see it. The mission that drove his family was coded into his DNA. Granddad had been a lion in the Senate, a forceful voice and advocate. Their father was carrying on that tradition, and as long as that was the case, Brady would fight to keep him in that seat.

  Which meant he needed to turn the attention away from Aspyn Breedlove and back to the issues that really meant something.

  He climbed the steps two at a time and let himself in. To his right, the door to his father’s study stood open, and he could hear voices inside. As he entered, he was surprised to see his father, Nathan and the new consultants already seated around the shiny conference table. And from the used coffee cups, open laptops and untidy stacks of paper, they’d been there for a while.

  “Am I late?”

  Jane, one of the consultants he’d brought on board only last week, had the good grace to look slightly abashed. Nathan just shrugged. His father, though, looked irritated, as always.

  “Your little hippie friend has created quite the stir—”

  “It will pass.”

  “Possibly, but I’m sick of seeing her face—and yours—every time I turn on the news.” As if to prove his point, his father grabbed the remote and turned the sound up on the television. There, on one side of a split screen, was the video of Aspyn trotting beside him as they left the building and then being handcuffed to him. On the other side was a shot of an online bulletin board railing against the deafness of Congress and organizing itself into a full-fledged protest. The perky anchorwoman delivering the commentary called it a “grassroots uprising” and mentioned the Marshalls at least five times like it was somehow their fault.

  The image then switched to Aspyn giving a makeshift press conference inside of what looked like a small bookstore. “I think the reaction we’re seeing just proves I’m not the only one frustrated with the disconnect our lawmakers have from the people they’re supposed to represent. Everyone deserves to be heard.” It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the clip, and, once again, he was impressed with how natural and articulate Aspyn was on camera. She might be a little out there, but she was smart and well-spoken and could hold her own with the press.

  His father muted the sound again. “Because Miss Breedlove decided to handcuff herself to you, my office is now the center of this storm. Suddenly I’m the poster child for all that is wrong in Washington.”

  Jane looked up from her computer as Brady joined them at the table. “And Mack Taylor is already keying in on it,” she added. “It’s about to become a campaign issue, and with the Marshall name prominently connected to the uprising, it doesn’t reflect very well on the senator.”

  If I’d just let the elevator doors close in her face … Good manners didn’t always pay off, it seemed. But, then this was also what made campaigns exciting and challenging. This, too, just needed the right spin, and his brain was churning with the challenge already.

  “Don’t get comfortable, Brady.” His father interrupted the thought. “You’re going on a little field trip.”

  His brain screeched to a stop. That didn’t bode well. “Where and why?”

  “I need to make Miss Breedlove my friend before Mack Taylor can make her my enemy and use her against me.”

  “That’s always a good plan. In fact—”

  “I’m glad you agree. You’re going to hire her.”

  He couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Excuse me?”

  “You are going to hire Miss Breedlove and make her a part of our campaign staff.”

  That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Doing what, exactly? Protesting?”

  “Listening.” His father smiled smugly. “Miss Breedlove is going to be my official Campaign Listener.”

  No, that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not a real job.”

  “It is now. Instead of calling my office, concerned and engaged citizens may contact Miss Breedlove, who will listen to their concerns and organize them so they can be presented to me.”

  That headache started to throb again. “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, yes, I am. That should keep Miss Breedlove busy and off the cable news networks, and it will show that I am attentive to the concerns of the people and want to give them a point person to contact.”

  “And anyone with an ounce of sense will see it for the ploy it is. This isn’t a campaign issue. Listening and replying to constituents is a job for one of your staffers.”

  Jane shook her head. “It’s a ploy, but it’s a ploy that will work.”

  “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” He pinned her with a stare that had her squirming slightly before she nodded.

  “Since you’re the one she handcuffed herself to, you’re the one who needs to be seen listening to her first.”

  “And when the campaign is over?” he asked his father.

  “Miss Breedlove can go back to whatever cause brought her to my office in the first place.”

  Meaning he’s not going to listen to a single thing she has to say. This was more than just a ploy. It was a step above an empty publicity stunt. It was inherently dishonest and that bothered him. They were above this kind of trick. “I get the impression Aspyn is a true believer. She’s going to expect this to be an honest offer. When she finds out it’s not, the backlash could be staggering.”

  “It is an honest offer,” his father supplied. “Of a job. Beyond that, we make no guarantees, so we’re not being dishonest in any way.”

  Political splitting of hairs. “Only in spirit.”

  His father sighed. “Good Lord, Brady, you sound like Ethan and his quest for truth and justice. You understand the bigger picture. Just find the girl a desk and let her channel her energies in a different direction.”

  Brady tried one last attempt at reason. “If we do this, it sets a dangerous precedent and every activist in the country will find a politician to handcuff themselves to.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He nodded at Nathan, who shoved papers across the table at Brady. “Mary Aspyn Breedlove, age twenty-seven, foreign-born to American parents but raised in the U.S. in a variety of hippie-type communes. Some college work—mainly in Sociology before she dropped out to annoy people full-time—and a long history of do-gooding and activism. Miss Breedlove has no criminal record and a current address in Arlington. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with her.”

  In other words, Aspyn was officially his problem now.

  Aspyn peeked out of the blinds and groaned. Still there. She flopped back onto the futon and heard it creak ominously in protest. Ugh. She felt like a prisoner. The video had gone viral with a speed she couldn’t wrap her head around, and the nation had arrived on her doorstep shortly thereafter. Technically it was Margo’s doorstep, since she lived above Margo’s bookstore. The bookstore was hopping now, and Margo was thrilled with the free publicity and additional business Aspyn’s new notoriety brought—even if Aspyn herself had to take time off and Margo’s niece brought in to help instead. From her tiny apartment on the second floor, Aspyn could watch the crowds and the press mill around out front. A small demonstration was organizing across the street, showing support
for this new “movement” she supposedly—if completely accidentally—started.

  She should be proud of what she’d accomplished—especially since it had required so little effort on her part. This kind of attention was every activist’s dream, but sadly, it wasn’t quite for the reasons she’d hoped for when she chased down Brady Marshall.

  She’d turned her phone off last night, put an autoreply on her email account and settled in to wait it out. Thankfully the stairs up to her apartment were in the back room of the bookstore, so at least no one was knocking on her door.

  Except that someone was …

  She rolled off the futon ungracefully and crossed to the door, wondering who Margo had let up. Whoever it was, she hoped they brought food with them. And, to be honest, she was a little bored and could use some company.

  Confusion reigned when she opened the door to find Brady. Here. At her door. Why?

  “Mr. Marsh—I mean, Brady. Hi.” She ran her hands over her hair and tried to smooth down the curls. Be casual. “What brings you here?”

  “I came to talk to you.”

  Was that a good thing or a bad thing? “Okay.”

  Brady smiled, adding a heart stutter to her body’s strange reactions to his presence. “Could I come in?”

  I’m such an idiot. “Of course. Please.” She stepped back and held the door open. As Brady moved past her, that scent that she remembered so well tickled her nose and she inhaled deeply.

  He seemed relaxed and unconcerned, unlike the man she’d seen on TV the last couple of days. At the moment, he didn’t seem angry about the media firestorm raging around him, but why else would he be here? “I was a little confused to find a business at your address. I guess it’s convenient to live above where you work.”

  “It is. And it’s cheap,” she added with a small laugh. “I’m sorry about the mess.” She skirted around him to grab an armful of clothes and books off the futon and tossed them into the closet. “I’ve been rather homebound.”

  “Since I just fought my way through that crowd, I fully understand why you’re hiding up here.”

  “I would think your arrival here would only stir them up more.”

  “Oh, it did.” He didn’t elaborate, but his face showed his exasperation with the situation.

  Yeesh. Did that mean she was about to get an earful?

  “Please, sit. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Water? Herbal tea?” Stop babbling. She just couldn’t get her head around the fact Brady was here. The only people more confused about his presence would be the reporters outside.

  He looked completely out of place, sitting on her rickety futon in his impeccably tailored suit and conservative red power tie surrounded by colorful batik cushions. Slivers of sunshine peeking through the slats of the blinds refracted through the glass beads of her curtain and sent tiny rainbows dancing over his skin.

  Brady declined her offers with a small shake of his head. He seemed completely relaxed, leaning back and balancing one ankle on his knee. “It’s a bit of a circus out there.”

  His mild, conversational tone didn’t help her relax any as she perched on the opposite arm of the futon, as far away physically as she could be without sitting on the counter of her kitchenette. “Definitely. I mean, I’m glad people are trying to find their voices, and that the media is showing that search and desire, but I wish …”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “They’d do it somewhere else?”

  “Exactly.” She sighed. “Is that terrible of me?”

  “Not at all. You didn’t ask for the spotlight.”

  “And I don’t want to be there. There are so many issues that deserve at least half the media attention I’m getting just because Kirby was an idiot. It’s amazing what passes for news.”

  He chuckled, and the sound caught her off guard. “I told the senator you were a true believer.”

  He had spoken to his father about her? Not just some random staffer, but the senator himself? Wow. But the humor in his voice put her on guard a little. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

  “No, not at all …” Brady trailed off, and she realized his attention had been caught by the photo on the side table.

  “Those are my parents,” she supplied when he picked up the frame and stared at it, surprise on his face.

  “Are they actually handcuffed to the White House fence?”

  “Yes, they are. If you look over my dad’s shoulder, you can see the top of my head. He had me in a backpack.”

  An eyebrow went up. “Baby’s First Protest?”

  “My third, actually.”

  Brady replaced the photo, shaking his head at it as he did. “So it runs in the family.”

  “Oh, no. They handcuffed themselves to the fence intentionally.”

  He shook his head. “I meant the activism.”

  “That? Oh, yes. My parents have always been activists—antiwar, environmental issues, Civil Rights—all kinds of good causes. I don’t remember which protest that particular one was, but that time they made the papers with that photo.”

  “You’re telling me they handcuffed themselves to the White House fence more than once?”

  Brady’s shock was amusing, but she stifled the laugh. “Yeah. They really are what you’d call ‘true believers.’ They’ve made a difference.”

  “What do they have to say about all of this?” He jerked his head toward the crowd outside.

  “They were pleased to hear about it, but they don’t know how big and out of hand it’s gotten now.” At his look, she added, “Communication is sporadic at the moment. They’re in Haiti doing relief work.”

  “They sound like good people.”

  Pride filled her. “They are. The best, actually. I wish I had their dedication.”

  “You don’t?”

  No, to their everlasting shame. “My parents have devoted their lives to something much bigger than themselves. They want to make a difference, and that involves sacrifices. Surely you understand that better than most.”

  A crease formed across Brady’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “Your family is in politics. They’ve dedicated themselves to public service, to the greater good.” Brady seemed to find that amusing. “Even with all I know, I’m still an optimist at heart. That’s why I do what I do. I hope that’s also what draws people to politics—that need to try to make a difference.”

  Brady paused at her words. “In theory, yes. In practice … Well, it varies.”

  “Then that’s all the more reason for the people to find their voices and make themselves heard. I hope that’s what all this—” she waved her hands toward the window “—leads to. More communication—open dialogue and real listening—between the people and their elected officials.”

  “And that segues nicely into why I’m here.”

  Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten there had to be a purpose for his visit—a purpose she probably wasn’t going to like. Once again, she’d been sucked into conversation with Brady and forgotten to focus. That was a shame really—having to focus on a topic—because she found she really liked talking to him. She knew he found her to be odd and slightly amusing, but Brady was easy to talk to. Looking at him wasn’t bad, either, a little voice inside her piped up, but she quickly shushed it and braced herself. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  The corner of Brady’s mouth quirked up. “Good. Because that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  “Listen to you?”

  “No. The public at large.”

  She must have missed an important point somewhere. “I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

  “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  Aspyn nearly fell off her perch in shock. Surely Brady was kidding. She studied his face and realized he was serious. Wow. “But I already have a job. More than one, in fact.”

  “I hope you’ll consider taking a leave of absence from all of them and come to work for me.” He cleared his throat. “For the campaign, t
hat is.”

  Had Margo slipped some salvia into her coffee this morning? If this wasn’t a hallucination, then … Whoa. “I … um … I mean.” She stopped and cleared her throat. She still had a chance to salvage this situation—if she could manage to keep her wits and professionalism around her. “That’s very kind—and intriguing—but I don’t know anything about campaigns.”

  “You don’t need to. That’s my job.” She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “And you seem very bright. I have no doubt you’ll catch on quickly.”

  Why did compliments from Brady make her feel all warm and sparkly inside? “I really don’t want to work for a political campaign. That’s not the kind of activism I’m interested in.”

  “I would argue that it is, in a way.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Senator Marshall would like you to listen to the people. Those that want to make their voices heard would contact you through the campaign. You’d keep track of what issues matter most to people and prepare recommendations for us on the issues you feel we should be embracing.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very much so. If nothing else, this has proven to the senator and his staff that people are very frustrated and feel silenced. He wants to be the senator known for really listening to his constituents.”

  That sounded good in theory, but she probably wasn’t the right person for the job. “I don’t have any experience …”

  “I beg to differ. Your work in the Peace Corps, community organizing, the activism … You’ve proven you really care, and that’s what really matters. I’d say you were ideally suited for this kind of job.”

  How’d he know so much about her? “Did you run a background check on me or something?” Every warning her parents had ever given about government invasion of the privacy of the citizenry echoed in her ears. Maybe they weren’t just being paranoid after all.

  “Yes.”

  And obviously he didn’t see that as a problem. “I don’t know—”

  “It will also shut down that circus outside and refocus their attention.”

  That would be nice. “How?”