The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  One: The Phoenix Decision

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Phoenix

  Campaign

  Heidi Joy Tretheway

  For this book’s fairy godmothers,

  Adrian, Devanie, Natalie, Nancy, and Cynthia.

  Jared owns you a big, stubbly kiss.

  So do I—minus the whiskers.

  To be loved for your best self is hollow.

  All can be beautiful, for a time.

  All can be graceful, in turn.

  But this love cannot endure.

  To be loved for your true self is fulfillment.

  It is a deeper magic, dynamic and wild.

  It celebrates the scars.

  It forgives the failings.

  It embraces the struggle.

  True love is not blind.

  It sees.

  Everything.

  And yet, it still loves.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Too many people are watching me.

  The Secret Service has an apartment across the hall from my newly rented Washington, D.C. condominium. Every coming and going is recorded and protected, measured and managed. I can’t slip away.

  The media records me at every turn, analyzing my wardrobe, my hair, my speeches past and present. At least some of them have their eye on the ball and aren’t behaving like paparazzi who simply try to catch me on a day without makeup.

  I can’t even go to the grocery store without a reporter telling America what’s in my basket. Organic or regular? Butter or margarine? Post or General Mills?

  Jared’s watching me, too, his face drawn, his eyes uncertain as I feel increasingly run down after our twelve- and fourteen-hour days. Even more than the fierce, mind-blowing sex with Jared, I need sleep.

  Senator Shep Conover chose me as his vice presidential running mate and now we have less than two months before the general election. Eat, sleep, prep, travel, talk. It’s all I do.

  Finally, I crack under the scrutiny. I can’t not know any longer. And so I call Aliza.

  “I need you to come to D.C.,” I tell her. “Do you think you can get away from work for a bit?”

  “Maybe on the weekend?” Aliza’s been my best friend since law school and she’s also the only person I can trust with this assignment. The only one.

  “Any chance you can come sooner?” My voice is strained. “Like, on a flight out at nine tonight? I’ll get you an upgrade.”

  “Miss me that much?” Aliza laughs, her cheerful voice ringing through the line from Oregon. “I thought you had Mr. Hot-and-Please-Bother-Me keeping you warm between speeches.”

  “I do. But I need you.” My voice wavers. Don’t cry. Don’t lose it, Grace. You don’t even know yet.

  “Sweetie. I hear you. I can take the redeye. God, are you OK?”

  “Yeah.” I take a breath and spit it out. “But I need you to bring me something. Confidentially.”

  “We still have our attorney-client privilege, remember? You got me on retainer for a buck.”

  “And you put it in your bra!” I love her special, whip-smart brand of crazy. “Aliza. This is serious. I need you to bring me a pregnancy test.”

  ***

  “If you have a drink of wine before you know, it doesn’t count,” Aliza says, pressing a glass into my hands.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s bad karma.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not going to make a bit of difference. Except maybe relaxing you. And tonight, sweetie, you need to relax.”

  I take the glass and wet my lips with white wine, but my heart’s not in it. The pregnancy test Aliza brought me has been sitting on the kitchen bar since she arrived and I’m afraid to touch it.

  To make it real.

  To figure out whether my thirty-nine-year-old body just revolted against everything I’ve worked for in the last four years and decided to surprise me with the worst possible news.

  I can’t be the pregnant candidate. I can’t be the unwed, knocked up, single, slutty, vice presidential candidate. I can’t.

  I can’t make a baby with a man who only figured out how kissing and commitment works last week. My one-night-stand man. My political consultant. Jared.

  A man who grew up without a father and who has never shown the slightest desire to become a father himself.

  I set down my wineglass and pick up the blue-and-white box. Aliza points me to the bathroom.

  “No more procrastinating. Get in there, pee on the stick, and don’t you dare look at it until you come out here and show me.”

  I obey.

  My panties are strung between my knees as I sit on the toilet, inspecting my chipped toenail polish. I can’t even keep up a pedicure. How the hell could I take care of a baby and be in politics?

  Aliza raps on the bathroom door. “Time’s up, girl. Get out here. Show me.”

  I force my gaze away from the little plastic stick so I won’t see it. So I won’t know for five more seconds. I pull up my yoga pants, open the bathroom door, and let Aliza in.

  Then we both stare at the test on the counter. The window on the white stick reveals an unmistakable blue plus.

  It’s positive.

  I’m pregnant.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aliza throws her arms around me and hugs me tight. “Oh my God, girl!”

  I can’t breathe. My lips are numb and I can’t even find the words to react, but my whole body begins to shake like I’ve been thrust into a freezer, little icicles prickling my skin.

  Aliza wraps an arm around my shoulders and propels me out of the bathroom, toward the couch in the living room where I sit and she covers my legs with a blanket. I just stare at her stupidly.

  “Drink this.” She pushes the glass of wine at me.

  I shake my head. A tear slides down my cheek and drops on the front of my blue T-shirt, leaving a dark stain. More tears follow and all I can do is blink against the rising tide of fear.

  “Oh, Grace,” she sighs. She goes to the kitchen and fills my tea kettle, then rustles around in my cabinets for tea.

  My son Ethan was wished for, prayed for, visited-fertility-specialists-for, had-sex-on-a-schedule-for. I peed on a stick so many times, each time holding my breath, begging for the miracle of life.

  And nearly every time, disappointed.

  But when a rich and perfect blessing is taken so suddenly, so cruelly, it feels like too much to ever hope for more. I never hoped for another child after my husband Seth and son Ethan’s deaths because I never wanted to embrace the pain of another life that could be torn from me.

  By the time Aliza brings two steaming mugs back to the couch, I’ve swiped the trails of tears from my cheeks and found a way to breathe. I’m still here, in my brand-new, Secret Service-guarded condo with boxes lining the walls. I haven’t ev
en unpacked.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Aliza asks. I take the tea from her and sip, unsure if I’m ready to talk. “Or we can just sit. Or watch TV. Or figure out some way to torture the cute Secret Service guy standing outside your door. He’s totally my type.”

  That coaxes a small smile from my lips.

  “I’m hungry. You were a nut for pancakes when you were pregnant with Ethan. Do you have any cravings now? We could order Chinese.”

  The thought of greasy, spicy Chinese food makes my stomach roll and my hand clutches my belly. It’s in there. A baby. Maybe not much more than a bundle of cells yet, but it’s real.

  “Not Chinese, but yeah, I’m hungry.”

  Aliza’s eyes light up—she’s gotten me talking again. Baby steps. “Well, we could order whatever you want. There’s a monster stack of menus on your kitchen counter.”

  “I think they did that because it’s easier to order in than to babysit us when I go out,” I say. “But I’ve only got a couple days to hang out with you, so let’s not waste it.”

  “I’m game. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Anything but Chinese. Or pancakes. Italian?”

  “All the best carbs, all in one place. So long as they have tiramisu, I’m game.” Aliza pushes off the couch. “Go ask the babysitters and I’ll get dressed. And you, my dear, need a shower.”

  I laugh, my overflowing emotions swinging wildly between terror and hysteria. Nothing like an old friend to give you the unvarnished truth. In law school, through marriage and motherhood, and then when I lost my family five years ago to a gunman who killed three people at Willamette Mall, Aliza has seen me at my very worst.

  I was tremendously proud when she could also see me at my best, when I delivered my acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention last week in front of thirty-five thousand people and tens of millions who tuned in on TV.

  I open my front door and the two Secret Service suits, a man and a woman, stand at attention.

  And then I realize what I look like. Yoga pants, a tear-soaked T-shirt, puffy eyes and no bra.

  “Oops—sorry.” I pull myself back so they can’t see much of me through the cracked open door. “I was just going to say we’re going out to dinner. Somewhere Italian.”

  “You don’t know which restaurant? We need an hour to clear it,” the woman says. Her hair is drawn back in a severe bun, and though she’s probably younger than me, she frowns like a cranky librarian.

  “My friend’s hungry now. We’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

  Which, of course, makes her frown more. “Congresswoman Colton, would you please give us the proper time—”

  “Relax, Mac,” her partner interrupts. He turns to me. “We’ll be happy to escort you to Nicolette’s. It’s a nice Italian place that’s Zagat-rated. We can have it cleared in thirty minutes. Would you like us to have your car ready in twenty?”

  “Thank you,” I tell the man.

  He raises his sleeve and speaks. “Phoenix plus one to location November India Romeo in twenty. Driver detail and two tables.”

  Mac’s cheeks redden and her face is pinched. I get it. It sucks to have your decisions undermined. That’s pretty much how I felt the first month working with Jared. He was pushy and controlling—a tough mix with my stubborn streak.

  I try to smooth her ruffled feathers. “I’ll try to give you more notice next time, Mac. Sorry about that.”

  “Thank you, Congresswoman Colton.”

  ***

  Nicolette’s is perfect, serving fat, pillowy ravioli and a pink vodka sauce that I want to eat every day of my life. We’re positioned three tables away from the Secret Service agents so Mac’s back is to me, facing the door and the front of the busy restaurant, while her partner faces our table and the back of the restaurant.

  That leaves him in a perfect position for Aliza to blatantly check him out. She grilled him as they escorted us down the elevator to the car and learned that his name is Eric. Mac’s full name is Mackenzie. Neither are married, and they’re one of four pairs of agents who will be my primary detail through the general election.

  It doesn’t matter whether Aliza has her lawyer or best friend hat on. She has a knack for extracting information.

  “How do you feel? Any different?” Aliza asks as I push away my clean plate.

  “Scared. Strange. I don’t feel like any of this is real.” I gesture around the crowded restaurant, indicating my new status as the vice presidential nominee makes going out to dinner with a security detail the new normal.

  “How’s your morning sickness?”

  “I don’t know why they call it that. It’s never just in the morning.” I remember all the times I puked before I had to go give an important speech and give her a wry smile. “At least I can hope it will go away eventually, that it’s not just stage fright.”

  “Yeah, otherwise you’d be stuck with it for a lot more than a few months,” Aliza says. “I’m so excited for you. I can’t even believe we can go out right now when something so big is about to happen.”

  “Can’t get ahead of ourselves,” I caution her as I sip my sparkling water. I’m going to get really bored with sparkling water in the next eight months. “I told Jared I had to take today off because I felt like I was coming down with something. He’s in Chicago with Shep right now, but he’ll be back Sunday night.”

  “He’s turning you into a workaholic.”

  “What can I say? That man’s spent his whole life on political campaigns. He defines workaholic.”

  “So when are you going to tell him?” Aliza asks.

  I freeze.

  “Are you going to tell him? I thought you told me things were good between you two? Didn’t he say the L-word?”

  My pasta rebels in my stomach and I debate lurching for the bathroom, but I clench my lips together and keep the food down. If I wasn’t already freaked out about being pregnant, the idea of telling Jared is terrifying.

  “He did. It’s just … he said he loves me. Not that he loves the idea of having a family. Not that we’re together forever or some mushy shit to make me believe this is permanent.”

  We’re in limbo, the nether-state that relationship words are too dim to describe. Lover? Boyfriend? Partner? Nothing fits.

  Aliza’s face falls. “He said he loves you. That’s it?”

  “I said he could sleep over at Number One Observatory Circle if I become vice president.” My tone is defeated. There are no commitments, no promises that this will last. In fact, Jared’s never brought up our future together except where the campaign is concerned.

  Aliza agrees. “That’s not enough.”

  It isn’t. I love Jared, but there’s nothing to make me believe he wants this to be as permanent as marriage. As permanent as having a child together.

  “So what are you going to do next?”

  “I’m going to figure him out,” I say. “Before I tell him and he has to react—and maybe pretend he’s willing to have a child—I need to know what he really thinks. He’s never said he wants a family. Like, ever. I think maybe it’s because he was raised by a single mom and never knew his dad.”

  Aliza nods. “Any idea how to figure him out?”

  I shake my head. There’s something else that I can’t admit. I don’t even know how permanent Jared wants us to be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One of the perks of being the vice presidential candidate is not having to get up at five a.m. on a Sunday morning to drive my friend to the airport. Mac insists that it’s easier on their team if they take Aliza and I stay in my condo.

  It feels like a cage.

  I get up with Aliza anyway, make her coffee, and give her fierce hugs before she rolls her suitcase out my front door. After our dinner last night, she even made a pit stop at the local pharmacy and stocked up on prenatal vitamins.

  I go back to bed for a few hours, but I’m unable to sleep, tossing and turning as I think of how I can find out Jared’s t
rue colors when it comes to marriage and kids. Does he want a family? Does he want one with me? There’s no simple way to ask and I suspect I’ll get anything but a simple answer.

  I get up and start a full pot of coffee before I realize that I’m not supposed to drink that much. Sixteen ounces—that’s all I’m allowed. I should have asked Aliza to buy me more decaf tea.

  I work through my email, read articles, and follow up on the schedule that my assistant Trey planned for the coming week. The most important thing is my speech at his old high school about gun violence. Jared pushed me to take a pass and instead speak at a medical convention in Dallas about funding for prenatal care, but I promised Trey I’d speak long before I was the VP nominee, or even before I joined Shep Conover’s ticket.

  Trey and his Mama Bea are the closest thing I have to family besides Aliza, so I’m honoring my commitment.

  I make several failed attempts at starting my speech on my laptop, but I’m frustrated, so I call Trey.

  “Baby girl! Just a sec.” I hear rustling through the phone and Trey’s voice is muffled while he tells someone to wait a minute. “You’re supposed to be relaxing this weekend. How was Aliza’s visit?”

  Trey’s warm, infectious smile infuses his honeyed voice and I feel brighter.

  “Awesome. Too short. And I am relaxing. I’m in yoga pants on my couch working on the speech for your high school.”

  “I owe you one.” I hear the sounds of city through the phone, traffic and construction, and I wonder what Trey’s doing with his weekend. I don’t ask. Most of the time he’s a workaholic like Jared and I hate to drag his mind back to work right now.

  “You never owe me. I just wanted to check if Mama Bea still wants me for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Only if you’re bringing Jared. I think she’ll murder both of us if you put her off one more time.”

  I haven’t meant to hide Jared away from them. We’ve been busy and he’s been on airplanes more than I’ve been in my office, so it’s tough to coordinate schedules. But Jared should be back in Washington sometime late tonight.