The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  The sun rises.

  The campaign is a disaster.

  Sasha catches me up on the last day: Jared is AWOL, Shep’s at a scheduled appearance in Detroit aided by another member of his team, and my appearances are canceled.

  Off the record, Sasha whispered to the press I have a fever, nothing serious.

  On the record, my condition is good and I’ll be back on the campaign trail in a few days. There’s no mention of me withdrawing.

  “What are we going to do next?” I ask her, touching my belly. “Are you going to replace me?”

  “It’s up to you, whether you think you can physically handle the rest of the run to November,” Sasha says.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can,” she counters.

  “I thought you just said it was my decision.”

  “I did, but I’m also here to tell you when you’re wrong.” A slight smile tugs at the corner of Sasha’s mouth. “You might think this is the lowest low of your life. You might be right, but you’re never going to get back to good if you give up now.”

  I shake my head, beaten, broken … done. “I don’t have anything left.”

  “Bullshit,” Sasha says, and there’s that smile again. “You have everything—everything you’ve done so far, everything you’ve worked for, and every opportunity to finish this run.”

  I look away from Sasha’s piercing gaze as she inspects me, as if to test my mettle. She’s looking for something I don’t think I have in me.

  “It’s six weeks to Election Day. That’s all you’ve got to endure. You can handle it.”

  “I can’t handle anything right now.”

  “Wimp.” Sasha snorts. “Loser.”

  My eyes widen.

  “You’re going to puss out on this? Cash in your chips and be content walking away? I told you I’m in your corner and I am. I call bullshit on you giving up. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Don’t call me stupid!” My outburst shocks me.

  Sasha grins. “You see? You’ve got a little fight left in you.”

  “Don’t call me stupid,” I repeat quietly. “That’s what my mother called me.”

  “Then don’t act stupid. Stupid isn’t failing. It isn’t getting beaten. Stupid is giving up before you’ve fought the whole fight. It’s giving up when you still have a chance to win.”

  “There’s no way we can win this.” My voice drops so low Sasha has to lean in to hear me. “The campaign can’t recover from this—first with Shep and then with me.”

  “A campaign can recover from anything except a quitter,” Sasha says fiercely. “You’re not done. The Secret Service calls you Phoenix for a reason. You’ve got to come back from this.”

  Sasha’s voice is raw with emotion and her eyes glisten with tears. I’m stunned—this shark, this sharp-edged, ball-busting woman who just spent God knows how long at my hospital bedside, is begging me to keep going.

  “Tell me you’ll go one more round. Tell me you can make it until November.”

  One more round. Her words prompt the mental image of a fighter, bloodied and beaten, who swings back against his opponent.

  Weeks ago, Jared told me there are six stages in a campaign. Number five is when the candidate hits The Ropes.

  “That’s when the candidate is most fragile. It’s your darkest time, when you think your campaign has disintegrated,” he said. “But getting thrown on The Ropes is essential. Voters need to see a candidate fall to prove his humanity. They want to cheer for the underdog and see him rise again. You have to be broken so they’ll feel personally responsible to help you back up, to get out and vote.”

  I hiccup a sob. Jared predicted this, and he predicted we’d come back from it.

  My heart is empty from loss, my body drained, my brain filled with exhausted mush, but in my gut, I know. I have to do this. Not because Sasha’s begging me, or because Trey would too if he were here, but because I have to do this.

  I have to make it right.

  I have to make it count.

  “I can make it.” I return Sasha’s tiny smile.

  Relief washes over Sasha’s face and she lets out a long breath with the word yesssss. Then she straightens in the chair beside me and rolls into business mode without missing a beat. “You don’t have to tell anyone, you know. We can get you out of the hospital, cover you with an unspecified medical issue, and reschedule appearances in a couple days.”

  Her words come fast as she makes plans and proposals, testing possible lies about why I’m really here and debating their potential fallout. Finally, I hold out a hand.

  “Stop.”

  She blinks.

  “No more lies.”

  “This is a personal matter. We don’t have to lie, exactly, but we don’t have to tell the whole truth. Millions of women have miscarriages and never breathe a word. No one can fault you for that. We can keep it our secret. You’re not pregnant anymore, so you’re not failing to disclose something that would affect your ability to serve.”

  “I said, no more lies. And no more secrets. If I keep going toward the general election, you’ve got to be a hundred percent with me on this.” My words become more forceful and the clarity startles me. “Every secret I’ve kept has poisoned our campaign somehow. I can’t do it anymore.”

  Sasha bows her head to the tablet and I take stock of the secrets that threatened to ruin us at every turn.

  My mother, ready to blab my childhood secrets on a talk show.

  Lauren using Jared’s identity as a bargaining chip.

  Trey hiding in the closet.

  The secret of my pregnancy.

  The secret of Shep’s child.

  We justified these secrets, hid behind walls of lies, and blocked out the people we’re supposed to love most.

  How can Mama Bea fully love Trey if she doesn’t know who he really is? How can Jared love me if I won’t let him in—all the way in?

  I wonder what secrets he’s keeping from me. His words, spoken in anger, echo in my head: “I’ve given you more than you even know, sacrificed my future for you.”

  What has he done for me? As low as I feel, I realize Jared must be even lower. The two people he was closest too—Shep and me—didn’t love him enough to trust him with our secrets.

  I swipe at the tears on my cheeks and Trey’s words echo this time. “Sometimes we have to lie to protect the people we love.”

  Starting today, I can’t accept that any longer.

  “When I get out of the hospital, the first thing I have to do is set the record straight,” I tell Sasha, and her head whips up as if I’ve just declared a plan to get a face full of tattoos.

  “Don’t do anything—”

  “What? Rash? Crazy?” I must look like a crazy woman right now, with unwashed hair spiking in several directions and wild eyes set on a mission. “It’s not crazy to tell the truth. Even in politics. Secrets are the linchpin behind every twisted thing that’s happened in the last month.”

  “It’s OK to want some privacy,” Sasha backpedals. “Just because you don’t want to lie doesn’t mean you have to tell everyone everything.”

  “No. I have to set the record straight because that’s who I want to be if Shep and I are elected. We want to stand for what’s right, not just what’s most electable.”

  I tick off a list of possible ways to set the record straight—a press conference, a social media announcement, a talk show interview or a basic press release.

  Sasha shoots down every option, her fingers flying over her tablet as she looks at the media plan for the coming week.

  But finally she relents when I suggest one way we can simultaneously manage my mother’s threat to go on a talk show and my need to come clean.

  “They might hate you for it,” Sasha cautions me. “The truth isn’t most electable, I guarantee it. You’ll be handing the election on a silver platter to the Republicans.”

  “Like they’re squeaky clean? I doubt it. We’ve got a lot of ground to cov
er until November eighth.” I blow out a breath to push the hair from my eyes. “If I hedge and stick with half-truths, and shove some skeletons back in the closet, then I’m always going to live with the fear that they’ll come back out again—and the fear of anyone who threatens to expose them.”

  “Lauren? Your mother?”

  “Or anyone here at the hospital who could be paid for details on why I’m really here.” I swallow. There’s another reason I can’t say out loud to Sasha. I feel like I’d be dishonoring my child if I pretended he or she never existed. As if the baby was nothing more than a flu to be gotten over and forgotten.

  Sasha hesitates and then asks the question that haunts me. “What about Jared?”

  The air in this room is still, the dead echo of a tomb, and I draw in a shaky breath. “I’ve lost him.”

  Her eyes soften and I see pity in them. “I’m sorry—”

  “No. I’ve lost him for now. Even if he won’t answer his phone, I’m going to find a way to get through to him. It’s the same thing you said about the campaign. Stupid is giving up before you’ve fought the whole fight. He fought to get me this far. It’s about damn time I fight for him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It takes thirty-four hours to get me out of my hospital room prison, enough time to conclude the following things:

  Jared has vanished—his phone goes straight to voicemail and he hasn’t answered any of my calls or messages.

  Shep is getting beat to shit by the press.

  The Republicans are making hay with a family values storyline that eviscerates both Shep’s morals and mine.

  And I’m about to add more fuel to the fire.

  I fly back to Washington with Sasha and she sets things in motion at my office, which feels empty without Trey, even though some staffers are sharing desks in order to keep up with the volume of work on my dueling legislative and electoral calendars.

  I feel increasingly irrelevant as the machine chugs on around me, so by mid-afternoon I slip away to visit Trey in the hospital. I walk through the doors and the smell hits me—the same smell from my hospital room in Springfield—and nausea churns in my stomach.

  I feel the loss acutely, the persistent pain where a child was supposed to grow.

  Trey’s sitting up, Mama Bea at his side, when I slip through the door. Mama Bea pulls me into a warm hug and then frowns, worry wrinkling her brow as she inspects me, searching for what’s changed.

  “It’s about time,” Trey sasses me. “Since when did you decide you don’t need me to run your world anymore? Sasha hasn’t made me work one bit.”

  His feigned hurt over being sidelined has an edge of a truth to it and I squeeze his hand and kiss his cheek where the swelling has mostly subsided. “My office isn’t the same without you.”

  Trey snorts. “Of course not. Tell me it’s a disaster.”

  “It is a disaster. Missed messages, double-scheduling my calendar, and a foot-tall stack of legislation in my inbox. I’ll be reading ’til Christmas.” I give Trey my best tragic face and he cackles with glee, revealing a chipped front tooth.

  “I knew it. Sasha’s probably drowning.”

  “She’s holding her own,” I say, not wanting my comic relief to be at her expense. “But we miss you like crazy.”

  “I’m supposed to get out of here in a few days,” Trey says. Mama Bea beams to confirm this. He fingers a white bandage at the base of his throat. “I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs and a sprained ankle, but that’s not going to keep me out of the office.”

  My eyes flick to the bandage on the side of his skull.

  Trey shrugs. “No more swelling. They did all the tests and other than not being able to remember the day of the accident, my brain’s fine.”

  I have a million more questions for Trey, ranging from “who did this to you?” to “how’s Joel?” but with Mama Bea here, I can’t ask.

  It’s one more way a half-truth, a set of lies created to protect Trey or Mama Bea, tears us apart. I lean closer to Trey and drop my voice. “I’m going on the record. About everything.”

  His eyes flash. “That could be suicide.”

  “We’re already dead.” I clutch my stomach, the emptiness there a chasm that can’t be filled. Trey promised the truth would set me free and now I’m going to put his advice to the ultimate test.

  ***

  “It’s a deal with the devil,” Sasha says, her mouth twisting with disapproval.

  “I’m out of options.”

  “It’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stu—foolish,” she amends.

  I’m grateful she didn’t say stupid. This exclusive interview comes with one stipulation, which is that my mother will never be paid for an interview.

  By cutting off that offer, I hope to cut off my mother’s ceaseless demand for handouts.

  Sasha and I ride to the television studio in silence, perhaps counting the last few days or hours of my candidacy. When I told Shep what I planned to do, he also tried to talk me out of it, but ultimately he gave me his blessing.

  “If you think this is the only way, then stand up straight and give it everything you’ve got,” he told me.

  Gloria Alton welcomes me on the show with her signature warmth and charm, a calculated mix intended to disarm the wariest interviewee. But I’ve been here, I’ve seen her in action, and I can practically make the director’s calls for him when, right after Gloria’s intro, he cuts to tape of me collapsing onstage at Shep’s press conference.

  Gloria shakes her coiffed hair and casts a pitying gaze at me. “Let’s start with what happened at Senator Conover’s press conference. I take it the news of his love child was as much of a surprise to you as it was to the rest of America. Why do you think he hid that information all these years?”

  Bullseye. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and dip my chin, as if we’re girlfriends trading secrets at a slumber party. “What would you do, Gloria, if the greatest mistake of your life was suddenly exposed in public and twisted for political gain?”

  She titters slightly. “Well, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Senator Conover.”

  “I’m here to talk about me. About my mistakes,” I counter. That draws enough surprise from her typically serene expression that I sit back with satisfaction. “Shep Conover’s already gone on record stating that he regretted leaving the mother of his child and that he’s done everything he could since to make it right. He’s in touch with that person now. I’m here to follow Shep’s example and tell the truth about what I’ve done.”

  Gloria licks her glossed lips. “And what, exactly, have you done?”

  I imagine the director’s got every camera trained on me and I channel all of Sasha’s advice to make the moment count. I pause, square my shoulders, and level my gaze to Gloria. “For starters, I fell in love.”

  Gloria rolls her eyes. “That’s hardly a crime.”

  “It’s a crime when you hide the most important things from the people you love.”

  “Is this the man you fell in love with?” Gloria asks. Some quick-fingered tech loads the picture of me and Jared locked in our passionate embrace on the big screen to my right.

  “It is.”

  “Who is this man?”

  I give her a small, sad smile. “His name is Jared Rankin. He’s a political consultant based in Missouri, leading Senator Conover’s campaign. I fell for him in June, before I was on the ticket and before we were acquainted professionally. And I want to apologize for not being more forthcoming.”

  “The American people deserve to know who could influence the vice president,” she says, as if she’s scolding me for being late to school.

  “You’re right. And I’ve been threatened by enemies of our campaign who would expose his identity if we didn’t trade certain favors. So I’m taking away their bargaining chip. We don’t do business that way. I intend make choices based on what I think is right, not what I’m afraid of. So now you know who I’ve chosen to
be with and you may judge me accordingly.”

  Gloria shifts back to sweetness, refusing to take the bait when I accuse her of judging me. “Tell us, what’s the nature of your relationship with Mr. Rankin?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know. We’re at an impasse, and again, that’s why I’m here to apologize. I always believed there are some secrets you keep to protect the people you love. I kept a critical secret from Jared and it might be our undoing.”

  “Go on.” Gloria is breathless.

  “I was pregnant.” A whoosh of whispers carries through the soundstage.

  “Was?”

  I bow my head. “I lost the baby. I’d kept my pregnancy a secret from Jared due to the uncertain nature of our relationship, but at the press conference, I fainted”—my voice breaks—“from complications.”

  Gloria is quiet for a few moments, letting the gravity of my admission sink in. “You wanted to keep it?”

  My head snaps up. “More than anything in the world.”

  “More than being vice president?”

  “Yes.” I admit I’d been ready to go on bed rest rather than continue campaigning.

  “More than being with Jared Rankin?”

  “If he didn’t want to be with me, I was prepared to keep my baby and be a single parent,” I say.

  Gloria’s lips thin and I imagine every right-wing talking head rubbing their hands in glee when they see this clip. My affair. My unplanned, secret pregnancy. My willingness to be a single parent. It’s as if I’ve checked every box on my one-way ticket to Sodom.

  “You never told your lover or the American people that you were pregnant. That’s something a candidate has to tell because it could compromise your ability to serve,” Gloria reiterates. It twists the knife, even though I know she’s just covering a cut to commercial.

  “I agree. I should have acknowledged it sooner.” I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears, feeling the weight of her accusation and millions of people judging me when the show airs tonight.