by Laura Hayden
The driver returned with four bits of paper in his hand that he gave Emily.
“I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always wanted to come here—but aren’t we a bit overdressed for the ‘Happiest Place on Earth’?” Kate asked.
Emily could hardly keep the smug look off her face. “Not the part of the park where we’re going. We’re wearing the right clothes, and trust me, you’ll be happy.”
They entered through the turnstiles and followed Emily as she marched through the park with purpose, passing groups of kids and parents, walking by shops selling everything Mickey and past pushcarts hawking various food items. Emily obviously knew where she was going and wasn’t tempted by the sights along the way. The rest of them couldn’t help but be distracted by the attractions.
Theresa Charles, the youngest of the group at twenty-one, lagged for a moment at the entrance to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. “Hey, this looks fun. Do you think we could—?”
“Later.” Emily didn’t even break her stride, causing Theresa to rush on her somewhat precarious new heels to catch up. “We have a reservation.”
“For what?”
“Dinner.” Emily came to a halt outside an innocuous-looking door, lifted a brass plate exposing a speaker grill, and pushed a button. Someone answered and asked her name. When Emily gave it, a buzzer sounded and the door clicked open.
“This is like . . . out of a spy movie or something,” Theresa said in awe.
Kate stared at the brass plaque beside the door, remembering an offhand remark Emily had made a couple of months ago. “This is Club 33, isn’t it?”
Emily smiled broadly. “Right. The best-kept secret in Disneyland.”
That previous November as they had celebrated Emily’s birthday with candles stuck in doughnuts, she’d recounted her past parties, including the sixteenth birthday bash her family had thrown for her at the überprivate Club 33, hidden smack in the middle of Disneyland’s New Orleans Square. That particular night the park had stayed open late solely for the extensive Benton family—all the aunts, uncles, and cousins many times removed, not to mention the families of some of Big Henry’s political cronies.
Had the story come from anyone else, Kate would have discounted most of it as either a lie or overt bragging. But considering the lifestyle Emily had always known as normal, a private party at Disneyland was nothing more than a typical Benton family celebration that she remembered with fondness. Emily had recounted the occasion with the same sense of nostalgia and affection as Kate did her sixteenth birthday party at Kings Dominion amusement park with a handful of buddies. The only difference was that Kate and her friends waited in line for rides like everyone else, dined on corn dogs and lemonade, spent too much money trying to win stuffed animals, and were picked up at closing time by her dad in the minivan.
Somehow Kate didn’t think corn dogs would be on the menu this time.
After they entered the building, they stepped onto an elevator Emily called the French lift and ascended to what was perhaps the most elegant restaurant Kate had ever seen, much less dined in.
That evening, Emily introduced Kate and her friends to “the other life”—attentive, eager waiters, excellent food, an unbelievably expensive wine, decadent desserts, and then carefree after-dinner drinks on the balcony overlooking a faux New Orleans, where they watched the evening fireworks from a spectacular vantage point, unattainable by all but the most elite.
Emily pointed at a group of sunburned college girls in the midst of the milling crowd below them. “Any ordinary slob can roast themselves on a beach for spring break and then get drunk on cheap booze and wake up in some guy’s bed with a hangover,” Emily declared. “I have higher standards.”
Then she lifted her glass of five-hundred-dollar-a-bottle wine. “Ladies, let me propose a toast. May we always have the wisdom and find the funding to choose the Better Life.”
“To the Better Life,” they all echoed.
Theresa pointed in the general direction of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. “You think I could just, like . . . sublet that place for my ‘better life’?”
Emily laughed. “Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you think it should come with its own handsome prince.”
“Well . . .”
“Hey, if you want the best, then go for it. But as nice as that piece of real estate may be, I have my eye on another.”
Jocelyn Kirby, their fourth partner in crime, snagged a piece of chocolate from the plate that sat by her elbow. “What’s wrong with the castle? Not big enough for you?”
“No, the house I’m thinking of is white.”
Jocelyn hiccuped with laughter. “Surely you don’t mean one in the burbs with a white picket fence, 2.5 children, and a dog?”
Emily shot her a mock glare. “Wash your mouth out.”
“She means the White House,” Kate said, reading her friend’s face.
“Don’t be funny,” Theresa said.
“Get serious.” Jocelyn hiccuped again and reached for another piece of chocolate.
Kate studied Emily’s expression. “She is being serious,” Kate declared. She addressed her friend. “If anyone could do it, Emily, I think you could.”
Emily turned and stared at Kate as if seeing her for the first time. “I’m glad to find someone who not only understands me but agrees with me, too.” The air crackled between them, as if a new connection was being forged between two casual friends, strengthening it into a political partnership. “I’ll need help along the way—people I can trust who are willing to work beside me as well as behind the scenes.”
“But who don’t particularly want the limelight themselves, right?”
“Exactly.”
Giggling, Theresa lifted her glass and tried valiantly not to slosh its contents onto her new dress. “Then, to the White House!”
Jocelyn matched the gesture and the words.
Kate glanced at the other two, then solemnly picked up her own wine glass, still mostly full. She decided to change the toast to something much more appropriate. “No, not to the position. To the person. Here’s to Emily, who someday will become the first female president of the United States.”
Emily had met Kate’s gaze with a look of unmistakable determination, ignoring their other two companions. “And you, my friend, are going to help make it happen.”
FLORIDA—ORANGES, PALMETTO BUGS, AND VOTERS. The Benton campaign goal? Admire the first, avoid the second, and charm the third.
But even from a thousand miles away, Kate knew it was a monumental task. There were seventeen varieties of oranges, forty-one species of palmetto bugs, and almost an infinite assortment of Florida voters. Young, old, male, female, white, black, Cuban-Americans, Mexican-Americans, native Floridians, snowbirds, U.S.-born, naturalized citizens, Christian, Jewish, farmers, nonfarmers, rural, urban, military, civilians, and many more classifications, perhaps more than any other state in the Union outside of California and New York.
Long considered an elector-rich swing state much sought after by presidential candidates in the late stages of the election, Florida had made itself even more pivotal in the political process by pushing up its primary date, which meant it was now one of the must-win-for-momentum states in the early primary season calendar.
That change in date, along with several others in other states, had caused earthshaking complications in this presidential campaign. In previous campaigns, the first Tuesday in March had been nicknamed Super Tuesday because of the large number of states that held their primaries on that date. But an even larger number of states had overhauled their election calendars and now the first Tuesday in February 2008 would be the big day when more than twenty states would hold their primaries or caucuses. The press had several names for the day—Super Duper Tuesday, Giga Tuesday, or Kate’s personal favorite, Tsunami Tuesday.
But no matter what you called it, the first Tuesday in February would try the campaign staff’s patience, challenge their logist
ics, and otherwise turn their world upside down.
After all, not even a candidate with a private jet at her beck and call could easily visit twenty different states in seven days. Not even Wonder Woman . . .
So taking the early states had become essential. And Florida was the biggest of the early states.
With over 1,800 delegate votes at stake, the Tsunami Tuesday night tally would identify and validate the two strongest party front-runners, and it would be a head-to-head match from that point on. The other candidates might hold out and continue to campaign after that, but it’d be futile. They’d simply be throwing good money after bad, trying to save face or prove some heartfelt political point. More likely, everyone but the two front-runners would throw in the towel and slink back home to be mostly forgotten by the nation.
Kate had already put her money on Burl Bochner as Emily’s chief competition. He was running a smart campaign, calling attention to but not harping on his traditional family structure, something that Emily lacked as a divorcée with no children.
So the Benton strategy was to concentrate on issues rather than personalities and to spend more time and effort in the states with the heavier populations and, therefore, larger number of delegates to win over: first Florida, then New York, New Jersey, Illinois, and California.
And Emily jumped the first hurdle, receiving a resounding 66 percent of the Florida votes, resulting in 138 delegates from that state. That brought her total delegates won to almost 200. However, that wasn’t even 10 percent of what she needed to win the nomination.
Even if she made decisive victories across every Tsunami Tuesday state, Kate already knew Emily wouldn’t have enough delegate votes to win. Not yet, at least. But the momentum would be critical to sway the undecided, who—more often than not—waited to see who was winning so that they could vote with the prevalent majority.
Once Emily left Florida, Kate had planned to reconnect with her on the road. She felt confident that the protective measures instituted by Decker Bloom and Bloom Security would give her all the peace of mind she needed to get back to the task at hand: how to make sure Emily won in most—if not all—of the Tsunami states.
If she did win, their work wasn’t over by a long shot, not even when Emily reached the magic number: 2,181 delegates at the convention in the corner pocket. Her focus would simply change. Instead of battling on a double playing field—campaigning against her fellow party members while still paying close attention to the other party—she’d be able to focus solely on her campaign against Charles Talbot.
Kate had some ideas about how to make that contest interesting. But first she and Emily had to concentrate on the members of her own party.
Unfortunately, Tsunami Tuesday still squatted at the end of a large, dark tunnel, full of logistical nightmares and a schedule for Emily that would reduce the heartiest athlete to a quivering mass of Jell-O. Successful politicians often said that the most important trait a good politician had to possess was stamina. Emily counted stamina among her greatest assets.
She was definitely going to need it.
Her schedule had been vetted by the best in the business, Miriam Smart, who knew precisely how to coordinate the split-second timing necessary to maximize Emily’s appearances and minimize her downtime. No item was added or removed from the schedule, nor were any changes distributed to the troops, until they’d been initialed MS. The letters stood for either Miriam Smart or perhaps Master Scheduler. No one was exactly sure.
Thanks to Miriam’s careful stewardship of Emily’s time, whenever the candidate wasn’t courting fellow party members in person, she would be shooting supplementary footage for a new set of television commercials, cutting more than two dozen “Quick Bites” sound clips a day to be used as morale boosters, tailored to each of the individual state headquarters, thanking key volunteers by name.
Miriam had every moment of Emily’s day booked solid, including breaks for snacks and naps. With years of experience under her belt, Miriam not only knew how long it took to get from any airport to a downtown hotel in five-o’clock rush hour, but she had three different preferred routes programmed into Emily’s GPS, each ready to take depending on traffic.
Beyond that, Miriam knew which entrances to a venue had the most flattering light for photo ops and which ones would allow a bedraggled candidate to bypass the awaiting press unobserved. She knew how long it would take Emily and her entourage to walk from one city venue to another and what bakeries might be handy along the way for informal meet and greets.
Curious Americans, thanks to the equally curious American press, appeared to enjoy hearing about Emily’s “obsession” with finding the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. It had started as a casual comment about needing a little something to tide her over one long day on the campaign trail. Comedy pundits joked that Emily’s vice president choice should be Mrs. Fields. The media magnified her search for a simple cookie into a fixation. It all made for fabulous press, and Kate gladly ran with the concept since it added a warm homebody element to Emily, who really wasn’t much of a warm homebody.
But the most important thing that both Miriam and Kate knew as they made their plans was that all schedules existed mainly to be changed. They had to remain flexible so as to take advantage of last-minute opportunities, unavoidable delays, and unfortunate cancellations. That’s what made Miriam the campaign’s best asset—her skill in projecting the cascading changes necessary to resuscitate a mortally wounded schedule, accomplishing the retrofit literally in minutes. Then there was her lightning fast ability to get the changes to all parties instantaneously, thanks to e-mail, cell phones, and network file sharing. Perhaps Kate’s greatest talent was that she knew when to step back and allow Miriam to work unhampered and uninterrupted.
They were in the middle of a surprisingly unhectic schedule review meeting at M Central when one of the staffers burst into the room.
“Lost another one!” the young woman exclaimed proudly. “Raintree just stepped out of the ring.”
“One more down, three to go,” Kate responded, not even looking up from her notes. The news meant one less bottom-feeder to worry about, which was good because she had bigger catfish to fry if Emily was going to win this thing.
Kate pressed on with the meeting. “Okay, in the area of communications, do you have the plane outfitted with everything you need to record and transmit the sound bites?”
She waited for a response, and when she heard only silence, she looked up, startled by the expressions of the people sitting at the table. “What?”
Her assistant, Caroline, glared at her.
“What’s wrong?” Kate repeated.
Caroline pointed to the crestfallen staffer still standing at the door. “We just got some encouraging news. How about letting us celebrate for a minute or two?”
Kate glanced around the table and saw the same look of failed expectation mirrored on all of the faces. Then she realized her faux pas, a violation of her most important rule: people first.
She’d learned that one in Bible school before she’d gotten her permanent teeth. It wasn’t like her to forget it. Stay with me, Jesus, for I’m a goof-up without you. . . .
She used her pen as a bookmark as she closed her day planner and stood up. “You’re right. I apologize.” She turned to the staffer waiting in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to brush you off. So when did this happen?”
The young woman looked somewhat mollified. “It just came across the wires that he’s holding a press conference. CNN is about to cover it.”
“Then crank up the tube so we can all watch.” Kate could feel the tension caused by her gaffe draining away as they all focused on the coverage of the speech.
They crowded around the television set, watching the candidate bow out of the running as gracefully as he could. He’d been a long shot at best, with an awkward, uneven delivery that had failed him miserably during the few debates he’d participated in. His discomfort with the forma
t was palpable, and he’d been woefully unprepared for some of the questions the moderators and participants asked him. Even his best answers had made him look uninformed. Probably the death knell to his success was his consistent and unfortunate mispronunciation of Des Moines, which didn’t exactly endear him to the people of Iowa. He regularly mangled the word America too, managing to get a few more vowels into it than the Founding Fathers had ever intended. He’d finished the Iowa caucus with slightly less than two percent of the primary vote.
After James Raintree finished his speech, the whole group of Benton staffers cheered in unison. Caroline turned off the set. Kate stepped back and allowed the staffers to discuss what they’d just witnessed without her input.
“You know, if he’d been half as eloquent when campaigning as he was just then, he might have been able to hang on a bit longer.” As always, Mario Medina, their deputy communications director, found something encouraging, no matter how backhanded, to say about the guy. Behind his back, the staffers called Mario “Little Mario Sunshine.” Backhanded compliments weren’t Mario’s usual style, but in the case of James Raintree, it was the kindest thing anyone could say about the erstwhile candidate.
“You call that eloquent?” Miriam opened her laptop and began typing, no doubt coming up with a contingency plan to parallel the slight changes they were making to the California part of the schedule. “I’ve never been able to associate that word with him. Ever.”
“Not actually eloquent per se,” Mario admitted. “But his ‘I’m takin’ my marbles and goin’ home’ speech was far better delivered than any other one he’s made so far.”
“I kinda liked his incoherence,” Caroline said. “It had a certain naive charm. Remember when he said that in his travels to foreign countries, he’d liked New Mexico best?”
“Yeah, then he said he was worried about the border security there. Nobody asked for his passport when he left Arizona.” Miriam grinned at the thought. “I was standing backstage when he said that. I was sure his campaign manager was going to faint. You gotta love a man who says what he thinks. Especially when what he thinks is good for Emily.”
