The Phoenix Candidate

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  “I’m doing more speaking now,” I confirm. “I’m ready to be more visible, beyond my couple of issues.”

  “Good. You’re becoming a very interesting public figure, Grace.” Lauren’s smile is calculating, and I’m not sure what to make of it. “At some point, you’re going to want to think about what’s next.”

  My phone pings with a text and I dip my hand in my pocket to silence it. But I can’t resist checking the message, expecting that Trey’s sent more instructions.

  Knock ’em dead, Grace. You’re living this.

  Warmth floods my chest and my lips spread in an involuntary smile. Jared. I want to hate him for disappearing, for leaving without a single communication.

  I want to hate him, but I don’t. Maybe the frozen part of me is thawing, or maybe I recognize that there’s some frozen part of him, too. The part that won’t let him kiss me. The part that would rather run than be confronted by something too real.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, remembering the way he cupped my cheek, the tenderness in some of our connections. There’s something real here, even if he denies it. Even if he ignores me.

  And I haven’t tried to reach him, either. I’ve got too much pride to go begging.

  “A text from your mystery man?” Lauren asks, and my head snaps up to meet her smile.

  I guiltily stuff the phone in my pocket. “No.”

  “That’s some reaction for an un-special text, then.”

  I sigh, letting down my guard for a moment because I’m ridiculously happy to hear from him, like he’s a seventh-grade crush who just dropped a note in my locker. “He’s the very definition of ‘it’s complicated,’” I confess.

  Lauren’s brows knit. “Married?”

  “No.” I bite my lip. I don’t think so.

  “Powerful?”

  I nod. “Very.”

  A smile spreads across her lips, though her forehead remains Botox-smooth. “That can be a very good thing, Grace. Choose the right powerful man and you could be invincible.”

  I think of Lauren’s husband Aaron Darrow, arguably the most powerful man in Democratic politics, and wonder whether she’s followed her own advice. I lower my voice, thankful the makeup artist is turned away, rifling through her supplies. “It’s not something I’m ready to make public. OK?”

  Lauren touches my shoulder, a gesture that makes me feel awkward, smaller. “Of course. Timing is everything, and making your relationship public could have a major impact on your career. The question is, does he control you, or do you control him?”

  Her bold question stuns me, but before I can answer, a business-suited woman with a clipboard and earpiece interrupts us and shuttles Lauren to the opposite side of the greenroom.

  I grab a water bottle and down half of it. Then I text Jared back three words:

  I intend to.

  They’re not the three words I wish I could say, like I want you or Come back soon or Kiss me—hard. I could also go for How dare you? and You’re a bastard. Damn him for hurting me. Damn him for making this complicated.

  In seconds, his reply comes back:

  Jared: Don’t go down the whole family values track. Lauren’s going to want to drag you there with her. Just. Don’t. Do it.

  Me: It’s a panel discussion. There’s a moderator from Princeton, and most of the questions have nothing to do with that.

  Jared: I know, but watch for her bridges. She’ll say, “That’s an interesting question, but what matters is…” and then she’ll go there. And you don’t want to touch that shit with a ten-foot pole.

  Me: Why not? I had a family. I have values.

  Jared: It’s a hot potato, Grace. It’s not a winning issue.

  Me: I could win it. I don’t think family values have to be all church and marriage.

  Jared: Keep your eye on the ball, Grace. This is a leadership conference. Talk leadership. Not third-rail issues that will get you killed.

  Me: It’s not going to hurt me to talk about my family. You said so yourself. I need to use Seth and Ethan’s legacy.

  Jared: Listen to me for ONE FUCKING MINUTE, Grace! You can talk about them in the context of gun control. Not family values. Don’t you dare.

  Me: I’d like to see one fucking minute when you don’t tell me what to do.

  Jared: You’re wrong.

  Me: I have a spine, remember?

  Jared: This conversation is over. Now get focused and break a leg.

  Me: I’d say thanks, but I’d rather break a few of your bones instead.

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” Lauren’s smooth voice breaks into my singular view, where my hand grips my phone so hard I could crush it, and a scowl creases my face.

  “It’s nothing.” The makeup artist tips my head back and dusts finishing powder across my cheeks, chin, and forehead, then pulls the drape off my shoulders, declaring me finished. While she’s been fussing with my face, a hair stylist twisted and pinned my frizzing hair into a soft up-do, with wispy curls escaping at the edges.

  Just like Jared suggested.

  Somehow he knows what’s happening, where I am, the fact that I’m minutes away from one of the biggest events I’ve ever done. And he’s right here with me, even though he’s somewhere else.

  In Florida with Rivera? In Missouri with Conover? Or in Dallas or Duluth or Denver with his family? Stop it, Grace. You don’t know if he has a family. You don’t know anything about him.

  “Let’s get set up.” Lauren beckons me to a sound tech, who wires each of us with lavaliere lapel microphones. We sound-check and then my phone trills. I guiltily fish it out of my pocket and Jared’s number shows on the screen.

  I don’t want to talk to him right now, but my fingers ignore my brain and accept the call.

  “What are you wearing?” he growls.

  God damn, I missed that sexy voice. Rich and deep, a powerful sense memory that makes my stomach lift like airplane turbulence.

  “Ha. I’m not falling for that, Jared. Now’s hardly the time and place.” I glance around at the other people in the green room swarming around Oprah and Lauren.

  “I’m serious, Grace. What are you wearing?”

  “I’m still mad at you,” I hiss.

  “Tell me what I don’t know. I expect it. I encourage it.” He pauses. “And the only reason I’m asking about what you’re wearing is because I want to make sure it’s going to look good on camera.”

  The only reason? Well, shit. I guess I’d hoped he had ulterior motives. “The navy suit and the dark gold blouse.”

  “And what’s she wearing?”

  “Who? Oprah?”

  “No.” His scorn radiates through the phone. “She’s not running for office. Lauren practically is. She’s wearing white, isn’t she?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess. Look, Grace, you can’t trust her. She’ll—”

  “Two minutes, ladies!” the stage manager alerts us from the doorway.

  “I have to go.”

  “Grace, trust me on this—”

  “You just said not to trust her. But you know what? She’s been nothing but nice to me. You, on the other hand, have treated me like crap.” I blink back the sting in my eyes, painfully aware of how much his silence hurt.

  How much it forced me to question our connection, and whether anything between us has been real.

  “Grace, I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

  “Showtime!” The stage manager motions to me to wrap up my call.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Jared. Show me, or leave me the hell alone.”

  Before he has a chance to answer I click off my phone and throw it in my bag. On cue from another black-clad stagehand, we take the stage to overwhelming applause.

  They’re all clapping for Oprah. Of course. Hell, I want to clap for Oprah right now and it’s surreal that I’m taking the stage behind her, then taking a seat beside her like a guest on her talk show.

  But a tiny little part of me hopes
that a few people are clapping for me.

  Me. The future vice president?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Oprah’s keynote pumps up the audience, and then she hands it off to a moderator for a Q&A on women, leadership, and policy.

  “Balancing work and family is a perennial question for women, so I’d like to hear from each of you about what we can do to make it easier for women to thrive in leadership roles.”

  The moderator, a Princeton professor of women’s studies with a mile-long résumé in issues activism, nods to Lauren first.

  “Well, of course my family comes first,” Lauren beams. “Three children kept me incredibly busy during my husband’s term as California governor. But I think it’s a matter of choices. We all have twenty-four hours in our day, and there’s got to be some personal accountability in terms of how we choose to balance work and family life. I think we can all agree that women in leadership positions have to make sacrifices, but nothing worth doing is going to be easy.”

  Lauren gets a nice round of applause. For what, I’m not sure. She didn’t even answer the question.

  “Congresswoman Colton?”

  “Did you know that the U.S. is the only high-income country—and one of only four countries in the world—with zero paid maternity leave?” I pause to let this sink in, and I hear a rustle from the audience. “Many countries pay a year or more of parental leave, giving mothers and fathers time away from work to spend with a newborn or adopted child. I think legislating paid time off for new parents is a clear, specific step we could take to enable women in leadership roles.”

  “What about those who say that such a law actually depresses opportunities for women, by discouraging employers from hiring because of the potential exposure to employee leave?” The moderator’s playing devil’s advocate, but I appreciate that she’s done her homework.

  “You mean the Republicans?” I get a nice little bubble of laughter from the crowd. “It seems to me that if you’re going to preach family values, you ought to actually value family. Which is what a parental leave bill does.”

  Zing. That’s a hell of a soundbite.

  “Mrs. Darrow? What’s your opinion of paid parental leave?”

  “My husband’s always been a populist, and family values are near and dear to his heart, his administration, and our family,” she says. “I don’t think it’s impossible to pass a maternity leave bill, so long as we find a way to make it palatable to small businesses, which would take the brunt of the effect of such a law.”

  More applause for this, but again, she hasn’t answered the question. I’m irritated, but I can hardly pounce on her for that. I’m her guest here.

  After more back-and-forth that doesn’t get us anywhere—and certainly doesn’t indicate that Darrow would be a strong advocate—the moderator shifts focus to violence against women, equal pay, Title 9 funding, and industries where women are underrepresented, especially in leadership roles.

  And then comes the question Jared warned me about. “How would you characterize family values in America now, and how do family values apply to women in leadership?” the moderator asks.

  The question is such a softball. I catch it easily and I’m first to answer.

  “Americans are redefining what family means to them,” I say. “Whether that’s the gender of couples, blended families, or adoption, what really needs to be at the forefront of legislators’ minds is how our laws serve all families equally, regardless of their makeup.”

  I’m about to add more about how family values affect women in leadership roles when Lauren butts in: “Family values are part of the American dream. When we have strong families, we have stronger communities. I think women in leadership shouldn’t shy away from embracing these values.”

  “Are you saying they do?” the moderator challenges her.

  “I’m just saying that when women come to positions of leadership, they need to be prepared to uphold family values in their private lives and public service.”

  I hold back a snort, and redirect the question. “You asked us how family values apply to women in leadership, and I’d like to point to the fact that there’s a raging double standard in Washington.”

  The moderator nods at me to continue.

  “The men can swear, but female legislators like me are swiftly rebuked for it. The men can have D.C.-based mistresses and girlfriends while their wives and children are back home, but the women most certainly may not.”

  “Are you saying you’d like to … do those things?” Lauren’s looking at me like I’ve grown another head.

  “I’m saying that I’d like expectations to be equal for women and men,” I answer. “Because the truth is, it’s not. The Washington Post reported a study that shows coverage of a candidate’s appearance hurts her chances for election, even if it’s positive. But I’m sure you can remember the acres of coverage for Sarah Palin’s wardrobe and Hillary’s hairstyles.”

  The moderator chuckles. “When she was first lady, Hillary Clinton said, ‘If we ever want to get Bosnia off the front page, all I have to do is change my hair.’”

  ***

  “Grace. You did a wonderful job.” Lauren beams at me and again I’m caught in her gravitational pull. I’m honestly surprised she looks so serene, so pleased with our performance, when I don’t feel like we agreed on practically anything.

  Maybe we’re just from different planets.

  Lauren and her husband are the poster children for good-looking America: tanned and perfectly groomed, teeth straight and blindingly white, wardrobes by Ralph Lauren and Donna Karan.

  “Will you join us for dinner?” she asks.

  “You and—?”

  “Oh, Oprah’s got other plans. But Aaron’s flying in tonight, and we’d love it if you could join us.”

  I try not to gape.

  I think of Mama Bea’s biscuits, but also of this opportunity. Darrow’s the frontrunner. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of people in this town who’d like to have dinner with the likely future president. Or drinks. Or share an elevator.

  “Thank you. Tell me when and where.” I give Lauren my phone and she types the restaurant’s directions into it. I snag a water from the refreshment table while she’s typing. Finally, she hands my phone back.

  “I’m glad you came, Grace,” Lauren says, and gives my elbow an affectionate squeeze. “I’m under no illusions that this is a man’s world and Washington is built for men. But that doesn’t mean we women don’t have an opportunity to use our own advantages.”

  She winks at me and I can’t help feeling a bit skeezy, like she’s a madam and I’m her new recruit.

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  ***

  I packed in five minutes even though Trey gave me ten, and so I’m stuck with a suitcase full of nothing to wear to the impromptu dinner with the Darrows. In the stale air of my tiny D.C. apartment, I sift through my sparse closet, struggling to find something sufficiently elegant.

  I give up and grab a black boatneck shift dress, part of a suit but acceptable for dinner and cocktails without the jacket. I add a matte gold necklace that touches my collarbone and release my hair from its twist so the curls tickle my shoulders.

  Is Jared going to make me change my hair?

  I shake off that thought. These curls are mine. Growing up, they were always a tangled wreck. My mom finally gave up on them, forcing me to cut my hair short. Since college, I’ve let my hair grow long and kind of wild.

  It’s not a very congressional look. In fact, several members of Congress have mistaken me for a staffer. While most women want to look younger than their chronological age, youth works against me in Congress.

  I follow Lauren’s directions to a high-end seafood place known for its private cubbies and dining rooms, making it a favorite for political meetings. I’ve even heard the members of the waitstaff are required to sign non-disclosure agreements.

  The host shows me to a high-walled booth where th
e Darrows are already seated. Up close, I can hardly believe Aaron’s real; he looks like Brooks Brothers rolled him right off a factory line.

  The Secret Service agents posted nearby stand out like hippies at a Republican fundraiser.

  “Grace, I heard you stole the show today.” Darrow is at his dimple-cheeked best, his handshake smooth and firm, his tone rich with promise and warmth. “Well done. I told Lauren months ago we should have you on the main stage.”

  “And I invited her, just as you asked,” Lauren replies.

  “Terribly sorry you couldn’t make it at first.”

  “But I guess Pelosi’s cold was a mixed blessing.”

  “And aren’t we all glad you changed your mind?”

  Whoa. Watching these two is like an Abbott and Costello sketch. They volley lines seamlessly, as if they’d rehearsed it.

  “Thank you again for the invitation to the panel, and for dinner.” I follow Darrow’s lead and pick up my menu, ordering a pinot grigio when Lauren asks for a cocktail. Finally, when we’re settled, I add, “I have to say this dinner invitation is intriguing.”

  “Like any successful man, I do what my wife tells me to do,” Darrow says with a laugh, but Lauren’s eyes frown. “I mean, Lauren spoke so highly of you that I felt we must get to know each other better.”

  “We do have some similar issues,” I begin, mentally sifting through the dozens and dozens of briefs I’ve read, and the position papers I’ve formulated. “Water rights. Higher ed to support the tech industry. Asian trade agreements.”

  We drift into a policy discussion over three courses, debating policy impacts and national versus state legislation. Lauren keeps pace with us, injecting sharp comments that make it clear she’s every bit as well-versed on the issues as her husband.