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SOMETHING SMELLED good enough to get out of bed for.
“I smell morning,” Casey whispered from the other side of the bed. Sometime during the night, he’d padded into her bedroom complaining of a bad dream that only a dog or a little brother could protect him from.
Eyes still shut, Rosie rolled over and drank in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It was Friday. One more day until the weekend. An easy day. Casey was still on holiday from kindergarten.
No! She sat up and her head spun. It was the Friday, the day of her audience with Vivian McCloud. Rosie scrambled out of bed full of regret over agreeing to go in the first place. She was meeting Walter for breakfast at nine before their appointment at the Pyramid Center at eleven.
“Wake up, Case! We can’t be late today.”
Rosie dreaded what she had to do, but what choice did she have? To turn down Vivian McCloud outright was political suicide. So Rosie had done her homework. She had all the ammunition she needed to sink Hudson’s political aspirations. Walter would find someone more suitable for the race and the tension that had been sitting in Rosie’s stomach since Walter’s call would disappear.
The next hour was a blur of activity in between gulps of hazelnut-flavored coffee and making sure Casey ate all his cereal. There was a small ceremonial moment—a lull in the morning chaos—as Rosie unwrapped a pair of new Jimmy Choo pumps. They’d been incredibly expensive but when she’d seen them at lunch on Wednesday, she knew she had to have them, so she’d used the money her parents sent her for Christmas. This morning they felt like success as she slipped them on her feet.
One last perusal in the mirror confirmed her springy curls were still half-tamed, pulled back from her face and anchored simply by a clip just below her crown, and her clothes lacked major wrinkles or stains. Rosie loved the way her midnight-blue pantsuit projected confidence with a feminine touch provided by long, slightly belled sleeves.
Less than an hour after bolting from bed, keys jingling in one hand, her briefcase, umbrella and raincoat slung over her other arm, she was ready to leave.
“Case, let’s go.”
“Mommy, I can’t go to day care today ’cause I don’t have any shoes that match.” He lifted his pants legs to show a sneaker on one foot and a sock with a hole in the toe on the other. “It’s only a short day anyway.”
Rosie slid out of her heels, dropped her briefcase to the floor, tossed her raincoat and umbrella onto a kitchen chair and made a mad dash around their crowded apartment to find a match for a blue-and-red Spider-Man tennis shoe.
“Not by the door. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom.” Rosie could feel herself starting to get sweaty. Could she send Casey in sandals? Unfortunately, no. The weatherman had predicted rain.
“Here it is,” Casey singsonged. “It was under the couch cushion.”
“What was it doing in there?” Rosie asked, setting a record for speedy shoe tying. She stuffed her feet back into her shoes, grabbed her briefcase and Casey’s hand, and then they were out the door.
Rosie tugged Casey along as fast as she could, down the stairs past Chin-Chin’s Pizzeria and Noodle House, spicy scents already wafting in the air, and along the familiar two-block walk to Rainbow Day Care. The wind swirled about them on the sidewalk and a glance up revealed heavy, gray clouds.
Predictably, the faster she tried to walk, the slower Casey became. “Mommy, can I have hot chocolate?”
Rosie glanced at her watch. “No.” At this rate, she’d miss the bus.
“I’m hungry. Can we stop at McDonald’s?”
“No, honey. You ate breakfast already.” Rosie tried to at least appear as if she wasn’t running a race, recognizing that Casey didn’t want to be hustled off.
“Mommy, you forgot your coat and umbrella,” Casey scolded her when they arrived at Rainbow Day Care. “Take mine.” Casey dug his Spider-Man umbrella out of his cluttered cubby.
“I’m sure I won’t need it.” Rosie dismissed the dark clouds outside. The city had only been getting intermittent showers as they blew over toward the peninsula. Besides, anything with Spider-Man was precious to her son. What if the wind blew it away?
“It’s going to get very messy later, Ms. DeWitt.” Ms. Phan leaned out the office window. “What is it we always say, Casey?”
“Be prepared and take care of your neighbor!” Casey punched the neon bright umbrella toward the ceiling, eliciting a smile from Rosie.
Ms. Phan nodded with approval, and then gave Rosie a significant look. The day-care principal always managed to make Rosie feel like the worst mother on the planet.
“Thank you for your kind offer, sir,” Rosie said as she took the umbrella, wondering if there was another day care in the neighborhood that offered after school services without persecution of its parents. This was just the impression Rosie wanted to make on Vivian McCloud when she rejected her son—a political strategist who liked Jimmy Choos…and Spider-Man.
“DON’T LET HUD BAIT YOU.” The door to the Pyramid Center swung closed after Walter, almost hitting Rosie in the face. “He’ll try to test your knowledge of the issues. This is an excellent training ground for the presidential campaign.”
“Not a problem.” Presidential campaign. Rosie latched on to the idea like a lifeline. She was about to meet one of her idols—the woman who’d shaken hands with at least six presidents, a dozen heads of state and probably a Supreme Court justice or two.
The woman who could make her life unimaginably miserable if things didn’t go Rosie’s way.
Rosie spotted the Starbucks in the lobby immediately and clenched the strap of her briefcase against the urge to grab a cup. One of her curls escaped and fell onto her cheek.
“You’ll have to pass muster with his father’s campaign manager,” Walter continued, passing a hand over his bald head. “Stu Fenderson serves as Viv’s assistant now.”
She hadn’t admitted to Walter that she didn’t want the job. If Hudson turned out to be an ideal candidate—like that would happen—Rosie would recommend someone else work on his campaign.
“I’ve heard about Stu.” Old, crotchety, a womanizer in his day. Rosie knew how to deal with him—never waffle on an issue, speak loud enough for his hearing aid to pick up and never let him have the last word.
“But it’s most important that Viv approves of you. Make a bad impression and any chance you have at the national level will be slim to none. Everybody loves her and they’ll do anything she asks.” Walter pointed at Rosie. “Including blackball you. So, let’s not tell her you’re having lunch with another candidate.”
“She doesn’t know about Roger Bartholomew?” Rosie balked as she was about to pass a large modern sculpture in the lobby. When Walter confessed this morning that he was interested in a second candidate, Rosie’s grip on her coffee mug had turned white-knuckled. It was either that or let out a credibility-killing shout of relief. With another option, there was no way she’d get trapped into working on Hudson’s campaign.
“I don’t plan to tell Viv about Roger unless it’s absolutely necessary. That’s why I’m not going to lunch with you.”
“But—”
Walter gave Rosie an odd look over his shoulder as he handed the security guard his ID. “I trust your assessment.”
Rosie ignored the rush of excitement at the power he was giving her. “But you said Mrs. McCloud—”
“If you don’t play both sides of the coin, you’ll be empty-handed at the end of the day.” Meaning he wanted Rosie to do his dirty work so his friendship with Mrs. McCloud wouldn’t suffer.
She’d been planning to build a case against Hudson with Walter at her back, but now…
Certain she wore that deer in the headlights look, Rosie crossed the foyer and produced her ID.
They were followed into the elevator by a group of women each cradling a Starbucks cup. Trapped against the back wall, Rosie looked up at the small video screen playing news sound bites so she wouldn’t focus on the coffee. She’d had coffee this morning. She was prepared for the meeting—even if her hair was starting to unravel, Rosie would not. She didn’t need the prop of a coffee cup or the jolt of caffeine. But that didn’t stop Rosie from imagining the surprised look on the face of the woman next to her as Rosie plucked the cup from her hand.
Since Walter hadn’t given up his spot by the control buttons, he exited easily at the forty-second floor, while Rosie had to fight her way through the caffeine herd and was almost scrunched by the closing elevator doors. She trotted past several clear glass entryways, struggling on her short legs to catch up with Walter.
The doors to the McCloud offices had been replaced with paned, frosted ones so that no one in the hallway could see in. Walter marched through. Rosie’s hand hesitated on the cool, pebbled glass. Tension buzzed in her ears.
Rosie backed up a step, her fingertips almost a memory on the door. If she left, she’d lose a chance to influence the agenda of the next president of the United States. What would she tell Casey the next time he asked about what she wanted to be when she grew up? How could she encourage him not to abandon his dreams without putting forth the effort if she didn’t do the same? All she had to do was keep her mouth closed about Roger Bartholomew, not let Hudson get to her, control Stu and not even think about…
Don’t.
With a deep breath, Rosie pushed the door open and stepped into an opulent, hushed reception area decorated in muted grays and deep burgundies, coming face-to-face with a large oil portrait of Hamilton and Vivian McCloud, flanked by their two grown sons, Hudson and Samuel. The men all shared a strong cleft chin. No one smiled. It was an ominous portrait, no doubt created as a legacy marker. All the wild charm had been painted out of Samuel’s expression.
“There you are. I thought we’d lost you.” Walter stood next to an old man with a grizzled appearance, whose rumpled suit was a far cry from Walter’s fine wool one. “Rosie DeWitt, this is Stu Fenderson.”
Rosie learned a lot about a person by the way they shook hands. Stu’s hand latched on to hers like a tentacle, trapping Rosie’s until he found a weakness.
“You’re shorter than I expected,” Stu noted.
It was odd how men in politics liked to throw insults. Rosie smiled, grateful her heels put her at the old man’s height. She’d bet no one ever described Stu as tall, either. She looked him up and down. “Yeah, I hear that a lot, especially from men with a twenty-eight-inch inseam.”
Hand still pumping hers, Stu glanced down at Rosie’s shoes barely visible beneath the cuff of her pants. “Might be hard to keep up with us in those.”
“They’re a campaign necessity.” Since he still pumped her hand, she leaned closer until she could almost smell the oil he’d used to comb over what few strands of white hair he had left. “You see, I double as campaign security. These heels are licensed to kill in ten of the fifty states.”
“At the price you paid, they should be illegal in fifteen.” Hamilton McCloud’s widow leaned against a doorway to Rosie’s left looking just as beautiful and composed in real life as she did on television…only taller. Her gray hair was cut stylishly short to accent the classic bone structure of her face. Vivian McCloud wore a conservative cream-colored skirt and jacket that showed off her statuesque figure. “Women in Jimmy Choos don’t mess around, especially when those shoes haven’t gone on sale yet this season. Let her be, Stu.”
Stu reluctantly eased the suction on Rosie’s hand.
“So this is who you brought us, Walter.” Mrs. McCloud towered over Rosie as she approached. Casey didn’t get his height solely from the McCloud men.
Rosie was determined not to think about Samuel or the handful of days they’d spent together in Paris after her college graduation, but it was hard not to when she stood beneath his portrait with his mother bearing down on her.
“Only the best for our boy,” Walter said, giving his raincoat to the receptionist. “She’s strong on strategy and a compelling speech writer.”
Grateful for the distraction, Rosie handed the receptionist Casey’s Spider-Man umbrella, smiling sheepishly. Then she was shaking hands with Casey’s grandmother. The strength of Vivian McCloud’s grip rivaled that of a lioness protecting her young. This was a woman who’d be fearless against those who inflicted injustice and deception upon the McCloud family.
And yet, the guilt must not have shown on Rosie’s face because the McCloud matriarch still spoke warmly. “Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. Rosie DeWitt, political strategist.” Rosie prided herself on her composure. She was a pro, an up-and-comer with a solid reputation in politics. And a big fat li—
She would not define herself with the L word. Nor would she allow so much as a wobble in her high heels or succumb to the overwhelming desire to pass out. As long as Rosie kept her distance, stuck to her plan and didn’t get chummy with the McClouds, she and Casey would be fine.
“Ma’am? That reference makes me feel old. You may call me Vivian. Later on you can tell me where you got those shoes.”
“Thank you…Vivian.” So much for keeping her distance.
Vivian beamed. “This looks like the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Don’t you think so, Stu?”
“Let’s see what she can do with him first,” Stu said, gesturing to a door behind him.
With enviable composure, Vivian strolled past Rosie to the remaining closed door and opened it without knocking. “Hud, darling. Come see what Walter’s brought you.”
Stu and Walter followed Vivian, unaware that Rosie hesitated behind them glancing up at Samuel’s portrait and wishing for a cup of coffee.
CHAPTER TWO
“COME IN AND SIT DOWN.” Hud’s mother held the door as the jury filed in with a verdict—salvageable candidate or not. The quality of the campaign manager Walter O’Connell selected would be telling.
Hud stood and came around his desk to shake hands with Walter, who held the fate of his family’s political legacy in his hands. Hud nodded to Stu, but didn’t see anyone behind the chairman’s large frame. His shoulders sank. So, they’d decided Hud was unmarketable. He turned back to his desk.
His mother cleared her throat, inclining her head almost imperceptibly toward the door. Hud looked around to face a pixie with big dark eyes and long, wild black curls, including one artfully arranged on her cheek.
“Rosie DeWitt.” Cheeks flaming, she thrust out her hand.
Hud took Ms. DeWitt’s hand gingerly in both of his, afraid his normal grip might crush her delicate bones. Warm and soft, her hand fit nicely between his. Despite her solid reputation, there was no way Rosie DeWitt was capable of the cutthroat behavior that Hud needed from his campaign manager. Her hands were more suited to stroking a lover than greasing palms and salvaging careers.
As if sensing his assessment, her eyes flashed. She gripped his hand as firmly as any man ever had, gave it a good shake and pulled away. “You don’t want to shake a woman’s hand like that.”
The absence of her warmth robbed him of speech.
A state his mother never experienced. “Why ever not? I think it’s a sweet gesture.”
“Women see it as something more subtle and…” Ms. DeWitt gave Hudson a sideways glance as she crossed the room to set down her slender leather briefcase. “A bit suggestive.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Ms. DeWitt cut him off, digging in her briefcase. She knew he was lying. He could tell by the lingering bloom of color on her cheeks that she’d felt the attraction between them and was as surprised as he was by it. “But not everyone else knows your touch is platonic.” She pulled out a sheaf of papers and sank into a chair, gesturing for everyone to be seated as if this was her office, not his.
“Walter, what kind of game are you playing?” Hud asked, giving the woman a wide berth on the way to his chair. If he so much as brushed up against her she’d probably accuse him of sexual harassment.
“The kind of game you should have played when you were Senator McCloud.” Ms. DeWitt looked past his shoulder in the direction of Alcatraz. “Play up your strengths, admit your mistakes and move on. Do you want me to continue?”
“No,” Hud said at the same time his mother said, “Yes,” arching her brows at him when he frowned.
Okay. Points to Mother. This was going to be painful just as she’d predicted. Hud was tired of hearing advice on what he should have done. He wanted advice to help him today. His father’s clock ticked off the seconds Hud was wasting until Ms. DeWitt spoke again.
“According to a poll conducted by the party this week, one-third of registered voters believe Hudson did the honorable thing by stepping down, one-third considered his resignation an admission of guilt and one-third couldn’t care less about him.” Ms. DeWitt spoke directly to Hud’s mother, as if she knew Hud would be annoyed that they’d conducted a poll already. It gave them ammunition he didn’t have. “Now, if you look at women, two-thirds considered what Hud did honorable. We’ll need to keep the female vote happy, but at a distance. We can’t have as much as a breath of scandal.”
That explained her aversion to his handshake. Hudson made a derisive noise and rolled his eyes. “Fortunately, I’m not the womanizer my brother Samuel was,” he said before he realized his mother might be offended by his comment. Samuel had been her favorite.
But everyone ignored his outburst, including Ms. DeWitt. “We also asked who voters would prefer sitting down to dinner with—Hudson or the president—and they chose our commander in chief. Then we gave them a choice between Hudson or Samuel—and they chose Samuel.” She seemed unexpectedly pleased that Hud had failed both questions.
“What kind of question is that?” And how had Hud lost to his irresponsible, dead brother?
“It’s a standard question we ask,” Walter explained. “If voters don’t like you, they won’t vote for you.”
“I would have chosen the president, too,” Stu inserted almost absently.
His mother shushed their family’s longtime assistant.
Ms. DeWitt nodded. “If Hudson is serious about the election, he’ll have to publicly address what happened in D.C.—”
“The past won’t come into play here,” Hud interjected. “This is about the future.”
Ms. DeWitt’s brow creased ever so slightly. She turned to his mother, no longer acknowledging Hudson’s presence. “And create a more appealing persona.”
Hud’s jaw tightened. The verdict was in. The party didn’t want him. In fact, Rosie DeWitt, who had a reputation for doing the impossible in politics, didn’t like him.
“If the party chooses to back Hudson, we’d be taking a huge risk since the Republican opponent will most likely attack Hudson’s Senate record relentlessly. That’s what I’d do in their shoes.” She gave Hud a look that dared him to contradict her. “So, Hudson, why don’t you tell us why you think the Democrats should take this risk?”
“My son has the highest ethical standards,” his mother bristled. Too late, Hudson realized how hard this must be on her. Perhaps he should have insisted she stay out of this meeting.
Walter started to speak, but Ms. DeWitt held up a hand. “To win, he’ll need both voter trust and liking. How do you expect to increase your chances?” She didn’t measure Hud with her stare but rather dared him to defend himself.
It had been years since anyone had challenged Hud, much less a miniature woman with too big of an ego. “I thought the party paid you to improve my numbers. Where do you categorize yourself on that poll you referenced earlier, Ms. DeWitt?”
