Page 8 of Primary Season
“May I get you anything, Mr. Blanco?” Bridget, the Van Der Loons’ personal flight attendant, said somewhere over Georgia as we flew toward South Carolina. “We should be landing soon. Last call.”
“No, thank you.” I waved her away and turned back to the scenery outside the jet window. Tiny lights clumped together in a splattered pattern below, outlining cities and small towns. Across from me, Kathryn ordered another glass of champagne.
“Something is bothering you,” she said, and tapped my foot with hers. “Tell me.”
“I’m just…” I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
“Come on, Patrick. I would think after everything that we’ve been through that you would feel comfortable talking to me.”
I did. Over the last three months or so, Kathryn had become a good friend. I could more than give her that, but it didn’t mean I wanted to talk to her about the fact that I’d spent most of the day thinking about Alex. “I’m just overwhelmed. Typical campaign stuff.”
“Last night was huge.” She grinned. “Daddy says you’re going to get such a fantastic bounce out of this. You’re the hottest thing in American politics right now.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, that’s why I’m saying it for you.” She shifted her weight in the seat as satisfaction seemed to roll over her. “And if you win in South Carolina…”
“Don’t say that. Don’t jinx it.”
“You’re going to get the nomination. Daddy will make sure of it.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“Just win in South Carolina, and you’ll prove to everyone that you have more than a decent shot at the White House. And from there, anything is possible.” A smile pulled at her lips. “Anything.”
Bridget arrived with Kathryn’s fresh glass of champagne, and I welcomed the break in conversation. I didn’t like talking much about Kathryn’s father. As kind and pleasant as she was, he was often the exact opposite, and no day passed in my campaign without a reminder of just how much I owed him. Before he decided to back me, I’d been nothing more than a struggling Ohio senator, gasping for air in a town that chewed up ideals and spit them out every year. I might have won over the people of Ohio, but I hadn’t been a darling of DC. Far from it.
One dinner meeting with Gordon Van der Loon changed all of that. Now, at thirty-eight, I’d just won a major primary and had a shot at the presidency. I owed him, and I had a reminder of that sitting right across from me. I turned back to the view from the airplane window.
We arrived at Charleston Executive Airport about fifteen minutes later, and from there a small caravan of three black SUVs transported us to our downtown hotel. Kathryn settled into our two-bedroom suite and I called Doug to let him know we had arrived. It was after eleven and at the edge of a long day, but I still had one more thing I wanted to do. I found the list of staff hotel rooms in my email, and I stared at it for a while.
Room 415. Four fifteen. Room 415.
Just six rooms away from mine.
Once Kathryn went to sleep, I made the short walk there. It took fifteen seconds, maybe thirty. Arriving at the door, I balled my fist and raised it. Was Alex still awake? Would she invite me inside?
In the end, though, I didn’t knock. Didn’t have the courage. Instead, I dropped my hand to my side, turned on my heel, and walked back to my own room. That night, I hardly slept. When I did, I dreamed about Alexandra Jones.
When I woke up the next morning, a cold sweat drenched my sheets.
Eight days stretched before us on the calendar between primary day in New Hampshire and primary day in South Carolina. I wanted a strong showing, I needed to use them all. That meant starting at six most days and ending around midnight. In between, I had directed my staff to plan as many breakfasts, rallies, factory tours, church visits, festivals, and town-hall appearances as they could muster. South Carolina voters didn’t know me at all, but they would.
On our first full day in the state, we kicked the morning off with a breakfast for Charleston’s Democrats at a restaurant called Marriane’s in the city’s French Quarter. We booked the back room and invited any active member of the party to attend what we called an “open conversation with the candidate”. Marriane’s provided endless coffee, donuts, yogurt, and fresh fruit; when Kathryn and I arrived, we found staffers scurrying in and out of the room as they put the final touches on breakfast. I left Kathryn near the door and made a few excuses about needing to go over last-minute items with the staff.
In reality, I had another agenda.
At the far end of the room, Alex sorted through “Blanco for President” bumper stickers and buttons. As soon as we walked in, I had trouble tearing my attention away. I wanted to talk to her. No, Ineededto talk to her.
“Hello,” I said, once I got close to the table. “Busy already, I see.”
She jumped and whirled around. “Patrick. Good morning.”
“How’s it coming?”
She glanced at the large cardboard box. “We have enough for this event, but we will need to put in another order soon.”
“Excellent. Whatever you need. Let’s blanket this state with buttons and bumper stickers.”
