Page 29 of Run For Your Honey

But God, how I wished it wasn’t.

11

STRONGER THAN HATE

POPPY

The night of the debate, I listened to Duke speak with what I hoped was a neutral expression on my face, occasionally nodding and making notes.

Thus far, he’d bested me on every point. And the debate was nearly over.

The nervous twist in my chest tightened with every word. I did my best to smooth it, never one for nerves when I faced a challenge. But this was different. This wasn’t a poker game or an argument with a friend about the merits of strawberry versus grape jelly. This was the future of our town.

He walked along the stage with a hand in his pocket, expertly answering the question, What would you say are your greatest achievements and how will you apply them to the job?

“It doesn’t feel like that long ago that I learned the value of teamwork on the football team or the discipline to earn my way into Harvard. But it goes so far back as to when I was a boy. My mother used to take every achievement, every win, and pin it to the fridge. ‘One step closer to big things,’ she’d say. I represented an opportunity not only to my family, but to the town. Because I’ve learned how to lead, not only from college, but from Senator Williams, my mentor and friend. Working on Capitol Hill…”

I quit listening for a moment, shutting down in my rage. He’d not only managed to drop every name he knew, but related them personally to his role in town. And all on the fly. He looked at ease there in front of me, somehow both undeniably confident and self-deprecating as he went on about his many accomplishments.

Charismatic son of a bitch.

I’d done my best with my answer, citing my family’s farm and the creation of our charity. But compared to him, I was an uneducated farm girl with a penchant for social justice. My pro—possessing a very large mouth, used to convince everyone of my rightness—did not help me here, not against the smooth, smiling snake in the expensive black suit.

The crowd clapped as he took his place again. Nobody saw his apologetic gotcha face but me.

Those nerves in my chest burst into flames.

“For the next question,” Mike Stoeffel started, but I cut him off.

Smiling, I said, “Excuse me, I have a follow-up, if it’s all right.”

Mike nodded once with a regal sort of air about him, nose a little high and mouth stern.

I took my mic off the stand and meandered the same stretch of stage that Duke had just owned. “It’s true that Mr. Daniels has many accolades, too many to count, I’m sure.”

“I could get you a list,” he joked into his mic, earning him a wave of chuckles from the crowd.

“But every accomplishment he made after high school wasn’t made here.” I paused for effect, both in word and stride, starting again when I spoke. “In twelve years, Duke Daniels has barely come home. Achievements aside, how can anyone run this town—our town—who doesn’t know it anymore? Who abandoned it for bigger and better things, only deigning to return when he needed something from us? All the experience in the world won’t make up for a lack of commitment. And Lindenbach shouldn’t be run by a stranger.”

“Nor should it be run by someone who’s unqualified,” he added.

My blood pressure spiked. I opened my mouth to respond, but Mike cut in with the skill of a man who ran weekly Lindenbach town hall meetings.

“Thank you both,” he said with authority. “Our next question is from—”

Commotion at one of the microphones in the aisle of the old movie theater drew all our attention. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the stage lights to find Doug Windley wrestling the microphone away from Bill Chesterfield to interrupt like Kanye at the Grammys.

“I’d like to know,” he said, elbowing Bill away when he tried to make a grab for it. “How it is that Duke Daniels can come into town and manipulate our election without anyone saying a word about it? You want nothin’ to do with us, and none of us are stupid enough to believe otherwise—goddammit, Bill, gimme one second—Your little stunt left two candidates in the race that nobody wants: a traitorous, bleeding-heart hippie and some slick politician who’s forgotten his roots. I want to know—”

The sound cut out, though Doug was still yelling into the dead mic. He didn’t realize what was going on until he was flanked by a handful of men who escorted him out of the building, still yelling over his shoulder.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Mike said, “Bill, go ahead and ask your question.”

Bill cleared his throat and narrowed his weaselly eyes. “Miss Blum, you were front and center with the building of the homeless shelter, contrary to the town’s wishes.”

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