The Phoenix Candidate(23)

“You mean, like Sarah Palin’s ‘You can see Russia from Alaska’ comment?” I remember the ridicule after her interview with Charles Gibson, even though she didn’t precisely say that. There’s no doubt a Conover-Colton ticket would be compared to the McCain-Palin ticket of less than a decade ago.

“I’d like to think you’re going to be a lot tougher. And a lot more strategic.” He gives me a shrewd look, and in his narrowed eyes I see how he’s been weighing my assets. “When McCain picked Palin, you know what her greatest national exposure was? A photo spread in Vogue. You’ve got a major national issue under your belt, something that’s affected people from Sandy Hook to Virginia to Arizona to Oregon, and more than once.”

“But a lot of people hate my positions on gun control.”

“And a lot of people love them,” Conover counters. “Look, you’re not proposing killing the second amendment, and we need to be clear on that. Your husband was a hunter, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I admit, but my eyes slide to the floor. Invoking Seth in the campaign—it’s something that churns in my gut. It feels like a betrayal of him, of our frayed relationship when he died, and even my turbulent connection with Jared.

“What about the other elephant in the room? I’m thirty-nine.”

“And I’m sixty-eight. It’s a good balance. Appeals to two generations. Paul Ryan was forty-two when he was chosen. Palin was forty-four. There’s a precedent.”

“What about Hillary?”

“We can’t count on her for an endorsement. But I think the fact that she was presumed to run set the stage for people to expect a woman on the 2016 ballot. I think that helps us.”

Conover is quiet for a beat. Then he leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You want to tell me what’s really bothering you, Grace? Are you worried we can’t win?”

“No! I mean, you’re a long shot, but that’s not it.”

“I like being the underdog, Grace,” Conover drawls, his lips quirking up into a smile. “I like being a challenger. I like looking forward to who we’re gonna lap, rather than looking over my shoulder and watching my back. What I need to know, here and now, is if you’ve got my back. If I choose you, will you have my back from here through the election?”

I look into his watery eyes, full of sincerity and passion for making this happen. “Yes. Will you have mine?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not my job. My job is to get elected, and I need to choose the best partner to get there. I can’t say I’ll have your back because I might not choose you. I’ve got my staff out vetting and coaching a couple of people, and I’m not going to lie to you and tell you you’re in when we’re far from that.”

Conover’s admission just about knocks the wind out of me. All this prep might be for nothing. I lick my lips, squashing the disappointment in my gut. “I appreciate your candor.”

“And I appreciate your effort, Grace. Look, I’m going to ask you to jump through a lot of hoops in the next month to get ready. I want you out a lot more than you’ve been, at interviews and appearances, so when I make my announcement, you’re ready. Can you do that for me?”

I swallow, my peaceful summer spent paddling and catching up on constituent business before I head back to the congressional session in September vanishing. “Yes.”

He pats my hand. “Good. Then let’s get you over to the university for your first event.”





Chapter Sixteen





It’s a one-two punch. First up: a University of Colorado-Denver appearance celebrating a new federal program to encourage young women in STEM fields: science, technology, engineering, and math.

I get through that appearance just fine, thankful for the briefing notes I read on the flight.

Next, I’m propelled to an event in the Hyatt Regency ballroom, the final night of a real estate developers’ conference. While the university event was almost ascetic, this one drips with money, from the jumbo shrimp cocktails to the top-shelf alcohol for several hundred people.

I take a white wine so I can mingle without looking completely out of place, and an event coordinator shuttles me around the room to meet the VIPs. I soon realize a stark gender divide: the men are here on business, the women are spouses and girlfriends. Virtually every woman here looks like she’s had a nip or a tuck, and I feel frumpy in my power suit next to their plunging necklines and cocktail dresses.

My face feels ready to crack from the smiling, the greetings, and the terse explanations that I’m behind some of the developers’ least favorite legislation regarding development setbacks on land adjacent to salmon-spawning streams.