Page 11 of Campaign Season (By Design #18)

Chapter

Four

Halloween

Candace was grateful for a couple of days off from campaigning before the final push to Election Day.

Halloween falling on a Saturday felt like a small mercy, especially since a president’s schedule rarely obeyed a Monday-to-Friday rhythm.

Washington slowed on weekends, and the White House followed suit—slightly.

Most weekends, she savored long mornings with Jameson, Cooper, and Pearl in the Solarium, or, in warmer months, by the pool.

But this morning, she’d been granted something rarer still: solitude.

Pearl had returned to Schoharie for two weeks to help Laura, while Jonah alternated visits with Marianne to check in on Jonathan.

Cooper had gone to Alex and Cassidy’s, eager to help Mackenzie prepare for her self-declared “Haunted Halloween House Party.” Jameson was shut away in her downstairs office, working on some surprise Candace thought best not to question.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had more than a fleeting moment completely to herself—no phone buzzing, no aide knocking on her door, no family member peeking into the kitchen.

The quiet made the coffee taste better. Or maybe it was simply the chance to sip it without her thoughts racing ahead to the next obligation.

Countless issues still sat waiting on her desk, and more hovered in her mind.

But she pushed them aside this morning, letting herself drift instead toward memories: her school years and the first time Jonathan Fletcher asked her on a date.

They’d grown up in the same neighborhood, even attended the same schools, but it wasn’t until college that friendship ripened into something more.

Candace smiled into her mug, recalling Jonathan—so sure of himself in his senior year at Cornell—teaching her to throw darts in a cramped dive bar off campus.

He’d stood behind her, his hand guiding her wrist, the scent of cheap beer and too much cologne clinging to the moment like a permanent stamp.

“Loosen your grip,” he’d teased. “You’re strangling the dart.”

The warmth of the coffee matched the warmth of the memory. Those had been simpler days—before careers and politics, before children and the weight of expectations turned their lives into something more complicated.

Jonathan had been the first to introduce her to what he called “real” beer, scoffing at the canned light stuff as “glorified water.” He’d ordered her a Heineken on tap, insisting it was worth every penny. Eventually, she acquired a taste for it, just as she’d acquired a taste for his company.

Leaning back in her chair, Candace tilted her face into the sunlight streaming through the window. It felt strange remembering who they’d been back then—before lovers, before spouses, before the burdens of ambition and loss carved lines into both their lives.

There was a time when even the thought of Jonathan left her hollow.

Their separation hadn’t been marked by slammed doors or shouted accusations but by a silence heavy enough to fill every room.

She remembered staring at her phone, wondering how to bridge the gap between them.

So many things had carved the valley between them: lipstick smudges on his collars, the small white casket they had stood beside in the rain, and the truth she knew about herself that she had tried to deny.

For years, they exchanged polite smiles that never reached their eyes and engaged in conversations that skimmed the surface like stones skipping across water.

The thaw between them had been slow: a shared laugh over a memory, a real conversation during a college visit weekend.

Gradually, the edges softened. And then Jameson completed the bridge between them, reshaping what seemed impossible.

They built a new friendship that respected their past while embracing the present.

Now, with Jonathan’s illness shadowing every day, those old memories pressed more insistently at the edges of her mind.

The dartboard, the Heineken, the crooked grin—all of it felt both painfully close and impossibly far.

She could almost hear his voice, teasing her about her grip on the dart or coaxing her into one more game before she went back to study.

Candace set her coffee down and rubbed her temples.

It wasn’t regret she felt—it was a strange mix of gratitude and grief.

Gratitude that time had allowed them to salvage their friendship from the wreckage of their marriage, and grief that the man who had once stood firmly beside her was now slipping away.

A breeze stirred the curtain at her side, lifting the fabric like a reminder that nothing ever stays still.

For a woman who had built her life on control—on measured responses, deliberate choices—that truth still had the power to shake her.

She thought about the small white casket, about the years of silence, and about the laughter that had returned slowly, fragile as glass.

And she thought about Jameson. Jameson, who had walked into her life carrying neither expectations nor judgment, only love. Jameson, who had somehow made space for all of it—for the past, for the pain, for the pieces of Candace that even she struggled to hold.

Candace closed her eyes, letting the sunlight warm her face, and whispered to herself, “One day at a time.”

The floorboard creaked outside the Solarium. Candace didn’t move, still cradling her mug, the steam brushing her cheek like a quiet ghost of memory. Then the door eased open, and Jameson stepped in.

Candace blinked once—and then burst out laughing.

Jameson stood framed in the doorway, swallowed head to toe in a ridiculous shade of green, her costume unmistakable: a giant Hungry Hippo. The oversized mouth of the game’s character bobbed a little as she tilted her head, her grin peeking out from beneath the foam contraption.

“Oh my God,” Candace wheezed, setting her coffee aside before she spilled it. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“Dead serious,” Jameson said, shuffling forward and striking a pose like she was modeling couture. “Melanie said she wanted something the kids would appreciate. They all love Hungry Hippos. So…” She spread her arms wide. “Here we are.”

“We?” Candace asked, trying to catch her breath between giggles.

“Michelle is blue. Melanie is orange. That leaves me.” Jameson gave a mock bow. “Your very dignified First Lady of Green.”

Candace pressed her fingers to her lips, laughter spilling out again. “Oh, Jameson…”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it. Besides, it’s not much different from your turtle pajamas.” Jameson crossed the room, the foam bumping lightly against the edge of a chair. “And here’s the best part—we still need a yellow hippo. Any chance you’re free tonight, Madam President?”

Candace shook her head, still laughing, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. “Absolutely not. Though I have to admit… you wear it well.”

Jameson leaned down and kissed her forehead, the ridiculous snout of the costume bumping her hair. “Are you sure? Not hungry?” she asked, the mouth of the costume bobbing again.

Candace slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “You are insane.”

“True,” Jameson said, grinning. “But admit it—you love lunatics in the morning.”

Candace exhaled, her laughter softening into something gentler. “Yes. I do. And this was Mel’s idea?”

“No. It was mine. She was ready to go out and buy eye patches for us to be pirates. I didn’t think that was the right brand image for the first lady—thieving on the high seas and all.”

Candace shook her head. “Hippos?”

“Well? We can sell it as promotion for the National Zoo.”

Candace roared. “You are certifiable, honey. Adorable, but certifiable.”

Jameson grinned. “I should go change for now. Think the kids will like it?”

Warmth bloomed in Candace’s chest. Jameson would do anything for their children and grandchildren, even dress up as a gameboard hippo. “I think they’ll love it.”

Jameson beamed. “I’ll be back after I change.”

Candace lingered in the Solarium after Jameson left, her laughter still echoing faintly in the quiet room. She picked up her phone, hesitated a moment, then scrolled to Jonathan’s number. It had become habit lately, these check-ins that were no longer casual but quietly urgent.

“Candy.” His voice came through warm, if thinner than it once had been.

“Hi, Jon.” She smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “How are you feeling?”

There was a pause—long enough for Candace to recognize the effort behind his answer. “It’s a good day.”

Candace’s throat tightened. “You sound good.”

“I sound alive,” he replied lightly.

“Jon.”

“It’s all right, Candy. One of the things I value most about our friendship is not needing to pretend.”

“Are you up to this family get-together?” she asked.

“I’ll be up for it.”

“Jon—”

“Sooner is better,” he said. “Maybe we could push the timetable up a few days.”

Candace closed her eyes. “Thursday?”

“That would be fine. I know it might be difficult for you and the kids.”

“We’ll make it work,” Candace said. “Do you want me to call Marianne?”

Jonathan sighed.

“Jon?”

“I can call her.”

“Why don’t you let me handle that this morning? Isn’t Jonah planning to stop by with the kids today?”

“Yes. In their costumes.”

Candace chuckled.

“Must be busy there. Is Cooper excited?”

“Cooper is at Cassidy’s house helping Mackenzie get ready for a party. I don’t even know what he is dressing up as. Apparently, he and Mackenzie have some master plan.”

Jonathan chuckled.

“Jameson just strolled in here as a Hungry Hippo.”

“A what?”

“A Hungry Hippo. From that board game the kids all love. She’s going trick-or-treating with Michelle and Melanie.”

“I’ll bet that’s a first for the Secret Service. Safeguarding a hippo.”

Candace laughed.

“Thanks for calling,” Jonathan said.

“Tell me if there is anything more I can do?”

“Take pictures,” he said. “Of the Secret Service and the hippo.”