Page 17 of Campaign Season (By Design #18)

Chapter

Six

Muskegon, Michigan

One last early-morning stop before Candace could head home to New York. The air outside the little coffee shop carried that Election Day tension—a hum of nerves, hope, and caffeine.

Aubrey Peters looked younger than her thirty-four years in the pale morning light, her campaign button pinned crookedly to her blazer.

Once considered a long shot, she’d started this race trailing Congressman Rod Nelson by nearly thirty points.

But she hadn’t folded. She had chipped away day by day, debate by debate, handshake by handshake.

And after Jameson’s infamous fishing adventure that had ended with both women covered in mud—and Aubrey with an unexpected Tonight Show shoutout—the gap had narrowed to less than two points.

Candace wasn’t sure if her presence here would tip the scales. But she was curious about the young woman who had earned Jameson’s praise.

“Thanks for coming here,” Aubrey said, cradling a paper cup between her palms. "I know there are loads of places you could be."

“I had to meet the legendary fisherman,” Candace said.

Aubrey laughed. “Leave it to me to land the First Lady in the mud."

Candace laughed. "Trust me, Aubrey, Jameson doesn't need any help landing in mud, leaves, grass, water, or paint, for that matter."

Aubrey smiled. "She's great."

"Yes, she is, and she speaks highly of you."

"I hope I can deliver."

Candace leaned forward, her tone softening. “Win or lose tonight, Aubrey—you’ve already done something remarkable. You stood up. You made them pay attention. That takes grit.”

Aubrey’s smile faltered, her nerves showing. “What if it isn’t enough?”

Candace reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over Aubrey’s. “Then you wake up tomorrow and keep going. One defeat doesn’t define you. What matters is whether you believe in the fight. If you do, you stay in it.”

"Some days I think I must be crazy—to think I can make a difference."

“You've made a difference just by putting yourself out here. I don’t just think it. I know it.” Candace sat back, lifting her coffee.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you ever feel like it's never enough?"

Candace smiled. "Every. Single. Day," she said.

"But Jameson reminds me constantly that my best has to be enough.

The truth is, we're all ripples in the water—even a president.

When we move together, that's when we create waves.

Whatever happens tonight, I see a bright future for you.

Don't forget why you ran this campaign. That's the biggest danger to people who hold office.

Politics is the elevator to leadership. Don't get so lost on the ride that you forget to step off the lift.

And always remember, what goes up, inevitably must go down. "

Aubrey nodded slowly, as if tucking the words away for later. “Thank you,” she said. “For this. For showing up. It means more than I can explain.”

Candace smiled and finished the last sip of her coffee. “You don’t have to explain. Just remember—this isn’t the end of anything. It’s only the beginning.”

They rose together, Aubrey smoothing her blazer, Candace tugging her coat into place. For a moment, the chaos of Election Day—the polls, the pundits, the what-ifs—fell away, leaving only two women sharing a quiet resolve.

“Go cast your vote,” Candace said with a wink. “And no fishing until after the results are in.”

Aubrey laughed, the sound light in the chilly morning air.

As Candace stepped toward the waiting motorcade, she glanced back at Aubrey, who stood straighter and steadier. It reminded her why she kept fighting—not for headlines or polls, but for people like this.

Home awaited in New York, with family, with grief, with laughter. Aubrey brightened her hopes for the future. Maybe we'll be all right after all.

Schoharie, New York

Candace enjoyed her brief outing with Aubrey Peters and managed to finish some overdue reading and correspondence on the flight to Albany.

By the time she’d cast her vote and made it to the farmhouse, everyone was already gathered.

Pearl had chosen to head home too—a chance to see friends at a house she rarely visited now.

Candace had said her hellos, accepted hugs from her grandchildren, and then politely excused herself, explaining she needed to make a few calls. In truth, she simply wanted to catch her breath.

Jameson stepped into the room, shutting the door softly behind her. “Candace?”

“I’m sorry,” Candace said. “It was a hectic morning. I think I just need a minute of quiet.”

Jameson studied her face, then said gently, “Something’s on your mind. I can see it in your eyes.”

Candace sighed.

“Candace,” Jameson pressed softly. “I know you want to set as much aside as you can this week. But something’s weighing on you—something beyond the obvious. Talk to me. Please.”

Candace paced to the window and pulled the curtain aside, staring into the yard. “I always say we all have choices. I’ve never spent much time dwelling on mine. I try to learn from them—the good and the not-so-good.” She turned to face Jameson. “I’ve always felt I had a choice.”

Jameson nodded. “And now you don’t.”

“I know I can choose not to seek reelection, but… how can I make that choice?”

“You can’t.”

Candace nodded faintly, her gaze drifting back outside.

“The last few months have been hard,” Jameson said quietly. “Scary. Painful.”

Candace’s chest rose and fell slowly as she tried to steady herself. Jameson recognized the familiar sight—Candace’s body trained not to betray her emotions. Leadership demanded a constant performance: measured anger, measured concern, measured humor. Never too much, never too little.

But their life had been anything but measured lately.

Tragedy, violence, loss. It wasn’t the bombing in New York, the attacks abroad, or even the assassination attempt on the UK’s Foreign Minister that threatened to crack Candace’s composure.

It was Jonathan’s illness. Watching the father of her children wither under the weight of cancer—that was the fracture point.

“Candace,” Jameson called gently.

“I always thought I could make a difference.”

“You do.”

Candace nodded. “But at what cost?”

“There’s a cost to everything,” Jameson replied. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

“What am I doing?”

“Questioning if serving as president is the best thing for this family.”

Candace shook her head. “I’ve trapped us.”

“That isn’t true.”

“My ambition?—”

“Your commitment?—”

“No, Jameson,” Candace cut in. “I?—”

“No one knows better than me about your ambition,” Jameson said firmly. “Except maybe Pearl. And now you’re going to punish yourself for aspiring to be president?”

“I could have made a difference where I was and?—”

“And what?” Jameson pressed. “That would have prevented Jonathan’s cancer?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what? God only knows what would have happened if you weren’t leading this country. Would you have had more freedom? More time with us? Sure. But at what cost?”

Candace looked away.

“I know there are moments when you want to hold up the white flag of surrender,” Jameson said. “Just walk away. But those are only moments, Candace. That isn’t who you are—and it isn’t who we love.”

“I feel unmoored.”

Jameson crossed the room and turned Candace gently to face her.

“This is hard. Hell, it’s been brutal. If I think about it, this is the first time we’ve stood still for more than a day.

Not even after you were injured. I think today was the longest I’ve seen you go without a call from Luke in six months. ”

Candace sighed and collapsed into Jameson’s arms. “I’m tired, Jameson.”

“I know. You need to let your guard down.”

Candace groaned.

“I know you worry that if you fall apart, you won’t have time to put the pieces back together when you’re needed. But if you’re not careful, you’ll implode. You can’t keep holding everything inside.”

“I don’t mean to.”

Jameson tilted her head, unconvinced.

“Okay,” Candace admitted. “Maybe I do.”

Jameson smiled faintly.

“I’m afraid I might not win this next election.”

There it was—the confession that left her raw and unguarded.

“I know,” Jameson said.

“And I can’t lose.”

“I know that, too.”

Jameson guided her toward the bed. “Talk to me.”

“I’ve always been able to move forward,” Candace said. “Once I make a decision, I commit. I don’t waste time second-guessing.”

“But?”

“Would Lawson Klein even be a consideration if someone else sat here?”

“I don’t know. No one does,” Jameson replied.

“He can’t become the nominee.”

“Candace, that’s over a year away.”

“And that time will move faster than anyone realizes. Somehow, he has to be removed from the equation. I’ve never put my thumb on the scale of another election. But this one…” Candace shook her head. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“It wasn’t easy last time,” Jameson reminded her.

“No. But the divides are deeper now—deeper than I could have imagined. People don’t trust their leaders. Any of us. That makes Lawson formidable. He’s?—”

“Vile.”

“Yes. But he’s also seen as an outsider.”

“They tried that with Wolfe,” Jameson said. “It didn’t work.”

Jameson was right, but Candace knew this wasn’t the same. Bradley Wolfe had been dangerous, but he understood government. He wanted a legacy. Lawson Klein wanted chaos—and chaos served plenty of people. Some here. Many abroad.

“Someone wants him to be president,” Candace said quietly.

“Why? Who would it serve?”

“People who thrive on disruption. People who benefit when Americans lose faith in their institutions. I can’t let that happen.”

“Klein isn’t going to be president. Ever.”

“Jameson.” Candace’s voice broke. “I could lose. And I cannot lose to him.”

Jameson studied her—the tightness in her jaw, the restless flex of her hands.

“Do you remember what I said when I proposed?” Jameson asked.

Candace’s lips curved. “Of course.”