Page 19 of Campaign Season (By Design #18)

Chapter

Seven

Wednesday Morning

Michelle wandered into the kitchen to find Brody and JJ bent over coloring books at the table, crayons scattered like confetti. At the counter, Candace reached for a mixing bowl.

“Are you really making pancakes?” Michelle asked.

“A bet is a bet,” Candace replied, setting the bowl down with a soft thud. “Your father always made good on his bets. He won.”

“You didn’t actually bet him.”

Candace smiled faintly. “I didn’t expect us to flip that seat, so it’s close enough in my book. Maybe he was our good luck charm.” She poured coffee into a mug, slid it across to Michelle, and then sat down across from her.

“Is everyone else still asleep?” Michelle asked.

“Jameson and Jonah took Spencer and Cooper out to the barn.”

Michelle raised an eyebrow. “For?”

“Jameson has ideas about turning it into a guest house.”

“Are you serious?”

Candace sipped her coffee and shrugged.

“In her spare time?”

A laugh escaped Candace. “I don’t think she expects to finish it anytime soon, Shell.”

Michelle studied her mother for a moment, then set her cup down. “Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you thinking you might not run for reelection?”

Candace didn’t flinch. “I think about it all the time. But I don’t think that’s an option.”

“Meaning you’d rather not run again.”

“Shell, I love being president.”

“But…”

“But it comes at a cost. And not just for me. Don’t argue—just listen. That has to be part of the equation for any leader. Or it should be.” She drew a slow breath, steadying herself. “It isn’t easy compartmentalizing—setting aside my personal fears so I can make decisions for millions of people.”

“I know that, Mom. But that’s not what’s keeping you up at night.”

“It’s part of it.”

“And the other part is Lawson Klein?”

Candace hesitated, then nodded. “I worry about Laura,” she admitted softly.

“But Lawson isn’t the real concern. It’s the people behind him.

His stock was at rock bottom a few years ago.

To call his rise meteoric would be an understatement.

Nothing that’s happened these last few months has been random, Shell—the explosion in New York, the grid attacks in Europe, Theresa Keller’s motorcade, the shooting of the UK Foreign Minister. It’s all connected.”

Michelle frowned. “And where does Lawson fit in?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Lawson doesn’t care about foreign policy.

I doubt he even understands why it matters, except as a way to burnish his image or line his pockets.

But that’s exactly why certain interests want him propped up.

Chaos here creates openings abroad—and at home.

At the very least, his rhetoric poisons the middle and fractures alliances I’ve worked to build.

And we’re losing seasoned leaders every day. Lawson thrives on division. Absolutes.”

Michelle leaned in, her voice steady. “All the more reason for you to stay in the fight.”

“I’m not bowing out, Shell. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel conflicted.

Politics has always been messy. Ugly. Things were quieter for us when I was in the Senate.

I had critics, yes—but for the most part, people accepted me in that role.

The presidency is different. It’s constant scrutiny.

And I worry about what that means for Cooper. For all of you.”

Michelle tilted her head. “What does JD think?”

Candace’s lips curved into a smile. “Jameson misses ordinary life. So do I.” She chuckled.

“But she also understands the stakes—and the privilege it is to serve. She’d love to spend her hours tinkering with the barn or running with the kids.

There are things we both miss. Simple things.

Buckling babies into car seats for a trip to the park.

Wandering through an antique shop unnoticed.

Those days are gone for us, and we accepted that when I ran the first time.

I’m not sure either of us knew what it would really mean, but Jameson is as committed to my presidency as I am. That includes another term.”

Michelle nodded. “We fared better last night than you expected.”

Candace took a sip of coffee, then set the mug aside. “In the numbers, yes.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Mom, we held the Senate. And the Republicans only have a four-seat majority in the House. They won’t be able to do much without some support from Democrats.”

“True. But our margin in the Senate is razor-thin. Two seats. That means every vote will require careful negotiation— and working across the aisle is harder than it’s ever been.

” She leaned back, her expression sober.

“You need to look beyond the numbers, Shell. Look at the people who won. Things have shifted. Partisanship has always been part of the job, especially over budgets or social issues. But when I came to Congress, most people—even when we disagreed—were there to do the work. They believed in oversight. In governing.”

She exhaled slowly. “Now? Some of these newer representatives treat Congress like a stage. They’re chasing clicks and soundbites, more interested in being influencers than legislators. And that kind of spectacle serves someone like Lawson.”

“It’s still early. I’m sure there will be people who challenge him for the nomination.”

Candace nodded, though her expression remained serious. “Let’s hope one of them succeeds.”

Jameson chuckled softly as she watched Cooper and Spencer unearth treasures from inside the old dry sink that had been shoved against the wall. “God only knows what’s in there,” she said.

“Are you seriously thinking about turning this into a living space?” Jonah asked.

“Why not?”

“Uh, JD? It might be easier to tear it down and start fresh.”

Jameson tipped her head back, studying the wooden beams overhead. The frame was solid—sturdy in a way most modern builds weren’t. “Easier doesn’t mean better, Jonah.”

“You could design something that would fit seamlessly with the house.”

“I could,” she allowed. “But it wouldn’t have the history this place holds.”

“JD, it’s a barn. It’s been nothing but storage for as long as I can remember. No horses, no wagons, no plows. Not in a century.”

Jameson’s smile was almost wistful. “But they were here once. That matters. It’s part of the landscape.”

“It’ll be a lot of work,” Jonah pressed.

Jameson shrugged. A challenge never deterred her.

Jonah was right—she could sketch a guesthouse that looked period-authentic, designed to match the farmhouse perfectly.

But it would be a lie. It would lack memory, and memory was what gave a space its soul.

She wanted to keep the story of this barn alive, even if it meant reshaping it.

Dust swirled in the shafts of morning light filtering through the weathered siding.

For a moment, she could almost imagine the ghosts of farmhands moving through the shadows.

Her palm slid across a massive support post, the rough wood warm beneath her touch.

The grain ran deep and true, a record of storms and seasons endured.

“Look at this craftsmanship,” she mused, tracing the mortise and tenon joints with her fingertip. “No nails. Just wood, locked in place by hand. It’s held for more than a hundred years. Modern construction couldn’t promise that.”

“Mom!” Cooper’s voice rang from the far corner. “There’s a whole set of horseshoes in here!”

Jameson turned, smiling. “See? That’s what I mean, Jonah. Those horseshoes, this wood, the way the light falls through the slats—you can’t manufacture authenticity.”

She stepped into the center of the barn, floorboards creaking under her weight.

In her mind, she could already see it: soaring beams exposed to the ceiling, a loft tucked into the old hayloft, the great sliding door opening onto a wide deck with a view of the meadow and trees that rested beyond the yard.

The gaps in the siding filled with reclaimed wood, not erased but preserved.

An outer shell to preserve the treasure within.

It would be a new space that carried the weight of its story.

Jonah leaned against one of the posts, arms crossed, watching her with an expression halfway between doubt and amusement. “You make it sound like a cathedral instead of a barn.”

Jameson grinned. “Maybe it is. A cathedral of horses and hay bales.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “You know, most people would look at sagging boards, a leaky roof, and a foundation that needs shoring up. You see a palace.”

“Most people don’t have any imagination,” Jameson teased. "And I don't see a palace. That would be less charming."

“Charming?” Jonah chuckled. "Or dusty. Maybe people just like working with straight lines and square corners,” he countered.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Jonah laughed softly, shaking his head. “You haven’t changed. You still see possibility where the rest of us see a headache. I’ll admit, though—there’s a kind of poetry in it."

Jameson’s hand rested on the beam, her voice quieter. “Something new doesn’t have to destroy the past, Jonah. It can carry the best of it forward. That’s what makes it worth doing.”

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I guess that’s why people follow your lead, JD. You don’t just build walls or rooms. You build meaning into them. Even if it’s a barn full of old horseshoes.”

“Especially if it’s a barn full of old horseshoes,” she corrected with a wink. "How many times did you play out here when you were a kid?"

"After Mom caught me with the matches, I stayed away. Shell had a few parties out here, though. Mom found the beer cans she forgot to pick up when she was in high school."

Jameson laughed. "That's what I mean. Think about the stories you can tell your kids when they stay here."

“Well, if you’re serious, you know Mel and I will help. But I should warn you—if Mel finds raccoons in the rafters, she'll probably hand in her notice.”

Jameson laughed, the sound filling the dusty space. “There's a story behind that I need to hear.”