It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
and her book: Red, White, and Blue
Tyndale House Publishers (February 5, 2009)
About the Author:
Born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, Laura Hayden began her reading career at the age of four. By the time she was ten, sheâ€™d exhausted the childrenâ€™s section in the local library and switched to adult mysteries. Although she always loved to write, she became sidetracked in college where differential equations outweighed dangling participles. But one engineering degree, one wedding, two kids, and three military assignments later, she ended up in Colorado Springs, Colorado, where she met people who shared her passion for writing. With their support, instruction, and camaraderie, she set and met her goal of selling her first book. She has now published ten novels and several short stories. (ISBN#9781414319407, 352pp, $13.99)
No more cameras, no strobe lights, no cheering throng.
The exuberant but exhausted audience had finally faded away hours earlier, the journalists following suit shortly afterward. America had finally gone to bed, either celebrating or lamenting the fact that that theyâ€™d just elected their first female president.
Kate cherished the silence. She needed someplace where she could collect her thoughts, which had been shattered tonight. Sheâ€™d discovered things she could hardly believe even still about her best friend. And sheâ€™d been disillusioned in a way that nobody, even a politicianâ€™s top aide, was prepared to be. Her headache and heartache had been made worse by the oppressive crush of supporters commemorating their candidateâ€™sâ€”her candidateâ€™sâ€”triumph. Once Emily and her entourage, minus Kate, went upstairs, the party had finally broken up and the ballroom’s capacity crowd started to stream home for their own private celebrations.
But Kateâ€™s ears still rang with the sound of more than a thousand people cheering, screaming their support of their candidate.
â€œBenton! Benton! Benton!â€
Emily Rousseau Benton, former governor of Virginia, Kateâ€™s best friend, had been elected president of the United States, in no small part due to Kateâ€™s hard work. Emilyâ€™s race for the White House had dominated both of their lives for the past four years. Everything Kate did, every action she took as Emilyâ€™s campaign manager, had been done solely in support of her friendâ€™s bid for the presidency.
And now that Emily had won, Kate was alone, horrified at the prospect that she might have made a terrible mistake.
She slipped down from the stage riser and kicked idly at the balloons in her path, creating a slight rippling effect across the bubbled mass of them. An occasional balloon still floated down from the ceiling, a day late and a dollar short.
Kateâ€™s most recent revelation had been like that, one day too late. . . .
A lone voice penetrated the silence. She stiffened in surprise and raised her hand to shade her eyes and get a better look at the person standing on the balcony. Her mood lightened and her shoulders relaxed when she realized who had spoken.
â€œY’all all right? Need some company?â€
It was a classic Southern salutation, and the familiarity of it was oddly comforting. Then again, Wes Kingsbury always knew what to sayâ€”he was equal parts her friend and her spiritual mentor. Disappearing into the shadows, Wes emerged a few moments later from the staircase leading to the balcony box.
Kate glanced at her watch and stifled a yawnâ€”3:46. That was a.m. Too early to be called morning, too late to be called night. The true dark hours of the human soul, when body rhythm and spirit were at their lowest point.
â€œI canâ€™t believe youâ€™re still here,â€ she said. The man had a wife and a small child, a real world and home to which he could return. He hadnâ€™t closed his life down to a single obsessively sought goal. That had been her mistake.
â€œAnd I canâ€™t believe youâ€™re not upstairs. Mâ€™s still up in the suite, partying hearty.â€
She kicked at a balloon, stirring up a small whirl of color. â€œI know. Iâ€™m not in much of a party mood.â€
â€œSo I see.â€ He fell into step next to her. â€œWhatâ€™s going on? I would have thought youâ€™d be thrilled. This was the goal, right?â€ He pointed to an abandoned placard: Benton/Bochner â€™08.
â€œIt was. It is.â€ She couldnâ€™t help but shiver. â€œItâ€™s complicated.â€
â€œItâ€™s Emily. Itâ€™s always complicated.â€ He chuckled, then sighed. â€œOkay, what has she done now?â€ At Kateâ€™s hesitation, he added, â€œItâ€™s got something to do with Talbot, doesnâ€™t it?â€
Charles Talbot had been Emilyâ€™s opponent in her race for the White House. As such, heâ€™d pulled out all the stops to find all the dirt he could on his challenger. Kate, as Emilyâ€™s friend and ally for more than twenty years, had been positive there was no dirt to be found.
Sheâ€™d been so wrong. . . .
Talbotâ€™s investigators discovered that Emilyâ€™s family had illegally won important highway construction contracts in Virginia while Emily was the stateâ€™s governor.
When Kate learned his camp was prepared to release this information, the only way she could stop him was to explain to him exactly the unsavory facts that her own investigations had uncovered on himâ€”details sheâ€™d kept out of Emilyâ€™s hands.
The last thing Kate had wanted was her friend to strike an ill-timed and unnecessary first blowâ€”using a nuke when a nudge would have worked just as well. Sheâ€™d learned the hard way that Emily, though a talented politician, wasnâ€™t exactly good at being subtle when she had a bigger weapon handy. But when Talbot made his big, bold move to not only discredit Emily but take down her family by attempting to dismantle the entire Benton legacy, Kate had intervened by threatening to use her opposition research.
Talbot had killed . . . and Kate felt that she had no choice but to remind him of the lengths to which heâ€™d gone to cover up his own crimes. She had the bloody proof that heâ€™d been criminally negligent, if not morally responsible, in the grisly death of his college girlfriend. Talbot might have maneuvered his way out of the scandal, but Kate had the goods on himâ€”incontrovertible evidence.
If released to the public, her evidence would have been sufficient to end his campaign, destroy his reputation, and possibly land him in jail for a long, long time. Talbot saw the light and backed down from his threats.
So Talbot had been stopped. The situation had served to cement Kateâ€™s resolve that Emily Benton would make a far better president than her opponent. Emily was a policy wonk who knew her stuff, she was talented at getting things done, she worked hard for the people she represented, and she was charismatic enough to persuade even those who opposed her to allow time for her ideas to have a chance to work. In other words, Emily was the best politician of her time.
However, Kate soon learned not only that her actions had made Talbot her enemy for life, but also that no one ever wins in a competition of â€œwho has the best blackmailâ€ because the games like that never end. Sheâ€™d felt sickened, soiled, and finally betrayed.
Kate drew a deep breath. â€œEmily found out.â€
Wes straightened for a moment. Heâ€™d been one of only two confidants who knew the sins of both candidates, other than the candidates themselves.
â€œAbout . . .â€ Wes paused and glanced around as if gauging the likelihood of being overheard. Even though no one was in sight, he kept his voice low. â€œAbout the ammunition you had? How?â€
â€œI told her Iâ€™d stopped Talbot, but I refused to tell her how. I didnâ€™t think she needed to know. So in the middle of the night, my best friend M sent one of her protÃ©gÃ©s to â€˜borrowâ€™ the report from me.â€
â€œâ€˜ProtÃ©gÃ©sâ€™?â€ Wesâ€™s gaze narrowed. â€œMaia,â€ he said in a flat voice.
Kate nodded. â€œOur very own ingenue in training.â€ She stared across the vast ballroom, watching a piece of bunting as it slipped from the balcony railing and wafted gently to the floor. â€œThough apparently sheâ€™s more iron maiden than ingenue. Scruples donâ€™t seem to concern her. I rip my heart out every day, trying to find the right balance between my Christian convictions and loyalty to my country and to my friendsâ€”especially Emily. I want to make a difference in the world, make peopleâ€™s lives better. I donâ€™t always like how I do it. Maia didnâ€™t have a second thought when Emily asked her to steal the reports from me in the middle of the night. She made copies, then replaced the originals so I wouldnâ€™t know. Then Emily had Maia contact Talbot with what youâ€™d call a very thinly veiled threat.â€
Wes read between the lines. â€œDestroying any hope of the campaign staying out of the gutter.â€
â€œYeah. But then came the weird part. It didâ€”stay out of the gutter, I mean.â€ A shiver coursed up her spine and she crossed her arms in an effort to combat it. â€œButtoned up tighter than Fort Knox. Maybe my way wasnâ€™t effective enough. Maybe Emilyâ€™s decision to send him a second threat was the only real way to stop him.â€ A second tremor joined the first, and Kate knew it wasnâ€™t because she was cold. â€œMaybe I was wrong. Or maybe Iâ€™m in the wrong business. Or maybe Iâ€™m simply overreacting.â€
â€œOr maybe not.â€
They took several more steps through the remains of the revelry before Kate stopped. She reached down and rescued a placard bearing Emilyâ€™s likeness.
â€œIn any case, I donâ€™t know . . .â€ She hated how her voice broke when she spoke. â€œI donâ€™t know if I can stay. If I can continue working with her. She lied to me, stole from me. Maia actually expected me to be impressed by their cleverness. Emily knew better. But she set it up anyway.â€ She studied the picture plastered across the placard. Emilyâ€™s resolute smile looked effortless despite the fact itâ€™d taken the photographer over two hours to capture the perfect expression.
â€œYou have very high standards for your behavior.â€ Wes took a few more steps, then stopped, pivoting to face her, his hands jammed in his pockets. â€œEmilyâ€™s a lot more flexible; sheâ€™s a big proponent for â€˜the end justifies the means.â€™ You know that. I know that. The question is, can you tolerate that? Jesus himself said, â€˜Render unto Caesar that which was Caesarâ€™s.â€™ But there have to be consequences when a person crosses the line. Nobodyâ€™s above the law, not even Emilyâ€”though sheâ€™d probably argue that point. The big question you have to answer here is what is the right thing for your faith and the right thing for the world. Think hard about that and then move forward. Iâ€™ll pray for you. I know itâ€™s going to be a tough decision.â€
Kate looked up from Emilyâ€™s compelling expression, the look in her eyes that said, You know you can trust me. â€œA decision I was hoping youâ€™d help me make.â€
To her utter surprise, Wes shook his head. â€œNope.â€
He raised his palm to stop her. â€œHear me out. Iâ€™m always willing to offer advice, lend a hand or even a shoulder, but when it comes to something like this, you need to work with a higher authority.â€ He pointed upward.
Kate managed to conjure up a tight smile. â€œSomehow, I donâ€™t think you mean President-Elect Benton in the penthouse suite.â€
â€œNope. A lot higher.â€
They rode up the elevator in silence. It wasnâ€™t until they reached the door to the suite, flanked by Secret Service agents, that Wes hesitated.
Kate fought the urge to say, â€œYouâ€™re going in with me, arenâ€™t you?â€ She realized she needed to speak to Emily in private. If any of the campaign entourage still hung about, Kate would have to bide her time, smile, make nice with the natives, and wait for her chance after all the hoopla finally ended. It had been relatively easy to have the candidateâ€™s ear in private, but getting the attention of the next president would be more complicated.
She practiced her smile on the two agents, whose names she needed to learn. Then she stopped herself.
Or maybe after tonight it wouldnâ€™t matter.
â€œThis is where I say good-bye.â€ Wes leaned over and kissed her forehead. â€œAnd good luck. Let me know what happens.â€
â€œThanks. I will,â€ she whispered. Drawing in a deep breath, Kate reached for the doorknob, but the agent on the right beat her to it.
â€œAllow me, Ms. Rosen.â€ He opened the door.
It was a testament to the construction of the hotel that she heard little in the way of sound from the suite until the door opened. Then a cacophony of laughter and voices met her, the celebration evidently still in full swing. The crowd had dwindled some, but an impressive number of folks still lingered, including several of Washingtonâ€™s biggest power players, senior members of the party, a large assortment of Benton family members, and some of the key campaign staffers.
Kate didnâ€™t see Emily at first but finally spotted her in a corner of the room, holding court. They made eye contact and Emily raised her hand as if saying, Over here and motioned Kate over. In response, Kate began to pick her way through the clusters of people. She was stopped every foot or so to be congratulated, hugged, and offered a drink.
She felt odd accepting the accolades, but she had no trouble waving off the libations. The last thing she needed was the muddle of alcohol. She could only hope that Emily had kept a clear head as well.
Before Kate could reach Emilyâ€™s position, she bumped into a rather solid male form. Before she could recover her balance, a hand grasped her elbow and she was hit in the face with a cloud of whiskey breath.
â€œKatie-girl!â€ Emilyâ€™s old family adviser Dozier Marsh pulled her into an awkward embrace. He might have looked like someoneâ€™s sainted grandfather, but it was as far from what he really was as the North Pole from Antarctica. He was the ultimate political fixerâ€”a devious, dangerous old power broker with a fondness for hard liquor and Emily, though not always in that order. And right now, he was acting like a lecherous uncle.
â€œWhere you been, darlinâ€™?â€ he wheezed. â€œHard to have a party without Emilyâ€™s right-hand gal!â€ He tried to swing her around. The move would have made them both fall over had the young aide standing next to him not reached up and steadied him.
â€œSir, perhaps youâ€™d rather sit,â€ the aide said.
Dozier gave Kate a grin and leaned heavily against his aide. â€œI suspect youâ€™re right, Percy. The room is definitely leaning to one side.â€ He dropped heavily into the nearest chair, managing to spill two drinks that were abandoned on the nearby end table. He stared blearily at the mess. â€œWould you be a dear, Kate, and get me a couple of cocktail napkins so I can clean up behind my sorry, drunken self? Iâ€™d ask Perry here, but heâ€™s playing a key role in supporting me.â€
â€œNow, Dozier . . .â€ Emilyâ€™s voice knifed neatly through the chatter, instantly commanding the attention of the room. â€œYouâ€™re not asking the future White House chief of staff to be your fetch-it girl, are you?â€
Dozierâ€™s ruddy complexion deepened. â€œOf c-course not, Emily. . . . I mean . . .â€ He pulled awkwardly to his feet, away from his aide, and managed a small stiff bow without falling over. â€œMadam President.â€
The room went silent, no one quite sure what direction Emilyâ€™s response might head next.
â€œIâ€™ve never really liked being called â€˜madam.â€™â€ After a tense millisecond, Emily allowed a smile to spread across her face. â€œBut I guess Iâ€™ll get used to it, if president gets to follow.â€
Dozier, freed from the sharp conversational hook on which heâ€™d impaled himself, offered a weaker version of her smile and lifted the drink heâ€™d never lost grip of. â€œHear, hear.â€
With the momentary tension broken, the room went back to its earlier stateâ€”celebrating people clustering in small discussion knots. Dozierâ€™s aide, a young man whose name was neither Percy nor Perry but Zack, distracted Dozier with something shiny, giving Kate a chance to escape. Once again, Emily gestured for Kate to follow her and led to the bedroom portion of the suite.
Once the door was closed behind them, Emily gave her a warm hug. â€œI was starting to get worried about you.â€ She gave Kate a close scrutiny. â€œHoney, you look like the weight of the free world is still on your shoulders. But the campaignâ€™s over. We won. You can afford to relax now.â€
â€œNo. I canâ€™t.â€ Kate said. She bit her lip before her words started pouring out, uncontrolled and bitter. She wanted to be completely in control of her emotions before she confronted Emily.
Emily sighed, obviously ignorant of the battle brewing inside Kate. â€œI know. I feel the same way. Campaigning is hard work, but nothing compared to running a country.â€ She dropped to the bed. â€œIf I allowed myself a chance to stop and think about what Iâ€™m taking on, Iâ€™d probably run out of this hotel screaming like the Madwoman of Chaillot.
â€œRemember when we went to New York on spring break back when we were in school? How we jumped on our beds at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel and had a pillow fight? Mom was horrified, but Dad told me that he hoped Iâ€™d never get too old to bounce on the bed.â€
â€œYeah,â€ Kate said. Decades of memories came crashing down upon her. Room service, going to plays, Emilyâ€™s genuine pleasure at sharing the treat with her friend. The phrase had become an inside joke, a motto for that trip and later, the watchwords for those times when the responsibilities of law schoolâ€”and beyondâ€”threatened to drag them down.
When Nick and Emily got married, their gift to each bridesmaid included a sterling silver box engraved with that motto. Kate still had that box sitting in a place of honor on her dresser.
â€œWell?â€ The next president of the United States, the Honorable Emily Rousseau Benton, took off her shoes and took a few experimental bounces on the bed as if to test the bedâ€™s recoil potential.
â€œNot today.â€ Kate tried to smile, desperately wanting to recapture that same sense of giddy accomplishment that Emily evidently felt. Kate had indeed expected to feel a sense of joyous triumph when thinking ahead to this day. But now her heart was too heavy, her mind too burdened with the difficult decision that lay ahead of her.
Emily stopped jumping, the bed undulating in her wake. â€œWhy not?â€ she said. The confusion that initially filled her face dissolved into an expression that Kate couldnâ€™t quite understand. Then it passed almost immediately to a tight, guarded smile. â€œYou have a point. I need to be dignified. Somehow, I donâ€™t think the White House curator is going to let anyone jump on the bed in the Lincoln Bedroom. Not you. Not even me.â€
â€œThatâ€™s not what I meant.â€
Emily locked eyes with her for a moment. Then she turned away, unable to hold the contact for long. A Benton never crumbled under pressure. A real Benton dodged it. The president-elect slid off the bed, pulled on her heels, and straightened her skirt. She didnâ€™t meet Kateâ€™s gaze.
â€œYouâ€™re right. Weâ€™re both exhausted. Youâ€™ve always dealt with exhaustion in different ways than I do. Why donâ€™t you take off aâ€”â€
â€œIâ€™m exhausted. But thatâ€™s not the problem. Iâ€™m confused. Angry. And Iâ€™m disappointed in you.â€ Kateâ€™s heart took the extra beat it always did when she made the final decision to confront her best friend. â€œYou didnâ€™t need to send Maia to steal the files from me. You should have talked to me about it.â€
â€œOh.â€ Emily spoke in a low, even voice. â€œYou found out about that?â€
â€œI didnâ€™t send her,â€ Emily said. â€œShe did that on her own, trying to curry my favor.â€
Kate didnâ€™t know whom to believe. She knew Emily better than she knew herself in some ways. Emily was brilliant, capable, the best person imaginable to have around in an emergency. She was a born leader. But part of that leadership tool kit was that she would also stop at nothing when she wanted something. Of course, Maia was cut from the same cloth. Emilyâ€™s words were plausible. â€œSo did the favor currying work?â€ She tried to keep any emotion out of her voice. â€œDid she make a big impression on you?â€
â€œYes, but it was a mixed bag. I thought Maia showed a remarkable amount of initiative, but I told her that sheâ€™d chosen the wrong person to cross.â€
â€œBut that didnâ€™t stop you from reading the reports, did it?â€
â€œOf course not. Iâ€™d have been a fool to lose that unexpected opportunity. Iâ€™m no fool. You know that.â€
â€œYes, I do. And I guess thatâ€™s why you instructed her to send the threatening e-mail to Talbot. Were you just taking advantage of another unexpected opportunity?â€
â€œSure. It seemed the wise thing to do at the moment. He was a loose cannon. He needed to be locked down.â€
â€œAnd now? Are you still glad you did it?â€
Emily collapsed on the bed, her ice queen facade shattered. A single tear trickled down her face, leaving a glistening trail through her perfect makeup. â€œNo. I regret it more than youâ€™ll ever know.â€ She bent her head, trying desperately to hide the additional tears, but a sob tore through her, making her shoulders shake.
Kate almost gaped at her friend. Sheâ€™d seen Emilyâ€™s crocodile tears before. But they didnâ€™t look anything like this. This was the real thing.
Real emotion. Real regret. . . .
Emily continued. â€œMind you, I didnâ€™t hate what I did to Charles Talbot. Heâ€™s a pariah, an abomination. A murderer. He should never have been able to get away with driving that car while drunk, and leaving that poor girl behind, still clinging to life, to take the rap for his actions. Had he gotten her help at the time of the accident, she might have survived the crash as something other than a vegetable. But no, he had to save face, run away, pretend nothing had happened. He left her to die in that car. It took hours for anyone to discover the wreck. Then he had the audacity to bribe and threaten people into giving him an alibi. He had to make everyone think sheâ€™d been the one driving while intoxicated, even if it killed her. Heâ€™s the lowest of scumbags. I wonâ€™t apologize for pricking whatever fragments he has left of his conscience. Iâ€™m pretty sure all I did was dent his enormously bloated and unconscionable pride.â€
Emilyâ€™s flare of anger dissipated quickly, as if she suddenly felt guilty of failing to be remorseful for her own actions. Kate knew that, for Emily, anger was an emotion easier to understand and embrace than remorse. Especially when she felt that anger was righteous. Emily could move mountains when she had on a full load of righteous anger. Kate had seen her shame an entire state legislature into voting for health insurance for disadvantaged children, all because sheâ€™d vented her anger into a biting five-minute speech to them.
Kate gave her friend a steady stare. â€œWhat he did and what you did are separate issues. And you know it.â€
â€œIâ€™m sorry.â€ Emilyâ€™s voice dropped to a whisper. â€œYouâ€™re right. When Maia gave me those copies, I did exactly what you were afraid I was going to do.â€ She looked up, naked emotion filling her face, tears rolling down her cheeks. â€œI allowed my need for revenge to overwhelm my sense of honor. Iâ€™m so sorry.â€ She stood, her arms at her side. Her voice broke in a show of raw emotion that Kate had never seen from her before.
â€œKate, can you forgive me?â€
Kate felt tears forming in her own eyes.
Could she forgive Emily? Of course she could. Christ was clear on the responsibility to forgive a repentant sinner. Kate could do no less.
But could she trust Emily enough to continue working for her? That was another question entirely.
For now, she reached over and hugged her friend. The two of them cried together for what seemed like hours.
But the big questionâ€”whether Kate would stay on after thisâ€”hung over them. No matter how often Emily asked it, Kate refused to answer.
Finally Emily said, â€œTake some time, go home, cool off, and then weâ€™ll talk.â€
As was often the case, Emily was right.
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