The Power and the Glory. Kimberly Lang
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paper, they’d been there for a while.
“Am I late?”
Jane, one of the consultants he’d brought on board only last week, had the good grace to look slightly abashed. Nathan just shrugged. His father, though, looked irritated, as always.
“Your little hippie friend has created quite the stir—”
“It will pass.”
“Possibly, but I’m sick of seeing her face—and yours—every time I turn on the news.” As if to prove his point, his father grabbed the remote and turned the sound up on the television. There, on one side of a split screen, was the video of Aspyn trotting beside him as they left the building and then being handcuffed to him. On the other side was a shot of an online bulletin board railing against the deafness of Congress and organizing itself into a full-fledged protest. The perky anchorwoman delivering the commentary called it a “grassroots uprising” and mentioned the Marshalls at least five times like it was somehow their fault.
The image then switched to Aspyn giving a makeshift press conference inside of what looked like a small bookstore. “I think the reaction we’re seeing just proves I’m not the only one frustrated with the disconnect our lawmakers have from the people they’re supposed to represent. Everyone deserves to be heard.” It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the clip, and, once again, he was impressed with how natural and articulate Aspyn was on camera. She might be a little out there, but she was smart and well-spoken and could hold her own with the press.
His father muted the sound again. “Because Miss Breedlove decided to handcuff herself to you, my office is now the center of this storm. Suddenly I’m the poster child for all that is wrong in Washington.”
Jane looked up from her computer as Brady joined them at the table. “And Mack Taylor is already keying in on it,” she added. “It’s about to become a campaign issue, and with the Marshall name prominently connected to the uprising, it doesn’t reflect very well on the senator.”
If I’d just let the elevator doors close in her face … Good manners didn’t always pay off, it seemed. But, then this was also what made campaigns exciting and challenging. This, too, just needed the right spin, and his brain was churning with the challenge already.
“Don’t get comfortable, Brady.” His father interrupted the thought. “You’re going on a little field trip.”
His brain screeched to a stop. That didn’t bode well. “Where and why?”
“I need to make Miss Breedlove my friend before Mack Taylor can make her my enemy and use her against me.”
“That’s always a good plan. In fact—”
“I’m glad you agree. You’re going to hire her.”
He couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Excuse me?”
“You are going to hire Miss Breedlove and make her a part of our campaign staff.”
That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Doing what, exactly? Protesting?”
“Listening.” His father smiled smugly. “Miss Breedlove is going to be my official Campaign Listener.”
No, that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not a real job.”
“It is now. Instead of calling my office, concerned and engaged citizens may contact Miss Breedlove, who will listen to their concerns and organize them so they can be presented to me.”
That headache started to throb again. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, yes, I am. That should keep Miss Breedlove busy and off the cable news networks, and it will show that I am attentive to the concerns of the people and want to give them a point person to contact.”
“And anyone with an ounce of sense will see it for the ploy it is. This isn’t a campaign issue. Listening and replying to constituents is a job for one of your staffers.”
Jane shook her head. “It’s a ploy, but it’s a ploy that will work.”
“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” He pinned her with a stare that had her squirming slightly before she nodded.
“Since you’re the one she handcuffed herself to, you’re the one who needs to be seen listening to her first.”
“And when the campaign is over?” he asked his father.
“Miss Breedlove can go back to whatever cause brought her to my office in the first place.”
Meaning he’s not going to listen to a single thing she has to say. This was more than just a ploy. It was a step above an empty publicity stunt. It was inherently dishonest and that bothered him. They were above this kind of trick. “I get the impression Aspyn is a true believer. She’s going to expect this to be an honest offer. When she finds out it’s not, the backlash could be staggering.”
“It is an honest offer,” his father supplied. “Of a job. Beyond that, we make no guarantees, so we’re not being dishonest in any way.”
Political splitting of hairs. “Only in spirit.”
His father sighed. “Good Lord, Brady, you sound like Ethan and his quest for truth and justice. You understand the bigger picture. Just find the girl a desk and let her channel her energies in a different direction.”
Brady tried one last attempt at reason. “If we do this, it sets a dangerous precedent and every activist in the country will find a politician to handcuff themselves to.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He nodded at Nathan, who shoved papers across the table at Brady. “Mary Aspyn Breedlove, age twenty-seven, foreign-born to American parents but raised in the U.S. in a variety of hippie-type communes. Some college work—mainly in Sociology before she dropped out to annoy people full-time—and a long history of do-gooding and activism. Miss Breedlove has no criminal record and a current address in Arlington. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with her.”
In other words, Aspyn was officially his problem now.
Aspyn peeked out of the blinds and groaned. Still there. She flopped back onto the futon and heard it creak ominously in protest. Ugh. She felt like a prisoner. The video had gone viral with a speed she couldn’t wrap her head around, and the nation had arrived on her doorstep shortly thereafter. Technically it was Margo’s doorstep, since she lived above Margo’s bookstore. The bookstore was hopping now, and Margo was thrilled with the free publicity and additional business Aspyn’s new notoriety brought—even if Aspyn herself had to take time off and Margo’s niece brought in to help instead. From her tiny apartment on the second floor, Aspyn could watch the crowds and the press mill around out front. A small demonstration was organizing across the street, showing support for this new “movement” she supposedly—if completely accidentally—started.
She should be proud of what she’d accomplished—especially since it had required so little effort on her part. This kind of attention was every activist’s dream, but sadly, it wasn’t quite for the reasons she’d hoped for when she chased down Brady Marshall.
She’d turned her phone off last night, put an autoreply on her email account and settled in to wait it out. Thankfully the stairs up to her apartment were in the back room of the bookstore, so at least no one was knocking on her door.
Except that someone was …
She rolled off the futon ungracefully and crossed to the door, wondering who Margo had let up. Whoever it was, she hoped they brought food with them. And, to be honest, she was a little bored and could use some company.
Confusion reigned when she opened the door to find Brady. Here. At her door. Why?
“Mr. Marsh—I mean, Brady. Hi.” She ran her hands over her hair and tried to smooth down the curls. Be casual. “What brings you here?”
“I