Carolyn’s stomach fluttered when the plane lifted off taking flight toward Missouri. Washington was glowing on her. It seemed that her presence in D.C. was not only good politically, but also personally. She and Warner had shone at the party, drinking champagne and dancing long into the night. Warner’s arms around her as they glided across the dance floor had felt wonderful.

She had finally gone back to their townhouse for some sleep. Warner, however, had stayed on for conversations with the party leadership. It wasn’t uncommon for him to stay up all night. She glanced over at her husband. He’d been out so late he hadn’t changed, and they’d had to race to make their early flight.

Did she dare hope that they might one day be a real couple again? She sighed. What was life without hope?

Suddenly feeling restless, she got up from her seat and began pacing in the aisle. So much planning to do, strategy to develop, so many critical areas that required her attention.

She glanced at Warner, who had fallen asleep. Even in a first-class seat, he looked cramped and uncomfortable. His seat wasn’t reclined, she realized. Carolyn pressed the button on the arm of his seat, pushing on the back until it reclined.

Warner adjusted his body to the new position. His arms relaxed allowing his jacket to fall open. A note fell out of his breast pocket onto the floor.

Carolyn picked it up and read it. Her face flushed red. Pain sliced through her, knocking the wind from her chest. She held the back of the seat for support as she waited for her body to relax and respond at will. She’d been a fool, yet again. Fool, fool, fool. The words pounded in time to the ache that throbbed in her heart

She re-read the note.

Dear Warner,

I’m glad we had one last night together. I understand that, for now, we must say goodbye. But remember, I love you, and I’ll be waiting for your return. Good luck, my future Mr. President.

Love -forever and always, Cindy

Humiliation rocked Carolyn. Getting her bearings, she lowered herself into her seat, and snapped her seatbelt into place. Warner certainly had a talent of putting things into perspective for her. A perspective that he would pay for – and pay for dearly.

PART III. DAMNED BY VICTORY 2000-2001

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” -

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

THIRTY

January, 2000 – Jefferson City, Missouri

“Drugs are killing our children. Crime is overtaking our sheets. Global warming is destroying our environment. Hunger and homelessness are out of control. We are the greatest nation on earth, yet we are plagued by problems. And I ask, why?” Warner squinted from the glare of the spotlights.

He continued his speech. “Then I look at the current administration. And I begin to understand. Billions are spent every year on defense, in a world we already dominate. Billions that could help correct these problems. But Washman won’t cut defense spending, for these are his friends. And when he raised your taxes, and still didn’t balance the budget, he gave tax cuts to these same friends. Well, I say enough! It’s time to take back our country. It is time to correct these wrongs!” Warner pounded the podium with his fist.

Strobes flashed, a signal to the crowd, who whistled and applauded.

“This is why I feel it is my duty to pursue the office of President of the United States of America.”

The crowd roared.

Carolyn stood behind him, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Energy and excitement bubbled under her skin, but she contained her emotions under a veneer of serenity and composure. She relished the crowd’s response. This was Warner at his best, making eye contact with those in the front rows, gesturing for emphasis, and carrying the crowd along on his passionate rhetoric.

She glanced over at Nick Creed, Warner’s deputy campaign manager. He was deep in conversation with Jack Rudly. An interesting match, Carolyn thought watching the intense exchange. Nick’s wit against Jack’s dogged persistence.

Nick emanated high energy, radiated intelligence. His lean runner’s build matched his quick movements. Everything he did was fast, from his speech patterns to his thought processes. His answers were always direct and immediate, his social skills finely tuned, his smile filled with charm. At thirty-three, he exuded the competence of a more mature man. Clever enough to handle just about anything and anyone, she thought, he was patently Jack’s equal.