Campaigning for Christopher (10 page)

And now here she was, paying the piper for the misguided crusader within her that had acted rashly—that had condemned a good man without a shred of credible information. A wave of shame overwhelmed her, and she took a ragged breath, thinking about Chris’s cold eyes in the cab last night.
We hate each other
, he’d said. And even when she had denied it, he hadn’t. It didn’t matter that she was doing everything she could to fix her mistake. He’d met her on her life’s worst day. And sadly, that was probably how he would always see her.

Shappa yawned and closed his eyes as Julianne picked up a kohl pencil and lined her dark eyes carefully. As she worked, a vision of Elise Winslow passed through her head—her pale skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Many times, a woman who looked like Elise had been chosen for a modeling job over Julianne, and it chafed her, as though the choice of a white woman over an Indian woman was also a measure of her worth. That’s how she’d interpreted it time and again—with a chip on her shoulder and suspicion in her heart that made her feel like . . . less. When really, the photographers had been nothing but kind, and Frances Watson’s faith in Julianne’s look had never dimmed.

Staring at her face, she wondered how much her own attitude about the world had to do with the way she had interpreted those situations. Maybe it wasn’t about a white model being prettier or better. Maybe that perception was just Julianne’s insecurity getting the best of her. Maybe the other girl was more experienced, or cheaper, or had a better connection with the photographer or the material. Maybe it wasn’t about her being not as good, just not right.

Swallowing over the lump in her throat, she realized that she was getting in her own way—that her attitude was holding her back, was making her into a person she didn’t want to be. For God’s sake, having more faith in people, and less intrinsic distrust of them, might have prevented her from sabotaging Christopher Winslow. Just a little more faith in the goodness of people may have made her pause before allowing Black Hat’s words to feed her wounded soul.

She gasped softly, staring into her own eyes.

Her
wounded
soul.

The words slipped into place the way a missing puzzle piece completed a picture, and she suddenly saw herself so clearly, it made her heart ache.

For all of her mother’s noble attempts to give Julianne a stable childhood, she had grown up in virtual poverty, without a father, sectioned off from the rest of American society, with a front seat to injustice, firsthand knowledge of prejudice, and the bitterness born of basic privation in a modern world. In many ways, her most basic self was a product of segregation and hopelessness, though her very will to leave her home spoke to a deep desire for inclusion and some hidden stores of hope.

She was here, wasn’t she?
In
Philadelphia.
With
a modeling contract that finally had some hope of supporting her. She was here because she wanted to be, because she’d jumped at the chance to leave Gray Elk and was doing everything she could to make a better life for herself, to chase the life she wanted.

Well, everything except for one important thing: it was time for her to change her thinking and adjust her attitude about herself and those around her. It was time to stop measuring her
own
worth through a lens of perceived discrimination. Whether it actually existed or not, it was time for Julianne to believe in herself, and—even more important and frightening—to try believing in those around her too.

She lifted her chin and opened her Rockin’ Robin Red lipstick, swiping it on her lips and watching as her lips spread into a small smile. In that moment, she realized that as much as she liked and admired Elise Winslow, she didn’t
want
to look like her. Julianne Crow was tall and curvy, with long legs and good muscle tone that her mother had always called strong. Her features were bold: full lips; high cheekbones; very, very dark brown, almond-shaped eyes; long black lashes; and thick, straight black hair.

She looked at herself. Maybe for the first time ever, she really,
really
looked at herself.

She saw her mother’s fortitude and her grandmother’s wisdom.

She saw the look and coloring of her people.

She saw a reason to be proud, to keep her chin high.

She saw a woman strong enough to open her cautious heart to the world and start to heal her wounded soul.

“
Ma Wichahpi Mapiya Kangee. Ma Thítȟuŋwaŋ
,” she said softly, gazing at the mirror like she was meeting herself for the first time.
I am Little Star in the Big Sky Crow. I am Oglala Lakota.
And then she added in English, “And I am enough.”

The affirmation felt cleansing, like a baptism, or just a concrete reminder that, although she was one young girl all alone in a faraway place, she was part of something far bigger and older than now, than here. Her destiny was bound to her home and her tribe, even as she forged a new future. More intimately than ever before, she knew the peaks and valleys of her own heart, and she would do all she could to marry the proud heritage into which she’d been born, to the new life she would build for herself.

***

Christopher couldn’t put his finger on it, but Julianne seemed different when he picked her up. When she opened the door, her eyes weren’t wary and uncertain. She offered him a genuinely warm smile, looking directly into his eyes.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Morning,” he answered.

“Do you want to come in?”

“I have a car waiting downstairs,” he said, willing his eyes not to drop to her chest. She was wearing the dress he’d spilled coffee on, but it looked freshly pressed and good as new.

“Well, you may as well come in for a second. I need to get my purse . . . and something else.”

She stepped back so he could enter, gesturing to the easy chair in her tiny living room. “You can sit if you want. Shappa, get down. I’ll just be a second.”

On the sheet-covered chair sat a big orange cat, who eyed him with an expression somewhere between bored and annoyed. The enormous feline looked Christopher over, yawned, and went back to sleep. So much for sitting.

Instead Christopher looked around her apartment. It consisted of an open-plan living room and kitchen, no more than two hundred square feet combined. Behind him were two doors, one through which she’d disappeared. Bedroom and bathroom, he thought, feeling mildly claustrophobic.

Her kitchen sink leaked softly,
drip, drip, drip
, and her living room, the room in which he was standing, had no window, a small table with a laptop and beat-up desk chair, the chair where King Cat was dozing, a holey Persian-style carpet that had seen much better days, and a small, outdated TV with an antenna on a table in the corner. The paint was a crisp tan, however, and though her belongings were shabby, everything was clean as a whistle.

It was the most modest apartment Christopher could ever remember visiting, and he gulped softly as he thought about his eighteen-hundred-square-foot condo, with its two proper bedrooms, separate living room and dining room, study, eat-in kitchen, pantry, foyer, and three bathrooms.

The chasm between them—already vast—suddenly seemed wider than ever.

After she’d dressed him down last night, calling him a jackass, he’d thought about her nonstop. Yes, what she’d done at Jessica’s wedding was despicable, but Elise was right—she was doing everything she could to make amends. Offering herself as his girlfriend had defused a great deal of the photo debacle, and agreeing to accompany him to campaign events was proving to be a first-rate publicity stunt. Whether he liked it or not, the world
loved
Chris and Jules together.

No, he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he would ever trust her, but he realized last night, as the cabbie drove him home, that he did—grudgingly—admire her. Her childhood had been rough, full of have-nots, and yet, here she was, modeling in Philadelphia, living on her own, trying to make a better life for herself. In fact, if she hadn’t trampled on
his
dreams, he would have respected the hell out of the way she was making her own come true.

Anyway, as both Elise and Lori had pointed out, Christopher
needed
Julianne. The die was cast. There were five weeks until the election, and they were going to have to spend a lot of time together. No, he didn’t like her, and no, they didn’t need to be best friends, but there was no point in being a daily asshole to her either. Plus, he really couldn’t afford for her to jump ship now. Whether he liked it or not, they were bound together for the next five weeks. Being civil would just make things more bearable, right? Right.

Her bedroom door opened, and she stepped into the living room with a black leather bag hanging from her elbow. His eyes were drawn to her hair—in a ponytail again, but this one was high and sleek, making her look older and more sophisticated. And hot. Very, very fucking hot.

“You look,” he cleared his throat as her eyes held his, “nice.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him—a small, pleased smile that did funny things to his stomach. “You look nice too.”

Did he? He was wearing a navy-blue suit, with a light blue dress shirt and a blue and red striped tie. Simon called it his uniform. Christopher called it boring.

“Thanks.”

As though she could read his mind, she tilted her head to the side and asked, “But did you ever think about wearing a tie with a little green in it? I think it would make your eyes pop.”

“Do I
want
my eyes to pop?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, nodding as though popping eyes was a given. “You
always
want your eyes to pop.”

His lips twitched, and instead of holding back his smile, he recalled his new mission to be more civil and gave her a crooked smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, and Christopher felt it pass between them like a living, breathing thing—the attrition of rancor, the mutual longing for peace, the reluctant concession to partnership.

“Truce?” he asked softly, holding out his hand to her.

“Truce,” she answered, clasping it within her own.

And staring into her eyes, the chasm that had felt so wide only minutes ago was suddenly much less daunting, like maybe with a great architect and a whole team of builders, someday it might even be possible to build a bridge to the other side.

But the strangest thing of all was that even though he’d had her tongue in his mouth two days ago, this simple joining of hands felt a thousand times more intimate, and Christopher shivered as one resolute warning made him pull his hand quickly away:

No, Christopher.

Absolutely fucking not.

Don’t even
think
about falling for her.

***

The Hunting Park neighborhood of North Philadelphia had, in the past five years, undergone a remarkable change. Once a hotbed of crime, where rapes and murders would happen one after the other on the same weekend, the citizens of Hunting Park had banded together in 2009 to create a new vision for their struggling but proud community. And now, five years later, the dreams of Hunting Park United had come true.

Revitalization efforts included two new playgrounds and baseball and football fields, a community garden, a farmers’ market, the planting of more than two hundred trees, and the installation of interior park lighting. A model of community activism, Hunting Park wasn’t a wealthy neighborhood or without its issues, but a $21 million urban renovation meant more new businesses, less crime, and a spirited feeling of renewal.

At William Wrigley Elementary School, Julianne sat on the stage next to Principal Reyes, behind Chris, who stood at a podium speaking to a packed auditorium of teachers and parents. As he finished his remarks, Chris praised their hard work, noting that the changes in Hunting Park were of a grassroots nature, intended to better the community for its inhabitants, then drawing a comparison to the philosophy behind his congressional campaign.

“I’m a born-and-bred Pennsylvanian on a mission to make
our
commonwealth better for
our
people,” he said. “Does
that
sound familiar?” Thunderous applause rocked the school auditorium as Chris leaned closer to the microphone. “Thank you for welcoming me this morning!”

After answering a few questions about his plans for more urban renewal, Principal Reyes took the podium and thanked the audience for coming before turning to Chris and Julianne. “I don’t suppose you have a few minutes to meet some of the children?”

Christopher looked at Julianne, and she grinned, nodding at him. “I think we’d love to.”

“How wonderful,” said the principal, smiling back at Julianne. “I didn’t want to promise, but they were hoping to see . . .” She cleared her throat, darting a glance at Chris. “. . .
both
of you. Follow me. We’ll peek in Mr. Mendoza’s second-grade music class.”

Following behind Mrs. Reyes, Christopher placed his palm on the small of Julianne’s back and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Why do I get the feeling that
I
wouldn’t be missed if I slipped away now?”