People fall silent as they absorb that, but the tension is high.

Carlisle is frowning at me as if he hadn’t expected this part of the debate at all.

He quickly recovers when he sees the reaction in the room.

Soon, the candidates deliver their closing statements, with Matt’s statement last.

“Debates are about divisions, about differing points of views, but there are some universal truths that cannot be denied. The universal truth of cycles—spring, summer, winter, fall; the universal truth of gravity; and a universal truth that we’ve discovered from the first moment our ancestors appeared on earth six million years ago—man adapts.

“Man has used his brain to outwit predators who are stronger, faster, more numerous. Man has learned to tame some of those predators: wolves became our friends, animals were bred for food. Man learned to farm, feeding millions where before they would feed less than a fourth of that; man invented shelter, clothing, weapons, writing, trade, architecture that defied their physical capabilities, and now, a network and infrastructure that connects us all. Planes, translation, the internet. We’re more interlaced than we’ve ever been.

“So why are we still divided?

“We live in a world where there is still racism and poverty. We live in a country where there is still unequal opportunity for us all . . . a world where millions of our children continue to go uneducated. I’m for the possibility of every American finding fulfilment in his or her life—making a difference for others and for themselves.”

I can’t get my oxygen back. The statements from Gordon and President Jacobs seem lame now. Focused simply on little pieces of what Matt just reminded us is actually a whole living, breathing world.

We’re in Matt’s hotel suite in Dayton, Ohio. The good news is that not only is the first debate over with, but Carlisle is thrilled. The media coverage influencing voters really seems pro-Matt.

“I’m too old for all this excitement,” Carlisle says, sighing exhaustedly but happily.

I bring him a hot coffee. “At your age, most men run for president.” I smile and chance a glance at Matt, noticing he felt the quip coming his way and is smiling to himself.

The press has speculated endlessly on whether he’s too young to be president. And yet tonight he was the only man on that stage.

Carlisle chuckles at my jab at Matt’s age. “I already put one in the seat and I’d be happily at my consulting firm if it weren’t for this one.” He jabs a thumb at Matt as he heads to the window.

“He lured you out,” I say.

“He lured you out,” Carlisle counters.

I smile.

“He’s the one,” he says with firm conviction. “If I can’t get him to the White House . . .”

“He’ll run again.”

“Girl, I’ve got a heart condition. One more is all I can take.” He pats his stomach as if his weight is to blame for his heart problem, which could be right, and waves me off with his hand.

I head toward Matt and stand next to him, and we stare out the window for a moment. I don’t know that we’ll ever get close enough again that his breath mingles with mine. So I just stand as close to him as I can without getting burned.

32

MRS. HAMILTON

Charlotte

We’re making a pit stop in D.C. once more. Carlisle and Hessler are meeting with a couple of delegates tonight, and they asked me to accompany Matt to a dinner with his mother and grandfather.

“That old prick will at least hold his tongue with someone he considers a stranger around¸” Carlisle tells me.

“You hate Mr. Hamilton?” I ask him as we head to the poll-review meeting this morning.

“I admire the crap out of him. I just want him off Matt’s back; we’ve got enough on our hands. Do you realize in getting the lead in the polls at this stage we’re accomplishing something that’s never been done?”

“Does Matt know that you want me there?”

“Of course he does. He’s the one who suggested it.”

“Oh.”

My heart sort of tumbles, because I’m suddenly pretty sure Matt orchestrated this whole thing to his advantage in the first place.

Carlisle nods in dismissal and I hurry to finish making sure we have the polling result copies for every manager and director of the campaign who’s to attend this morning’s meeting.

I get a kick of excitement at the thought of meeting a woman who’s been adored by the media for years.

“I might be less apprehensive to meet a queen than your mother,” I tell Matt that night as he leads me into his house.

It’s the first time I’ve seen Matt’s mom in person, and I’m awed by her beauty and class. The one and only Eleanor Hamilton. She’s as polished and elegant as Matt is; his dark eyes and hair come from her. My own mother has always admired her—everybody does. She and Matt are the embodiment of strength under adversity.

“Charlotte, it’s nice to meet you at last.” Her voice is soft and warm as she takes my hand. “I can see why everyone is so taken with you.”

I laugh but feel spots of warmth on my cheeks when she looks at Matt.

The décor in his home is modern and elegant too. Wood floors. Pristine taupe rugs with a hint of matte gold thread in delicate scroll patterns. Soft taupe wallpaper and fine art. I hadn’t really noted it the first time I’d stopped by—intending to end whatever it was we’d started.

Well, look how that went.

A cold sliver runs down my back when I hear Matt’s grandfather.

“Matt.” He slaps his grandson’s back and ignores me.

Matt takes me by the arm and brings me one step forward, his voice stern and low. “Charlotte, Grandfather. You’ve met quite a few times on the campaign trail.”

“Ahh, yes, Charlotte,” he says dryly.

“Sir.” I return his nod with one of my own.

“I’m giving her a tour,” Matt tells his mother.

“First time here? I don’t believe it,” his grandfather says.

Matt ignores him and leads me down a wood-paneled hall facing a window with a view of D.C.

To its right, there is a great room with a view of the White House.