Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Schoharie, New York
Candace Stratton loved her grandfather's Christmas parties.
She especially loved the house on nights like this.
Every window shone in the darkness, and snow piled up along the stone walls by the drive.
Cars pulled in one after another, their tires crunching on the packed gravel, headlights sweeping over the bare maples, oaks, and wide fields.
Men in dark coats helped women in fur collars across the icy walk.
Children spilled from back seats, stiff and excited in velvet dresses, wool trousers, and shiny shoes polished for the party.
Inside, the house smelled of pine, woodsmoke, perfume, roast beef, and sugar.
It smelled like Christmas. It also smelled like powerful people pretending, just for one night, to be part a single family.
Governor Joseph Stratton and his wife had always insisted that families be invited to their Christmas party.
That was part of what made the party famous—or infamous, depending on who was asked.
Businessmen, judges, legislators, union leaders, bankers, newspaper publishers, and old New York names all moved through the downstairs rooms while children were collected by the governor's staff and shepherded toward games, hot chocolate, Santa Claus, and, if the weather cooperated, a sleigh ride through the fields.
This year, the weather had cooperated.
Candace had already taken the younger children outside once, pretending she was too old to enjoy the sleigh ride. Then she laughed louder than most of them when one of the horses snorted steam into the cold air with a whinny that made several children shriek.
Sixteen was a strange age. Old enough to understand the adults were performing. Young enough that part of her still debated whether to be part of that performance or simply to enjoy the spectacle.
She stood now near the edge of her grandfather's office, half-hidden by the tall Christmas tree her grandmother insisted belonged in that corner of the living room, even if it partially blocked the narrow hallway.
A glass of ginger ale warmed in her hand while she watched her grandfather speak with a man whose uniform medals seemed to gleam brighter than the lights on the tree.
General Anthony Merrow was not the tallest man present, nor the loudest. He didn't need to be.
Some men showed off their worth with expensive clothes, fancy cars, and jewelry on their wives' hands. Merrow's wealth was different. His jacket was standard issue, and his medals were earned. He showed his authority in the way he stood and the steady look in his eyes.
Candace knew who he was. Everyone did. He was decorated and well-connected, admired by people who liked decisive men, especially when those decisions cost others.
Her grandfather's face revealed nothing, which meant he was listening. It also meant he had not yet been convinced by the general's argument. She strained to hear the conversation.
"You're treating this like a temporary inconvenience," General Merrow said. "It’s not. It is the first warning shot."
Governor Stratton took a slow sip from his glass. "The lines at gas stations made that clear enough."
Merrow's jaw tensed. "News stories about gas lines are theater.
Useful theater, but still theater. The real crisis is our dependence—on foreign oil and aging infrastructure.
Our utilities are constrained by political caution.
Too many states refuse to let private capital move quickly because every decision they make has to satisfy ten committees and twenty constituencies. "
Candace shifted slightly behind the tree.
Her grandfather raised his brow when she caught his glance; he saw everything in this house.
He turned back to the general. "What are you asking me to support?" he asked.
"Publicly?" Merrow said. "A broader coalition willing to call for regulatory reform. Incentives for private energy development. We need faster approvals and a reduction in interference from state commissions. Too many have mistaken delay for oversight."
"Delay and oversight are not the same thing."
"No. But they are often companions."
Stratton smiled. "That sounds like something written for a speech."
"It would play well in Albany."
"Many things play well in Albany. Optimism fades when people in Buffalo and Queens see their bills."
Merrow's gaze sharpened. "New York is positioned to benefit from this initiative, Joe. Industry. Finance. Ports. Research. If the state helps open the door, investment will follow. Jobs will follow. If it does not, New York will be left carrying the same shortages while others move ahead."
"And costs?"
"Short-term pain is sometimes necessary."
Candace watched her grandfather's hand tighten around his glass, almost imperceptibly.
"Pain for whom?" he asked.
Merrow did not answer quickly enough.
Candace had learned from watching these types of interactions that a pause could say much more than any answer.
"Governor," Merrow said, "with respect?—"
"Oh, Anthony. If you have to tell me it's with respect, we're probably already in trouble."
Merrow laughed. It felt genuine, even if it was equally necessary. "You know what I mean."
"I do."
"This country cannot conserve its way into strength," Merrow said. "It has to choose action over hesitation."
"Perhaps," Stratton said. "But if we’re not careful, it can consume its way into weakness."
Candace smiled into her glass.
The general's eyes moved toward her for the first time. Not long. Just long enough that Candace knew he had noticed she was listening.
"Your granddaughter?" he asked.
"Candace," Stratton called to her.
Candace took a breath and walked to the men, offering them a smile.
"Ah," Merrow said softly.
His expression warmed, but Candace could see him evaluating her, almost as if she were a puzzle missing its last piece.
"You're the one I hear might inherit the governor's legacy," Merrow said.
"My grandmother says I inherited his stubbornness," Candace replied before she could think better of it.
Stratton coughed into his glass.
Merrow smiled. "It can be a useful trait."
"Not everyone thinks so," she replied.
"No," he said. "They rarely do until history proves the stubborn person right."
"Or wrong," Candace said.
Her grandfather finally looked at her, amusement flickering in his eyes.
Merrow studied her for another moment. "Do you follow politics, Miss Stratton?"
"I spend most of my time in this house," she said. "It's difficult not to."
"That is not the same as following."
"No," she agreed. "Sometimes it's more like being followed by it."
This time, Stratton laughed.
Merrow seemed more interested than amused.
"Then tell me," he said. "Do you think your grandfather should support energy reform?"
Candace sensed a change in the room, though no one else seemed to notice. This was a test, or at least the appearance of one. Adults often brought young people into serious talks when they thought their answers wouldn't really matter.
She looked at her grandfather.
He didn't intend to rescue her. Instead, he smiled and tipped his glass.
She looked back at the general.
"I think reform is one of those words that sounds good because it doesn't tell you who has to pay for it," she said.
Stratton's smile disappeared, replaced not with displeasure, but curiosity.
Merrow's brow lifted. "That's a very political answer."
"No," Candace said. "I don't think so. It's a practical one."
"Practicality requires action."
"Sometimes. It also requires caution," she offered.
"Caution becomes paralysis if indulged too long."
"And action becomes recklessness when it outruns responsibility."
For the first time, Merrow smiled fully.
"There it is," he said.
"What?" Candace asked.
"You do share his stubbornness, I see." He looked at the governor. "And his... ideals."
The way he said the last part left Candace to wonder if his words were meant as a compliment or some kind of warning.
Her grandfather stepped in. "Candace is sixteen, Anthony."
"Then New York may yet have hope."
"New York has plenty of hope," Stratton said. "What it needs is heat, electricity, jobs, and leaders who remember that every grand idea presented by someone in Washington eventually arrives as a bill on someone's kitchen table."
Merrow nodded deliberately. "Spoken like the consummate politician."
"Or a man who's learned to know better."
"So, you're not opposed to the idea," Merrow said.
"I'm rarely opposed to ideas."
"But?"
"Applications are more complicated. I am opposed to letting a crisis frighten us into surrendering our public obligations to private appetites."
Merrow nodded.
Down the hall, children's laughter lifted again. Candace looked toward it. So did her grandfather.
Merrow's gaze remained on the governor. Candace noticed the crease in his brow.
"The future won't wait for sentiment," Merrow said.
"No," Stratton replied, looking back at him. "But it can be ruined by those who mistake sentiment for weakness."
Quiet descended between them.
It didn't last long before the room resumed its ceaseless motion. Candace didn't move. A few minutes later, Merrow excused himself and moved toward the hall, stopping only briefly beside a boy who looked to be a few years younger than Candace.
"John," Merrow said.
"Yes, sir?"
"We should make the rounds."
John Merrow nodded and followed his father toward the larger reception room.
Candace watched him go.
He looked back once, not at the general, not at the party, but toward the doorway where the sound of children's laughter could still be heard. Then his father placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him forward.
Governor Stratton moved beside Candace. "You were eavesdropping,” he scolded her lightly.
"I was interested."
"And opinionated."
"Was I wrong?"
"No." He looked toward the hall where the Merrows had disappeared. "But being right is not the same as being ready."
"For what?"
"For the cost of holding your ground."
Candace looked at him.