Chapter 32
Fletcher had been true to his word and slept without complaint on a couch way too short for his long frame. He cranked his neck to the left and right to loosen it after being cramped on the sofa.
“I’m sorry about that,” Dot said, pointing to his neck as they got ready to leave for the convention the next morning.
“Hey, it’s nothing. Easy,” he said. “A cup of coffee and twelve Advil, and I’ll be good to go.”
Dot was aware that they’d likely be seen leaving the hotel room together by someone going to the meeting. She braced herself for the questions and the judgment.
But to her surprise, no one was in the hallway. Still, she felt guilty about . . . something.
LATER THAT DAY another room opened in the hotel, and Fletcher moved into that one for the second night.
The convention went smoothly, and the Democrats were feeling good about where they stood at that point in the cycle.
Fundraising was near record-breaking, and For the Win got several shout-outs on panels and breakouts for its creativity and organizational skills.
In addition to their content and plans, the state director specifically asked Dot and Fletcher to explain their new system to track voter interest. And then, trusting her instincts, Dot raised her hand and was called up to the microphone on the makeshift stage in the large ballroom.
“Hi, it’s me again, I promise this is the last you’ll see of me.” She tried a little self-deprecation and mustered her strong voice to make another pitch to the group.
“I just wanted to take this opportunity to underscore that while we have been a little better and creative in targeting younger audiences, we can’t forget Wisconsin’s rural voters, especially the farmers.
” She relayed the story Joe and Grace Taylor had told her about their votes being taken for granted over the years.
“So, in the end, if we want to win the state decisively, we need the farmers’ votes. We shouldn’t write them off and think they’ll never vote with us again. They’re open-minded, though we can’t just say we want their votes—we must explain to them why we intend to earn their votes.”
She got a generous round of applause, led supportively by Fletcher. She noticed he liked to be the first one to clap for others, and that was a nice quality in a person.
Throughout the day, Dot took detailed notes on her phone and sent the file to Kitty.
“You two keep at it. Great point about the farmers—they might tip the balance, at least the ones we have talked to in Colby County,” Kitty texted, adding several exclamation marks. “It’s the key to the entire map.”
“Agree,” Dot responded, and then before hitting send, she added two exclamation points to make sure it was clear to Kitty that she shared her enthusiasm.
Over lunch, a buffet in the hallway outside of the hotel’s big meeting room, Fletcher suggested they head over to the Milwaukee Art Museum before they went home.
“Some culture! Great idea,” Dot said.
They put their suitcases in the car and drove over to the waterfront where the museum stood. The white building was stunning against the blue sky and the even deeper blue Lake Michigan, its fringed top looking like the wings of a giant seagull.
“It reminds me of the Oculus,” Dot said, thinking of the transit hub near the 9/11 Memorial.
The sun was bright in the sky and the temperature was warm. A light breeze came off the lake.
They chose three collections to see: American, Contemporary, and Photography and Media Arts.
“This place will give any big-city art museum a run for its money,” Fletcher said.
“It is as good as the Whitney.”
“High praise, Dot!” She was impressed he knew what the Whitney was. Or that he was intuitive enough to fake it.
After bouncing through a few rooms of modern art, Dot persuaded Fletcher to go see the antique furniture too. The early twentieth century reminded her of her grandmother’s apartment.
“The lines are so clean,” she said.
“Look, a fainting couch for the ladies,” Fletcher said, pretending to be interested. She playfully punched him in the arm. He caught her hand and then held it. She didn’t move to let go, letting herself be caught up in the moment.
After wandering through the collection, they stepped outside onto a deck to take in the lake view.
“It’s as big as an ocean,” Dot said, admiring the deep blue water. “I had no idea.”
“I went to school with a kid who grew up on Lake Michigan. We went to his house one summer. It was such a scene. Great parties,” Fletcher said. “The Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park. It’s massive. I’d love to take you some day.”
He put his arm around her. She leaned in. He smelled good.
For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to imagine a future with him.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“It’s a deal.”
The breeze picked up, and a bumblebee came near them.
Fletcher screamed. “Ack! ACK!”
Granted it was a big bee, but he started running around, his long slender arms swirling like a windmill as he tried to get away. He screamed again.
“Fletcher, it’s just a bee! It’s more likely to hurt you if you run like that.”
“Ack! It just brushed my arm,” he yelled.
“Just stand still, it’s not going to sting you!” How could she be calmer about a bee than he was?
“I hate bees!” He yelped again as it came near him and rushed inside, leaving Dot out on the deck. He sounded like . . . a girl.
She was mortified on his behalf. And just like that, any thoughts of Dot’s future with Fletcher disappeared.
She took another look at the beautiful lake and calmed down before following him back into the museum.
“Ick,” she said.