done,” the makeup artist said, aware that Penny was growing restless. “Purse your lips.”
Penny made a dutiful moue, hoping the color wouldn’t draw more attention to her mouth. She already had full lips and a wide smile. When she wore bright lipstick, it was like a neon sign on her face.
The chaos in the makeup room, along with her inability to move, increased her anxiety. Her mother was getting her hair styled in a chair nearby. Her sister, Raven, had shown up late. She was standing by the door, text-messaging her boyfriend on her iPhone. She seemed annoyed that she had to wait until Penny was finished.
Her youngest sister, Leslie, was trying to distract Cruz with a book. He didn’t want to sit still in this cramped environment any more than Penny did. She hoped he wouldn’t cause a scene during one of the speeches. In less than an hour, she’d introduce her mother in front of a huge audience at the San Diego Convention Center.
Millions would be watching from home.
“Done. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said, barely glancing at her reflection. She got up from the chair just as Cruz wiggled free from Leslie’s embrace and grabbed a mascara wand. “Not so fast,” she said, prying it from his little fingers.
“Mommy! I want to paint.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said, putting the contraband out of reach. She shrugged out of the styling cape and grasped Cruz’s hand. As she led him toward the exit, she smoothed the front of her jungle-print dress. It was green-swirled chiffon with a gathered waist and a halter top. The daring style wasn’t typical for political conventions, but that was kind of the point. She’d been recruited to entice a younger, less rigid crop of voters.
Owen Jackson was standing by the door. He’d been a member of her father’s security team for about six months. Now that Jorge Sandoval had Secret Service protection, Owen had been relegated to guarding Penny and her five-year-old son, Cruz.
Owen skimmed her body with the barest hint of interest before he moved on to Cruz. “What’s up, little man?”
“It’s boring here.”
Owen’s brows rose. “This place? It’s a circus.”
Cruz studied a trio of men in suits passing by, as if searching for elephants. The convention center’s main floor had an arched canvas ceiling that resembled a dozen circus tents, or maybe the sails of a thousand ships. It was full of interesting architectural shapes and bustling with people. Penny might have given him a tour if she wasn’t worried about being recognized and accosted by reporters.
“Is there any space he can play?” she asked.
“Right this way,” Owen said, leading them down the hall. He touched the communication device at his collar, relaying the details of their location change.
Tonight her father would be awarded the official nomination at the Republican National Convention. No Hispanic-American had ever won this honor. It was the most important evening of his life. His performance would have a direct effect on the outcome of the November election. The entire nation was watching.
Penny felt like throwing up.
She’d promised to attend for her father’s sake, but she didn’t care for the public scrutiny. Her status as an unwed mother hadn’t gone unnoticed by her father’s conservative base. He was known for “family values.” Over the past few weeks, speculation about Cruz’s parentage had run rampant. Religious groups had criticized her for having loose morals. Pro-life activists claimed her son was the product of rape.
Troubled by the rumors, Penny had agreed to a single on-air interview. She hadn’t named and shamed Tyler, her son’s father, but she’d been candid in her other responses. She’d even confessed that her parents had ordered her to leave their home when she was pregnant. Then she’d told the extraordinary story of Cruz’s birth—days after the San Diego earthquake.
The public reaction to the interview had been overwhelmingly positive. Young people found her relatable. Everyone loved survivor stories. When her father had stood by her, expressing regret over his actions during her pregnancy, his approval ratings with women had soared.
It was just the boost he needed.
Although Penny hadn’t wanted to get involved in the campaign, she felt obligated to make one last appearance on his behalf. It was the least she could do after he’d given her his unconditional support.
She followed Owen to a small outdoor terrace that offered a spectacular view of the San Diego Bay. It was closed in, with walls on both sides and a Plexiglas barrier in lieu of a guardrail. At sunset, the surface of the ocean rippled with golden highlights. Cruz’s eyes lit up when he saw the fountain in the middle of the terrace. Water bubbled from the top of a stone pillar, cascading down its smooth facade.
“Let me take off your jacket,” she said.
He endured the three-second delay with impatience, his little body leaning toward the fountain. As soon as he broke loose, he raced to the fountain’s edge. She watched him play for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest. He gathered leaves from a nearby plant to make an armada of floating ships, sinking them with pebble bombs.
Focusing on Cruz helped her regain a sense of calm. He meant everything to her. Strangers said they looked alike, but his tawny-brown hair came straight from Tyler. It was thick and tended to curl at the ends, brushing the collar of his shirt. Sometimes, when his hair was freshly washed, she hugged him close and buried her face in it. Her love for him was boundless, almost frightening in its intensity.
She’d die without him.
Taking a deep breath, she moved her gaze to Owen. He was a tall, unobtrusive statue beside her. Away from the crowds, he didn’t need to be on high alert. His manner wasn’t exactly relaxed, but he seemed...present. As if he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.
His appearance never varied: smooth-shaven jaw, close-cropped blond hair, inexpensive black suit. She knew from experience that there were hidden depths to his pale blue eyes, dark secrets lurking beneath his ill-fitted jacket and white button-down shirt. The faint scars on his neck and hand, remnants from laser-removed tattoos, told a very different tale than his clean-cut image implied.
Cruz thought Owen was some kind of secret superhero. She’d told him that Owen had rescued them during the earthquake, and helped track down criminals in Sierra National Park. Her son had started making up elaborate stories of Owen’s other assorted feats.
She wondered if Owen was aware of the latest rumors. A tabloid reporter had linked them romantically, suggesting he was Cruz’s father. Which was impossible, because he’d been incarcerated at the time of Cruz’s conception.
“My sister wants to pitch a family reality show to the cable networks,” she said. “Keeping up with the Kardashians meets The West Wing.”
He arched a brow. “Sounds like your dad’s worst nightmare.”
“Mine, too.”
“The White House would never allow that kind of filming.”
“Do you think he’ll win?”
“Yes,” he said after
