Chapter 2: Temptation in Lakeview

Before Grant went to Lakeview, he was full of ambition—just like any ordinary person who gets ambitious in fits and starts.

The city buzzed with rumors, phones lighting up, aides running like ants. Grant barely noticed. That old hunger was back—the same one that pushed him through campaign stops in high school gyms, hands sticky with soda, pockets full of promises.

There are always many roads to the future, some right, some wrong. We know which is which, but comfort’s lure is hard to resist, especially when the world’s falling apart and the party’s calling your name.

Because the wrong road is smooth, full of birdsong and flowers.

In Savannah, the wrong road wound past manicured lawns and old oaks, air thick with honeysuckle and temptation. The city never really slept, just changed tempo.

For Grant, the road to Lakeview was too easy.

He cruised in the motorcade, city lights flashing gold and blue. The air smelled of magnolias and barbecue, the promise of pleasure at every stoplight.

Thirty miles of endless city lights, women graceful and charming, a dance like startled swans, sheer curtains drifting in the warm August wind, distant green hills, winding rivers, lilies blooming everywhere.

As the motorcade rolled up, music and laughter spilled out into the sticky night air. The party at Lakeview was legendary—jazz drifting onto the veranda, silk dresses swirling beneath chandeliers. The air buzzed with cicadas, bourbon flowed, and the servers passed trays of shrimp and grits.

Evans toasted him a glass of wine. Before it reached his lips, the scent of apples hit first.

The crystal caught the light, the liquid inside golden and cool. Evans’s smile was sly, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them.

Grant’s eyes sparkled. “What wine is this?”

He held the glass up, letting it glow beneath the chandelier. It made you want to linger, to lose yourself in the music and forget the world.

Chief Evans smiled politely. “Mr. President, this is Lakeview Breeze. You’ve had it before.”

Evans’s tone was careful, but the twinkle in his eye said he was testing Grant, searching for weakness or memory.

Grant went, “Oh, oh,” then grinned. “I was sick a few days ago. My old illness is gone, but much of the past is a blur now.”

He laughed a little too loudly and shrugged off the awkwardness. It was the truth—his mind was a patchwork of old regrets and new ambition.

Walter at the side called out, “No matter! Whatever you’ve forgotten, I’ll remind you.”

Walter raised his glass, voice booming, the life of the party. The crowd laughed, tension easing, and Grant found himself smiling for real.

After the song and dance, more girls performed jazz and singing. After the Lakeview Breeze, they went to Senator Matthews’s house for dinner. From roast beef to catfish, from crab to calamari, there were fifteen appetizers alone.

The house was a museum of Southern hospitality—silver platters groaning with shrimp and hush puppies, air thick with laughter and steel guitar. Grant sampled everything, his plate a rainbow of flavors.

Other delicacies need not be mentioned.

There were rumors of imported chocolates, whiskey older than the city, and pie so good it could make a grown man cry. Grant lost count of the courses after the brisket.

Grant was tipsy, laughing nonstop at the table. “So this is the South!”

He threw his head back and howled, drawing looks from staff and senators. The party roared, toasting their President, who seemed at last to have found his footing.

The South is great. That old crook Sam Houston really knew how to enjoy life.

Grant remembered the stories—Houston’s wild parties, sharp tongue, the way he’d play both sides and still walk away grinning. Maybe living large wasn’t so bad.

As evening fell, Matthews’s mansion was as bright as day. Grant, half drunk, said, “I can’t, I’m too full. Need to go for a walk.”

He clapped a hand on the senator’s back, stood a little too fast, and swayed just enough to make the Secret Service bristle.

So they went for a walk.

They spilled into the night, shoes crunching on gravel, the city’s hum a soft lullaby. The air was cooler now, scented with jasmine and the faint promise of rain.

Walter led Grant to jazz clubs and coffee shops, cockfights, women’s wrestling. Grant was so excited his face turned red, betting money until his veins popped.

He cheered louder than anyone, throwing crumpled bills, a kid at the fair again. The city’s underbelly was alive and electric, and for a while Grant forgot everything but the thrill.

Back at the residence, Grant realized he’d forgotten to mention peace or war with the North.

He collapsed onto a velvet couch, shoes off, air thick with cigar smoke and spilled wine. The important stuff could wait. For once, the future felt far away.

Grant hiccuped, thinking, Next time for sure. Can I really not resist this bit of temptation?

He closed his eyes, the room spinning slightly. Ambition could wait until the hangover faded.

Second day: listening to music at the jazz club.

The band played until dawn. Grant stayed for every set, the rhythm pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Third day: watching wrestling at the coffee shop.

He hooted, slapping the table with every pinfall. The barista kept his cup filled, and the crowd treated him like royalty.

Fourth day: Grant, you mustn’t waste your life on pleasure! You must campaign north, return to the old capital!

He tried to give himself a pep talk in the mirror, but the call of the city was louder. Every time he reached for resolve, the city’s heartbeat—jazz, laughter, temptation—pulled him back.

Fifth day: watching the First Lady’s charity softball game.

The stadium was packed, kids waving flags, the First Lady sliding into third base in a cloud of dust. Grant cheered until he was hoarse, caught up in the joy.

Sometimes Grant wondered, during the day, all these officials singing his praises, saying he rebuilt the country and stabilized the Union—were they all just fooling him?

He watched them, one eye narrowed, trying to read the truth behind their words. The praise felt hollow, rehearsed—like campaign speeches on repeat.

Grant laughed at them. “Am I really so amazing?”

He asked with a crooked grin, daring anyone to answer. The staffers shuffled their feet, dodging his gaze.

Dozens of senators jumped up. “Mr. President, what are you saying? The North cannot be resisted by force. You are imitating George Washington, enduring hardship and keeping hope alive.”

They sounded like a choir, voices rising in perfect harmony. Grant half-expected someone to break out a hymnbook.

Walter added, “Mr. President, this is high strategy. No invader lasts long. By avoiding their strength and waiting for them to weaken, one day we’ll wipe out the North in a single stroke.”

Walter’s words dripped with practiced optimism. Grant rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling at the show.

Grant laughed heartily. “So I’m this awesome?”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. The room erupted in nervous laughter.

It’s not that no one objected, but Grant soon discovered those who did weren’t so clean themselves.

It didn’t take long for Evans to slide a dossier across his desk—pages of minor scandals, whispered rumors, skeletons tumbling out of closets all over the South.

Chief Evans frowned, full of grief and indignation, showing Grant the crimes these objectors had committed. Grant squinted. “Oh, this one’s already confessed. He still has the nerve to advise me?”

He thumbed through the file, lips pursed, amazed at how quickly virtue turned to vice when the spotlight shifted.

Chief Evans nodded. “Such self-righteous purists are mostly like this. They can be greedy and enjoy life, but the President must live frugally and bleed.”

Evans delivered it straight-faced, but the sarcasm was unmistakable. Oldest trick in the book—hold the leader to a higher standard while the rest feast.

Grant sneered. “Such purists, are they fit to stay in office?”

He tossed the file, sending a paperweight spinning. The message was clear—there was a new sheriff in town.

So it went, and soon all voices in Savannah became one. Even though many still resented Evans, they no longer spoke out.

It was a chorus—one note, one rhythm, one party line. Dissent faded, replaced by smiles that didn’t reach the eyes.

Grant kept playing everywhere, enjoying himself.

He went to more baseball games, took up skeet shooting at dawn, even tried painting in the Governor’s garden. Every night was a party; every day another chance to forget.

Until the envoys negotiating peace returned, bringing the North’s terms to Grant.

They came in the morning, suits crisp, faces tight. The air in the Situation Room turned cold, the laughter dying on Grant’s lips.

Besides ceding land and paying reparations, two clauses stood out.

The paper in Grant’s hands felt heavier than any treaty. The print seemed to swim, but two demands stood out in bold ink.

First, Grant Dalton must acknowledge the North as overlord; the Union is a vassal, and Grant’s presidency is valid only after Northern approval. When the Northern envoy arrives, Grant must kneel to receive the decree.

It was the kind of humiliation that stuck in your throat. Evans looked ready to volunteer, already rehearsing the perfect bow.

Grant didn’t care. Kneel or not, Evans was prepared, saying he could kneel in the President’s place. As chief of staff, surely the North wouldn’t mind.

Evans explained, voice cool, that ceremony was just ceremony—let the Chief handle the dirty work, and Grant could keep his dignity. In the South, there was always a workaround.

Grant nodded, saying nothing, just reading the last condition from the North.

The words blurred, anger swelling in his chest. This was the one demand he couldn’t ignore.

General Forrest must be removed—only then can there be peace.

Grant’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t just a negotiation—this was a hit list.

He read the line twice, then three times. His knuckles turned white, the paper crumpling.

Grant pointed at the clause, looked up, and fixed his gaze on Evans. “Chief Evans, are we to negotiate this too?”

His tone was icy, every word a challenge.

Evans said, “Mr. President, endure hardship, keep hope alive. Back then, Nathan Hale could use a friend’s head; today, Forrest’s head should serve the same purpose.”

Evans tried to sound philosophical, but his eyes never left Grant’s. He was offering a trade—a head for a future, blood for survival.

Grant laughed in spite of himself. “Why not use your head for that?”

He smirked, the old rebellious streak flaring up. The staffers tensed, uncertain if this was a joke or a threat.

Evans sighed. “I am but a bureaucrat, not as good as General Forrest in battle. I can only win the Union decades of time at the negotiating table. The North is shortsighted, hating Forrest, not realizing I am their greatest enemy.”

The humility was fake, the ambition real. Evans spread his hands, palms open, as if the future was already his.

Grant opened his mouth, stunned, not knowing what to say for a moment.

He sat back, feeling the ground shift. The silence that followed was thick with regret and uncertainty.

After Evans left, Grant was upset, unable to stay in the residence, wanting to go out for a walk.

He grabbed his jacket, not bothering to tie his shoes, and slipped out the back. The night air was sharp, the city quieter than he remembered.

And so he ran into Walter Sims.

Walter was leaning against a lamppost, tie loosened, face drawn. He straightened up when he saw Grant, worry etched deep.

Walter came over, concern all over his face. “Mr. President, what’s wrong, what’s on your mind?”

He kept his voice low, glancing left and right. In Savannah, secrets never stayed buried for long.

Grant looked up at the sky. “General Forrest—he’s a loyal officer, right? Why must a loyal officer die in this world?”

His voice cracked, words tumbling out like broken glass. He didn’t care who heard.

Walter understood, raising his eyebrows, and whispered, “Mr. President, to be honest, I don’t want Forrest to go either. But with the North’s terms, if we don’t act against Forrest, we’ll have to fight.”

Walter’s words were careful, measured. A politician first, a friend second. But there was honesty in his eyes, a flicker of real worry.

Grant grew more annoyed, not even sure why, and flung his sleeve. “Then fight!”

He waved his arm, nearly knocking over a trash can. His anger felt good—better than confusion, better than fear.

Walter kept nagging. “Mr. President, the North is so strong, half the country is theirs. Why fight them? Peace is good—we have the Mississippi as a natural barrier, the North can’t cross easily.”

Walter’s tone turned wheedling, trying to convince with logic and numbers. Grant hated it—hated how the words made sense and yet felt all wrong.

These words lit a fire in Grant’s heart—a burning, damn annoying fire.

It was the old anger, the kind that made you want to tear down walls and shout into the night. He remembered Portland, remembered every loss, every betrayal.

Grant felt like he was back in Portland eight hundred years ago. After the chief of staff died, Foster and Monroe took charge in succession. Maybe they did their best, but they never had the chief’s ability.

The memory was bitter, the kind that stings the back of your throat. Grant remembered endless arguments, a parade of new leaders, each one weaker than the last.

Either endless war, leaving people haggard, or Williams fighting north alone, with the cabinet full of critics.

It was the same cycle—war, peace, war, peace, and always the people caught in the middle, tired and hungry.

Whether it was Howard or Monroe Jr., the chief’s son, Grant couldn’t tell who truly cared for the country and who just wanted power. Their arguments sounded just like Walter’s now.

Every meeting was the same—empty promises, shifting loyalties. Grant wondered if anyone actually believed their own words.

Why fight the North?

He asked himself, over and over, like a prayer or a curse.

Walter saw Grant silent for a long time, and added, “Mr. President, even a genius like Chief Monroe died of exhaustion at Red Bluff…”

Walter’s voice was soft, almost kind. He meant well, but the words only twisted the knife deeper.

An autumn wind blew from eight hundred years ago to now.

It whipped through the city, rattling windows and stirring old memories. Grant pulled his jacket tighter, shivering.

Grant suddenly turned, glaring at Walter. “Are you worthy to mention Chief Monroe?”

His eyes flashed, every word like a slap. Walter recoiled, stammering for an answer.

Walter shuddered. “Mr. President, I only worry for the Union.”

He took a step back, hands raised. His concern was real, but fear crept into his voice.

The fire in Grant’s heart burned even hotter. He strode through Savannah’s streets, seeing face after smiling face, the long-lost hot blood pushing him, making him grit his teeth even harder.

He stalked down the avenue, fists clenched, heart pounding. The city was alive with laughter and music, but Grant felt like a ghost, haunted by the past.

He thought, The Union is right before our eyes—it’s these common people. General Forrest has protected them for so many years, and today you want me to get rid of him, and you dare speak of the Union?

He saw families walking home from the park, shopkeepers sweeping their stoops, kids chasing fireflies beneath the streetlights. This was the Union, not the politicians in marble offices.

Grant waved his hand, “If Chief Monroe could do what he knew was impossible, then I must follow his example!”

He raised his voice, the words echoing off brick. Somewhere, a dog barked, startled by the outburst.

“Forrest, I won’t get rid of him. I’ll keep him to campaign north!”

His voice echoed down the empty street, raw and defiant. For once, he didn’t care who heard.

These bold words vanished in the bleak north wind. Grant’s chest heaved, a restless energy surging within, stirring his blood and heart—and also his fear and tears.

He blinked hard, willing the tears away. The future pressed in, heavy and uncertain.

After shouting, Grant stood still, suddenly motionless.

The world seemed to freeze, the city holding its breath. He stared at the empty street, feeling the weight of history settle on his shoulders.

Walter glanced at him, eyes flickering. Grant didn’t look, just flicked him on the forehead. “If you have something to say, say it! What are you sneaking glances for!”

Walter flinched, then ducked his head, embarrassed. He knew better than to cross the President when he was in a mood.

Walter quickly bowed his head. “You have great plans, but I have some little thoughts, and want to make them clear for you. This is my true feeling, but please don’t tell others.”

He shuffled his feet, voice barely above a whisper. This was the moment for honesty, the kind that came only in the dark, when the city was asleep.

Grant was interested, lowered his head, and said as he walked, “Speak.”

He leaned in, anger cooling into curiosity. He wanted to hear what the world really thought—what his people thought.

The September autumn wind was already a bit bleak, yellowing a third of Savannah’s spring trees. Walter, in the autumn wind, spoke in a spell-like, soul-piercing whisper.

The air carried the scent of dying leaves and distant rain. Walter’s words floated on the breeze, weaving a spell of doubt and longing.

“Mr. President, honestly, I don’t know if we can fight. To be blunt, I’m just afraid. I’ve always been afraid to fight the North, but I’m even more afraid now, with nothing prepared, to fight them. Why so afraid? Because if we lose, the hard-won prosperity of Savannah, the remaining culture and wealth of the Union in the South, will all vanish. No more Lakeview Breeze, no more lakeside song and dance, no more fireworks in the jazz clubs, no more joy in baseball and shadow plays… If you give the order to fight, I will be first to charge, but I also feel it’s a pity for you. Since there’s a sure way, why gamble with life and death?”

Walter’s voice cracked, fear and hope swirling together. The city’s future hung in the balance, fragile as a paper lantern on a windy night.

Grant stopped, his body rooted like iron.

The autumn wind rattled the windows. Grant clenched his fists, staring into the darkness. Tomorrow, he’d have to choose—courage or comfort. And he wasn’t sure which scared him more.