NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

Instead, while millions of others were settling into their couches for the New Year bowl games, a rancorous argument was reaching its climax at the big beach house of Senator John Kerry.

“I’m telling you, John, we have a legal case to make,” said John Edwards. “In virtually every state with a Republican election official, there are votes added. In every electronic system Republicans controlled there was manipulation of software. We won and we can prove it.”

“And I’m telling you, John, that it won’t work,” replied Kerry. “The precedent in Bush vs. Gore is clear. The votes of the people are a mere courtesy. The states control the electors. And the Electoral College votes this coming week. There is nothing we can do.”

“But there is a lot we can do,” said Elizabeth Edwards. “We can do what they did in the Ukraine. Get our story out, demand justice, demand a new, honest vote. Demand the changes that will guarantee democracy.”

“It won’t work,” Kerry said. “Look at what happened in Atlanta. Perdue just declared martial law and dispersed the crowd. I don’t want people dieing in my name.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Elizabeth shot back. “They won’t be dieing in your name. They will be protesting in the name of democracy. Your name, my name, John’s name, we don’t matter. What matters is that we have an honest vote, and the winner becomes President. It’s what our forefathers died for. We can’t give it up now.”

Kerry sighed heavily. He was tired. He’d been through this, waking and sleeping, for weeks. “Sure, there’s evidence of tampering on their side. But they can bring up evidence of tampering on our side. Meanwhile we need a functioning government. And that’s not me speaking, but the Supreme Court.”

The Edwards were silent. Kerry stood up, looked out at the ocean, and slowly turned back to his erstwhile running mate, his face showing far more than his 63 years. “Let’s say we overturn this thing. Will we be any more legitimate than they are, any better, any different?” he asked.

“What about your promise to fight?” The voice came from another side of the room, from Kerry’s brother Cameron. “You promised to fight for this. No retreat, no surrender. You can’t give up now. We can have a new election, an honest one we can win. Just as Elizabeth said, like they did in the Ukraine.”

John Kerry looked back toward his brother. “I appreciate that, Cam. I really do. But understand what we’re talking about. We’re talking about challenging basic rules of campaign engagement. We’re accusing the President, the President of the United States, of the greatest crime a man can be accused of, greater even than treason. We’re calling him a dictator, an American Hitler. You can’t take those words back. You can’t deny American democracy and not see everyone pay a very heavy price for it.”

“And if the crime has already happened, twice?” asked John Edwards. “You know what they did in 2000. They did the same thing, on a smaller scale. They stole Florida, they stole the White House, by adding votes in Republican precincts. While Gore looked for undercounts they had overcounts. They stole it, John. It’s already a dictatorship.”

“You’re a southerner, John,” said John Kerry gently. “You can conceive, in your mind, of Civil War. Your heritage can even justify it. But I can’t. I’m a Union man. I just don’t know.” He smiled ruefully.

Across the room from where the discussion raged Teresa Heinz Kerry was curled up in a chair like a child, her legs around her, a cup in one hand, the other moving through her hair. Her husband, as if noticing her for the first time, came toward her and offered the smile to her.

“What are you thinking?” he asked gently.

“The cloth is fraying,” she said quietly. “It’s tearing and I don’t think I can fix it.” She looked up at her husband as though she hadn’t heard him before. “When you can’t fix it, you make new,” she said.

“Whatever it takes,” said John Edwards, his wife nodding beside him.

“OK, so we fight,” said John Kerry.

Kerry’s wife, however, squeezed more tightly into herself. Kerry noticed a tear running down her cheek. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“What don’t we understand?” asked her husband.

“I wasn’t talking about the election. Fight it or not, it doesn’t matter. Dictator or anarchy, what’s the difference?

“I want to build something, John. I’m 65. I feel it in the morning. I know that it’s real. The grave, it’s real. What have I done, all my life, but follow? What have I really done that is mine, for my children, for my people?” She wiped her face and sat up, as though startled by herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, putting her cup down and looking at her husband in that calm, alive, aware way she had, the look that always melted his heart. “But it’s time for me to lead.”

Everyone in the room was looking toward her and she had been a million miles away, she realized. They were talking about challenging the American election, in court or on the streets. And she had been listening to them as though they were talking about another country, a country far away. Maybe they were.

Playing for time, she turned the smile she had given her husband on his friend, and his brother, and his friend’s wife. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s just that I can’t be a part of this. I have something else I need to do.”

And with that she told them all the whole story, for the first time, of Mark Cuban, and Richard Branson, of the plans for Johannesburg, and of her meeting with Nelson Mandela. “It’s crazy, I know, but maybe this country isn’t my destiny at all. Maybe it’s just a prelude. I think I belong back home.”

Elizabeth Edwards walked toward Teresa, and her arms wrapped around her. The men in the room looked at one another, nonplussed.

“So what happens now?” asked John Kerry.

“We fight,” said John Edwards. “And Teresa covers our retreat.”