The First Gardener
Page 1
Praise for Denise Hildreth Jones
The First Gardener
“Denise Hildreth Jones plants another winner with The First Gardner. This poignant Southern tale shows that love and forgiveness can be cultivated even in the midst of the strangling weeds of incomprehensible loss.”
Gina Holmes, bestselling author of Crossing Oceans
“The First Gardener will take you on a journey from despair to hope, from lost to found, from wilting to blooming. Denise’s characters are steeped with deeper meanings and poignant struggles that are vital and real.”
Lisa Wingate, bestselling author of Larkspur Cove and Dandelion Summer
“This is truly, as we fiction writers often say, ‘opening a vein and bleeding on paper.’ Surely The First Gardener took every ounce of emotion to write and will have the same effect on its readers. Bravo!”
Eva Marie Everson, author of Chasing Sunsets, a Return to Cedar Key novel
Hurricanes in Paradise
“Magnificent reading. . . . Hildreth writes her books with an open heart and a generosity of spirit.”
The Huffington Post
“[A] winning combination of humor, spiritual insight, and true-life characters has widespread appeal.”
Romantic Times, Top Pick review
“Hildreth has done a masterful job of creating realistic, unforgettable relationships interwoven in a wonderful story line of real-life struggles, heartaches, and hurricanes, showing that with God’s help, we can survive even the strongest storms of life.”
CBA Retailers + Resources
“A great story with so many twists and turns that just never stopped getting intriguing. The end leaves you just begging for more.”
Examiner.com
“Soaked with sun, wit, and heart, this is a story of healing and the hope that, sometimes, surviving the storm has its rewards.”
Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times bestselling author
Flies on the Butter
“Hildreth’s latest shines with humanity and originality. . . . Keep tissues handy for the emotional conclusion.”
Romantic Times
“[N]othing less than a spiritual odyssey of inner reckoning.”
Southern Living
“Beautifully portrays how looking back thoughtfully has the potential to powerfully transform one’s future.”
Andy Andrews, New York Times bestselling author
The Savannah series
“[Savannah from Savannah is] smart and witty.”
Library Journal
“Reading Savannah Comes Undone is like taking a virtual vacation. It’s a quirky, fun foray into life in the South. . . . You won’t be disappointed.”
Kathy L. Patrick, founder of the Pulpwood Queens Book Club
“An engaging read of real-life vignettes and relationships. I read it cover to cover. As Savannah discovers her beliefs, values, and passions, the reader will be looking into their own ‘mirror of truth.’”
Naomi Judd
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Visit Denise Hildreth Jones’s website at www.denisehildrethjones.com.
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House
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The First Gardener
Copyright © 2011 by Denise Hildreth Jones. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of hand copyright © by Blend Images/Veer. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of sky copyright © by UpperCut Images/Veer. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of flower copyright © by Photographer Olympus/iStock. All rights reserved.
Cover designed by Rule 29
Interior designed by Beth Sparkman
Edited by Anne Christian Buchanan
Published in association with the literary agency of Daniel Literary Group, Nashville, TN.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Denise Hildreth.
The first gardener / Denise Hildreth Jones.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4143-3558-2 (pbk.)
1. Governors’ spouses—Fiction. 2. Children—Death—Fiction. 3. Grief—Fiction.
4. Nashville (Tenn.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.O6243F57 2011
813´.6--dc22 2011020883
Also by Denise Hildreth Jones
Savannah from Savannah
Savannah Comes Undone
Savannah by the Sea
Flies on the Butter
The Will of Wisteria
Hurricanes in Paradise
Flying Solo:
A Journey of Divorce, Healing, and a Very Present God
To those who have ever needed a friend
to walk through life’s tough places with them . . .
and to the friends who have.
Table of Contents
A Note from the Author
Jeremiah
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Jeremiah
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Jeremiah
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Jeremiah
Chapter 17
Jeremiah
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Jeremiah
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Jeremiah
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Jeremiah
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Jeremiah
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Jeremiah
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Jeremiah
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Jeremiah
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Jeremiah
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Jeremiah
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Jeremiah
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discussion Questions
A Note from the Author
As a citizen of Franklin, Tennessee, I’m aware that the current occupant of the governor’s mansion in Nashville is not named Gray London. I’ve borrowed his house and some of the many challenges faced by him and his predecessors and adapted them for the sake of my story. However, much of what you read here about the Nashville area and the governor’s mansion is absolutely true—the charm of downtown Franklin, the beautiful (and environmentally sensitive) renovat
ions completed during Governor Phil Bredesen’s administration, the controversy over Conservation Hall, and Minnie Pearl’s former residence next door to the governor. Sadly, the devastating flood of 2010 was also a reality—but so was the amazing neighbor-helping-neighbor spirit that emerged in its aftermath. That spirit of service was part of the inspiration for this book. I may have messed with the mansion a bit for the sake of my story, but I have never been prouder to be a part of the Volunteer State.
The sides a my bologna gone and curled up in that cast-iron skillet when a pop a grease splattered out. Landed smack-dab on the mornin’ paper I done set on the counter.
Didn’t much care to look at that paper anyhow. It been totin’ nothin’ but hurt all week—and we all ’bout had our fill a hurtin’ ’round here. I think I cried me more tears them past seven days than I cried since my Shirley died summer ’fore last. And Shirley and me, we was married fifty-seven years.
Miz Mackenzie done cried with me back then.
Now it be my turn to cry with her.
I seen her picture on the front a that paper, tryin’ to hide herself behind a big ol’ black hat. But can’t hide that kind a pain. Photographer gone and caught her with her Kleenex held up against her li’l nose. Ever’one else leanin’ in close like she gon’ fall over any minute. And that chil’ lookin’ up at her with an eyeful a questions. ’Bout near break my heart, I’m tellin’ you.
They let me stay back yesterday ’til the last limo pulled away. Two young’uns come up and stood over that open hole in the earth. They pulled up the straps and rolled away that fake green turf and put away the contraption that helped lower the casket down. Then I watched them two boys go for a backhoe. But seemed my heart would break right there if I didn’t step in.
I held up my hand. “Y’all mind if I take care a that?”
They faces was drippin’ from the stiflin’ heat this ol’ Tennessee August thrown at us, but they was polite. “This be our job, sir.”
I ain’t cared one lick ’bout they protestin’. I flung off that black suit coat I borrowed and throwed it ’cross the limb a this big ol’ live oak standin’ over to the side. Seemed that tree stuck its arms right out, like it beggin’ to hold my coat. Like it tryin’ to share my load.
“Fellas, it be my job the last three years to tend the garden a this family. So I’m wonderin’ if y’all could give an old man some grace today. It’s purty important I tend this one. Now, one a y’all go fetch me a shovel.”
Them two strappin’ boys look at me. I knowed they could lose they jobs if they left. They knowed it too. I could see the debate played ’tween they faces, though they didn’t say nothin’.
“Just go get me a shovel; then you boys just sit right there and watch me. That way you won’t get in no trouble, and you can make sure I don’t do nothin’ foolish. Shoot, they watchin’ me too.” I pointed to the two police cruisers still sittin’ by the gates.
Them boys laughed ’em some nervous laugh. “You sure you be wantin’ to do this, mister? ’Cause we young and got a backhoe, and you . . .”
I chuckled and pulled my handkerchief from my back pocket. “And I be as old as this dirt I’m ’bout to throw on top a this here casket. But I move dirt ’round ever’day, boys. And I be needin’ to do this. So if you just step aside . . .”
They shrugged they shoulders good and hard and went to fetch me a shovel. I took it in my hands and let it fall in the ruts a my calluses. It knowed right where it belonged. And me and that shovel, we went ’bout our work while them boys sat almost reverentlike on the ground.
After I tamped down that last shovelful a dirt, I laid the shovel down and swiped my forehead, the white shirt stuck to my back like sweat on a glass a summer lemonade. One a the boys act like he gon’ do sump’n, but I raise my hand again. Not through yet. He sat back down without sayin’ a word.
I put back the sod they done stacked in big square pieces over to the side—laid it down nice and smooth over the dirt and pressed it down so the roots could take hold. “You boys be sure and water it good the next few weeks, y’hear?”
Then I walked over and took the big ol’ blanket a white roses that laid on top a the casket and put it ’cross the top a the grave. I stood back and studied all the other wreaths and bouquets that sat there waitin’. And like the gardener I am, I ’ranged them flowers as beautiful as the life that laid ’neath ’em.
I took the last one and let my eyes, best as they still could, take in the banner that draped ’cross it. When I poked its three metal prongs in the sod, the li’l Tennessee flag tucked up in that banner done dropped down at my feet. I gone and picked it up and brushed at the dirt that clung to it. That dirt held on for dear life. Then it come to me—that be what I really tryin’ to do. Hold on just a li’l longer.
When I done patted it clean, I put it back in the droop a that banner, and it seemed like that banner gone and swaddled it in with them red baby roses.
I took my jacket back from the tree and felt like I should show that tree some gratitude or sump’n. But I just flung my jacket ’cross the top a my shoulder. I looked back at the two young men. They watched me as curious as folks probably watched crazy ol’ Noah.
I gave ’em a nod. Then I gave a nod to that mound a sod and flowers. I walked toward the car in a blur a tears and a burden a prayer.
Chapter 1
Ten days earlier
The heat of the stone bathroom floor warmed Mackenzie London’s entire body as she took her first steps of the day. Beauty surrounded her. Every fixture, fabric, element in this home had been redone to perfection by the previous occupant. The day she moved in, she had determined that she would appreciate every moment she spent in this exquisite place—because she knew those moments were numbered.
There might not be much certain in this world. But in Mackenzie’s world this much was certain: she would not live here forever. She had known that when she moved in. And her Italian-Irish heritage pushed her to embrace every facet of life passionately, wildly, and completely. She was determined not to waste one moment of this opportunity she had been given.
Today, however, the mansion was the last thing on her mind.
“My, my, that’s a good-looking man standing in front of that mirror.” She leaned against her side of the brown marble countertop and gave her husband a sad smile.
Gray London leaned over his sink, electric razor in one hand. The other hand tugged at the base of his neck, where salt-and-pepper stubble clung. His blue eyes met hers, and she saw their delight in her arrival. “How’s my girl?”
“Heartbroken.” She scooted up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her hands against the top of the towel tied around his hips. She laid her head against his bare back and listened as the buzz of the razor evaporated. Her heart felt heavy inside her chest.
He laid the razor down and placed his hands on top of hers. “It’s a new stage of life, huh?”
She moved her cheek up and down against his back.
He laughed and turned so he could face her. His six-foot frame towered over her five-foot-four. He wrapped one arm around her, lifted her chin, and wiped at a tear that had left its wet trail down the side of her cheek.
“I know it’s silly.” She dabbed a tissue at her nose. She had one in virtually every pocket she owned. “It’s just kindergarten. But maybe we should have waited until she was six. You know, five is still really young.”
“She’s an old five, Mack.”
She leaned her head against his chest. “She was an old two.”
He laughed. “Yeah, she was. But we talked about this, and she wants to go. I know it’s going to be hard. It will be for me too, but it doesn’t happen until tomorrow. So let’s enjoy today and deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.”
She raised her head and batted her eyes. The tears fell freely. She knew he was right, but it didn’t change the way she felt. Natural childbirth had been less painful.
He leaned down and pressed his lips
against her face, then moved his mouth to her ear as one hand grazed her stomach. “Plus, who knows? You might have another baby here in about nine months.”
“I pray so.”
He leaned back. “So you want me to give you your shot before you get in the shower?”
She moved her hands up to the soft curve in her hips, a smile fighting with the tears. “You just want to look at my booty.”
“Prettiest one I’ve ever seen.”
The smile won. She reached for another tissue and swiped at her eyes, then walked back over to her side of the bathroom. The Pregnyl stayed in prominent sight in her top drawer.
It had taken her and Gray almost ten years to conceive their Maddie—ten years plus four miscarriages and thousands of dollars. But when Maddie came along, Mackenzie finally had the one thing she felt her life was missing—a child. And now, five years later, she was desperate for another. Wanted it like an ache in the soul wants a healing balm.
The latest round of fertility treatments had begun again almost a year ago. They’d bypassed the Clomid altogether this time and gone straight to the injections. To date, the only thing they had to show for it was her sore behind.
Mackenzie let her robe fall to the marble floor. The matching lingerie set in black was all that remained. She saw Gray’s expression change. “Just the shot, mister. You might get action this afternoon, but right now, just the shot.”
He had been a good partner in this journey. Though she knew he sometimes wearied of the routine, still he was at every doctor’s appointment, shared each piece of heartbreaking news, and was a pretty good nurse. He’d even become fairly handy with a needle. As she leaned against the cabinet, she suddenly got the giggles.
He moved the needle back. “You’ve got to be still, or this is liable to end up in your side. What’s so funny anyway?”
She could hardly talk now. The laughter had all but taken over. “Wonder what Tennesseans would think if they knew that their governor was putting shots in his wife’s booty this morning. That would make a front-page picture.”