The First Gardener

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  The buzzer sounded at the entrance to the mansion’s family quarters. Mackenzie watched as Gray walked down the long, carpeted hallway.

  This was a piece of the sacrifice—the only piece that really got to her. The capitol hill bickering she tried to ignore. The picketing of events outside the mansion she saw as people’s rights to their opinions. The media’s interest in Gray’s breakfast choices she simply found silly. But the constant interruptions to their life and the heavy demands on their time challenged her on her best days.

  Gray opened the door to Kurt Green, his frazzled-looking chief of staff. Kurt’s white polo shirt hung loosely over his khaki shorts as he hurried through the door. He had been in a rush since Mackenzie had met him. And except for his bald head, he looked virtually the same as when he and Gray were Kappa Alphas at the University of Tennessee.

  Gray closed the door and moved past Kurt. “What happened to your phone? It’s Sunday. You should be doing something. Family something.”

  Kurt’s flip-flops beat against his heels as he followed Gray across the thick damask carpet and into the living room. “Okay, sure. I’ll call next time.” He extended a folder from his hand. “But today we’ve got a lawsuit on our hands.”

  Gray reached out and took the file from his friend’s hand. “I know. The lawsuit from that victims’ advocacy group over the prisoner release.” He raised an eyebrow at Kurt. “The lawsuit we agreed to look over next week.”

  “That was before the press got wind of it and decided it would make a great Monday morning headline.” Kurt ran his hands across his hairless skull—a bad habit Gray jokingly claimed had led to his present state. “Stuff like this is what completely destroys reelections.” Kurt had been thinking about the reelection since the day Gray took the oath of office. Maybe even before.

  Gray scanned the file. “A reelection campaign won’t prevent me from doing what needs to be done, Kurt.”

  Kurt shook his head. “Well, that’s fine, Gray, but we’ve got to respond to this now. There are Democrats and Republicans alike who want you out.”

  “And there are Democrats and Republicans who will change their minds tomorrow. It’s those same Democrats and Republicans who have left this state with no choice but cutbacks. I would prefer to not release prisoners either. But it’s nonviolent offenders only, and it’s better than firing schoolteachers.” Gray closed the folder and handed it back to Kurt. “Though I still haven’t ruled out shutting down the government and letting everybody go a couple of months without paychecks.”

  Kurt looked at the file in his hands, then back at Gray, his expression utterly dumbfounded. “We are just a little over a year away from an election, Gray. We have made huge progress in this state in spite of all the budget issues we’ve faced, and there’s so much more we need to do. We can’t let something like this lawsuit prevent the voters from seeing the real impact you’ve made here. Remember, voters have short memories.”

  Gray’s sigh was heavy in the room. Mackenzie felt her shoulders sag. She knew he was going to work now. “I’ll give you two hours,” he told Kurt.

  The veins in the front of Kurt’s head stopped bulging. “I’ll call Fletcher. He can come over and help us draft a statement.”

  “You can call him from my office.” He motioned toward the stairs, but Kurt was already there. Gray walked over to Mackenzie, gave her another small kiss, and ran his hand through her soft black hair. “Sorry, babe. Save me some pizza.”

  She puckered her lips. “Yep, I’m sorry too. And no one likes your pizza, remember?”

  He laughed. He was sensitive to dairy, so his pizza never had cheese. Maddie declared it gross. Oliver found it intriguing. “Good thing, then, huh?”

  “Two hours only, right? It is Sunday. Even the governor deserves some rest.”

  She watched his brow furrow, and he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I know. I know,” she interrupted. “We knew this part when we took the job.”

  “I’ll be done as soon as I can.”

  She watched him as he too headed downstairs toward the office he kept there. And sighed. Over the last three years, it seemed, she had seen more of him going than coming.

  Chapter 2

  “Berlyn, give me a break. I don’t have a shred of desire for that man. Seriously, you and Dimples need to get you a life.” Eugenia snatched up the Skip-Bo cards scattered across her glass-topped breakfast table and plopped the deck in front of Sandra.

  She’d known the women gathered around her table since grade school. Their mamas had been friends, and so the progression of their friendship had felt natural, even though Eugenia was the youngest of the bunch. They called themselves the last four remaining Franklin natives, since most everyone else in the city was a transplant. And even though she knew she could never live without them, they had the ability to make her madder than a hornet.

  Dimples, the oldest of the bunch at seventy-four, picked up one of Eugenia’s good cloth napkins and coughed right into it. Eugenia tried to give her the eye. But poor Dimples only had one good eye. The other was so cockeyed she had to tilt her head just to look at you straight. So Eugenia was pretty certain she never really saw her looks of disapproval. If she had, she would’ve quit hacking into Eugenia’s napkins forty years ago.

  Berlyn stood up from the table and tugged at the low-cut blouse she had tried to cram her double-Fs into. The resulting floral explosion only enhanced how big they were. Berlyn was a year older than Eugenia—seventy-one—but still had her grandchildren telling people she was thirty-nine. Eugenia was pretty sure Berlyn had convinced even herself it was true.

  Berlyn picked up her glass Coke bottle—the only way she’d have a Coke—and headed toward the trash can. “Say what you will, Eugenia Quinn, but everyone knows you and Burt Taylor got the eyes for each other. Ever since that wife of his died from heatstroke trying to beat you for the best hydrangeas in Franklin, he’s been after you.”

  Eugenia huffed. “You sound like you’re twelve, Berlyn. Mary Parker Taylor did not die trying to beat me at anything. She died from pneumonia in the wintertime and was a beautiful lady who was never in competition with me like you are.”

  Berlyn huffed back, but Eugenia went on. “Besides, I have had eyes for one man and that is all.”

  Sandra got up from her side of the table and picked up her empty iced tea glass. Her gnawed lemon lay at the bottom of the glass as if a piranha had spent the afternoon with it.

  Sandra was actually only two months older than Eugenia but had always acted just plain old. She was the most prim, most proper, and according to Berlyn, the most prudish. She didn’t know how to not dress up, and most of the time the collars of her clothes looked like they had a stranglehold on her neck. Even her short-sleeved blouses had ruffled collars.

  “He is such a sharp man, Eugenia,” she said. “So dapper and refined. There would be nothing wrong if you two went out on a date. But I do agree that Berlyn’s characterization of it is simply tawdry.”

  Berlyn grabbed a toothpick and jammed it in her mouth—something Sandra swore ladies never did. “You read too many bad Southern novels, Sandra. Get out of books and into the land of the living. No one has said tawdry since Scarlett O’Hara.”

  Dimples rose, leaning slightly to the right as if she were trying to follow Sandra with her good eye. “I think he’s hot,” she announced.

  Eugenia about swallowed her teeth—and she and Berlyn were the only ones in the room who actually still had theirs. Sandra would deny that to her grave, but Dimples would just pull hers right out of her mouth to clean them whenever she needed to.

  “Dimples Bass, what in the world do you know about someone being hot?” Eugenia asked.

  Dimples came into the kitchen and scratched at her head, her blue curls moving beneath her hand as she did. “I know my fifteen-year-old great-granddaughter says that about that boy who sings those songs about pop.”

  Berlyn sidled up next to her and leaned down toward her ear. “Y
ou mean, sings pop songs.”

  “Yeah, sings them pop songs. Says he is h-o-t, hot. And I’ve seen Burt Taylor, and—” she leaned against the side of the granite countertop, more to hold herself up than anything else—“well, he is hot!”

  That was it. Eugenia swatted them out of her house and bolted the door. As she returned to the kitchen, she dropped her clothes along the way and walked through the house plumb naked, just because she could. She poured herself some sweet tea, grabbed her iPod, climbed into the tub, and clicked on her new Kenny Chesney album.

  Who cared if she had borrowed the CD from the kid up the street? Mackenzie might call it stealing. And Eugenia’s late husband, Lorenzo, a circuit court judge, would probably agree.

  But after a night like tonight, Eugenia just called it therapy.

  Chapter 3

  Gray stepped out into the early morning and stretched hard, letting loose a loud grunt as he did. He heard Jeremiah chuckle. If not for the laughter, he would never have seen the lanky figure striding up the driveway with all of Gray’s morning newspapers tucked under his arm.

  “Greetin’ the mornin’, Gov’nor?”

  “Yep.” Gray put his hands on the waistband of his khaki slacks. “Thought I might beat you out here this morning, Jeremiah.”

  “Gov’nor, you should know one thing ’bout me. I always gon’ be here right at five thirty so I can get the boys started. And I always gon’ be leavin’ right at five thirty too. Been that way these twenty-five years, and I ain’t thinkin’ it gon’ change much ’til I up and retire. Besides, these is the best hours for a gardener.” He extended the bundle of papers toward Gray with another chuckle. “I ain’t knowed we was racin’ anyways.”

  “I’m joking. I wanted to say hello. When you leave the papers in the kitchen, I get caught up and forget to come say hey. How’s your morning so far?”

  “Got me a real green valley today.” Gray saw the white flash of Jeremiah’s teeth in the darkness. “And we can congregate out here if you want.”

  “I just like talking to you, is all.”

  “Well, now, I appreciate that. I like talkin’ to you too. Be a honor.”

  Gray had enjoyed Jeremiah’s company from the time his family moved into the governor’s mansion. Gray could almost always find his head gardener nearby, pruning something or weeding something or working in his greenhouse. And after his first several reality checks as governor, when he learned the job was even harder than he expected, Gray had found a welcoming ear in this kind old man.

  Not that Jeremiah couldn’t be ornery. In fact, he could be downright stubborn. Gray knew Jeremiah’s story. He also knew he held the authority to give Jeremiah a better life. But Jeremiah wouldn’t let him. Said what he had was what he had. Gray had honored an old man’s wishes. But that didn’t stop him from seeking Jeremiah’s company.

  “Actually,” Gray said, “I wanted to ask you a question. You know we’ve had prisoners out here keeping up the grounds of the Tennessee governor’s mansion for years. And with you overseeing them all this time, I wanted your thoughts on something.”

  “Don’t know much, Gov’nor. But I always been good at listenin’.”

  Gray curled the papers under his arm. “You’ve been listening to me for the last three years, haven’t you?”

  “Appreciated ever’ day of it.”

  “How do you feel about this prisoner release that we’ve done?”

  Jeremiah shook his head with a slow sway. “Way I see it, if somebody gone and give you rotten lemons, you ain’t gon’ get no lemonade worth drinkin’. And there ain’t nothin’ ’bout life the way it s’posed to be anyways. Wish I could be tendin’ me the Garden of Eden, but it ain’t here no more. So we do the best with what we got.”

  “I did the best I knew, Jeremiah. My other options were worse.”

  Jeremiah reached over and touched his shoulder. Gray felt the boniness of the old man’s hand through his starched white dress shirt. “Ain’t got no doubt, Gov’nor. Ain’t got no doubt.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Y’know, one time when I be real down ’bout the way my life turned out, my Shirley say to me, ‘Jeremiah Williams, you got two choices. Either you stick with what you know to be true, or you gon’ do sump’n you regret. And ain’t nothin’ worse than a life full a regrets.’”

  “I agree with Mrs. Shirley.” Gray tapped the newspapers. “Well, I’d better start reading these, huh?”

  Jeremiah expelled a puff of air. “Better you than me. Now, I’m gon’ go talk to some flowers. Bet my garden smell lot better’n yours.”

  Gray laughed. “Yeah, but what I got in my garden is the only thing that will make yours grow.”

  “Hee-hee. Ain’t gon’ tell no politicians the gov’nor just gone and called ’em manure.” Jeremiah chuckled and disappeared around the corner.

  Gray closed the door to the north entrance, pulled out the Memphis paper, and turned it over to read the headline. “‘Victims’ Rights Group Sues over Prisoner Release’?” He shook his head and stuffed the paper underneath his arm again.

  The press wanted a governor relegated to sound bites. Tennesseans wanted a governor who knew their names and responded to their needs. And Gray aspired passionately to be the latter. He failed at times. He knew he did. Weariness alone could do that to anybody. But he did his very best to make a real difference to the people of his state. He would never trade his precious family time for anything less.

  He stacked the newspapers on the edge of the kitchen island—the Tennessean, the Knoxville News Sentinel, the Chattanooga Times Free Press, and Memphis’s Daily News. He had already consumed the New York Times and the Washington Post during his run on the treadmill. And he’d used his time lifting weights to focus his heart, unclutter his mind, and talk with a Creator far more capable of taking care of Tennessee than he was.

  The lawsuit was front-page news for each paper. The response from the governor’s office was sixth-page news. “Hello, Monday.” Gray rubbed his hands together and placed his elbows on the island. “Rosa, today I think I’ll have Belgian waffles with Devonshire cream, sugared blueberries, and warm maple syrup.”

  Rosa shook her head. “Absolutamente, Señor London.”

  He took a long sip of orange juice, the pulp thick as it went down. Rosa set his plate down before his glass made it back to its place. In front of him was a spinach, mushroom, tomato, and bell pepper omelet.

  He studied the plate, then looked at Rosa. Her black eyes didn’t budge from his stare until that wide grin fell across his face. “Perfecto.”

  She smacked him with a damp towel that she had laid across her shoulder. Yesterday the request had been chocolate-chip pancakes with chocolate drizzle, and he had gotten it. But in order to stay as fit as he could for the office of governor and for chasing after a five-year-old, he gave himself grace for ridiculously unhealthy food only on the weekends. So Rosa knew that, no matter what he asked for Monday through Friday, he always got an omelet.

  Before he left, he gave Rosa a peck on the cheek, reddening her olive complexion, and took his second glass of orange juice and the papers down the hall to the office he kept in the residence. He could put in almost two hours there before Mack’s eyes even opened.

  The office was rich and warm, with paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that housed most of his books from his previous life as a lawyer, plus the autobiographies he loved to consume. He sank into the cool leather of his chair and leaned back, setting his glass of juice on the coaster in front of him. It was one Mack had given him at Christmas, decorated with a family picture.

  Compared to most governors he was pretty young. He had been sworn into office at age thirty-nine and now, at forty-two, plans for his reelection were already well under way. But being governor hadn’t been a lifelong plan. Far from it. Even now, there were moments when he shook his head over the direction his life had taken.

  There had actually been a brief time in college when he wo
ndered if he should go into ministry. He had been president of his Fellowship of Christian Athletes chapter at the University of Tennessee, where he had enjoyed a pretty good run as quarterback. But he was no Peyton Manning, so professional ball had not been on his radar. Nor had politics, just people. Gray London had always loved people. And he had finally settled on law as a good way of serving them.

  Then came a trial where an obviously innocent man went to jail because of a questionable judge and horrible antics by both prosecution and defense. Gray saw it all firsthand, from the trenches, and he believed his state was getting a disservice. He had become a lawyer to defend people, to protect them—to provide a voice for people who didn’t even know they had one or who couldn’t afford one. But maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe he needed to work to change the system. That’s when he started on the political path that had led to the governor’s mansion.

  But politics could be brutal, as he’d quickly learned. And there were a lot of complicating factors, such as the need for reelection. As soon as you took office, it seemed, you had to start thinking about getting reelected. Kurt had long ago organized a campaign committee and laid the groundwork for the upcoming campaign. But Gray had sworn he wouldn’t get personally involved in the process until the year of the election, and that no decision he made as governor would be influenced by the desire for reelection. It would be made solely on what was right for his state, whether Democrats, Republicans, his fellow Independents, or even his own staff agreed.

  So far he had stuck to his guns on that promise, and he thought he had done a lot of good. But a few issues were a constant challenge—like the state budget. Gray’s years in office had coincided with a dismal national economy. The string of natural disasters in Tennessee had made things even worse, especially on the jobs front. Every year falling revenues had necessitated deep cuts. And the situation wasn’t helped much by Gray’s fellow politicians, who typically agreed that tough measures were needed—except when they affected their personal constituencies.