Flowerbed of State (15 page)

“According to Louise, the senator has already arrived.”

Apparently, everyone had been gathered ahead of us. The entire Grounds Committee as well as the senator, a few of Mrs. Bradley’s personal assistants, and the White House chef, who would have input on the proposed vegetable garden, had already assembled in the First Lady’s large corner office on the second floor of the East Wing.

Margaret Bradley crossed the room to greet Gordon and me. At thirty-one years of age, she’d entered the White House as the third-youngest First Lady in U.S. history, narrowly edging Jacqueline Kennedy from that spot of honor by just one week.

Two years later, no one viewed her youth as inexperience. She wore her age like one would a fresh bloom on a lapel. Her light brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and cunning, leaving no doubt that she was perfectly suited to stand beside the leader of the free world. And her new short bob looked stunning with her dark auburn hair and had women all over the world copying her style.

Today she was wearing a simple tan skirt with matching pumps and a loose pale pink silk blouse that was belted low around her hips. The outfit accentuated her height and added color to her lightly tanned skin. I couldn’t help being impressed as she shook our hands and thanked us for being able to fit
her
into
our
busy day.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” I told her. Her slender hand felt soft and slightly chilled, but her grip conveyed a strength that many of her husband’s opponents often overlooked. “I apologize for missing yesterday’s meeting. I shouldn’t have—”

“Never apologize for matters beyond your control,” she advised quietly.

She then turned to face the gathered group. “I’m pleased to introduce the newest addition to the White House staff.” Though her voice remained soft, she immediately captured the full attention of the men and women gathered in the room. As Gordon and I set up the presentation boards on the easels, the committee, staff members, and Senator Pendergast took their places in the upholstered armchairs and sofa that had been placed in a semicircle at the front of the room.

“I have to confess,” Mrs. Bradley continued, gesturing gracefully, “I lured the talented Cassandra Calhoun away from the glorious gardens in historic Charleston, South Carolina, by presenting her with an interesting challenge. I asked her to develop a plan that implements organic techniques in the care of the White House grounds. Additionally, I’ve asked her to design a vegetable garden that will provide our kitchen with the freshest organic vegetables.”

She went on to describe my experience working in Charleston’s public and private gardens and how she’d first met me at a fund-raising tea hosted by my grandmother’s neighbor when the Bradleys were making the rounds on the campaign trail.

“As you know, my love of the outdoors and of gardening has been well publicized. Everyone I encountered in the Holy City kept telling me that I needed to meet this amazing woman who has a magical way of bringing new life and vigor to whatever garden she enters. And you know what? They were right. Ms. Calhoun is truly an amazing woman and we’re lucky to have her.”

The committee applauded politely.

I appreciated the First Lady’s glowing introduction. Not only did her kind words cause me to flush with pleasure, but they also gave me a moment to catch my breath and gather my thoughts after Gordon’s and my mad dash to her office.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bradley. And thank you, everyone, for making time to meet with us this afternoon,” I said, and launched into my presentation.

As I spoke, the afternoon sun began to shine through a tall, west-facing window like a bright white laser beam streaming straight into my eyes. I squinted and pressed on.

Gordon, bless him, noticed my discomfort almost immediately and crossed the room to stand in front of the window to block the glare.

After a brief introduction, I provided a history of modern gardening practices. “This is information that surprised me when I first heard about it,” I told the small audience. “After World War II and into the Vietnam War, chemical companies produced nerve agents, ammonium nitrate for use in explosive devices, and defoliants to give our brave soldiers in uniform a competitive edge in combat. However, these wartime companies made far more than any army could ever use and they needed to find a new consumer for their products.

“Nerve agents were repurposed as powerful insecticides. Explosive ammonium nitrate was packaged as fertilizer. And defoliants were now sold as effective herbicides. Out of these agents of war a new way of farming and backyard gardening had been born, one that creates a situation where strong chemicals are constantly required to maintain healthy-looking plants.

“Organic gardening practices involve taking care of the ecosystem of the garden as a whole. It’s like adopting a healthy diet and lifestyle instead of constantly eating caloriedense fast foods, which can sustain you, and expecting modern medicine and pills to fix the health consequences that arise from that fast-food diet.

“Chemicals may provide quick growth and quick fixes to problems, but the long-term health of the garden is ignored.

“Adopting organic gardening practices is more than simply substituting natural fertilizers and herbicides for their petrochemical counterparts. It’s a complete change in how we think about gardening. Instead of reliance on chemicals derived from fossil fuels to produce vegetables and colorful flowers, organic gardening works to build fertility into the system, improve the soil, improve overall garden health, and decrease the need to apply artificial fertilizers, insecticides, and herbicides.

“The three biggest challenges that any gardener faces are weeds, insects, and fertility . . .” I launched into the details of the proposed changes, emphasizing the importance of beneficial insects and, yes, even beneficial
weeds
.

In my excitement, I strayed a bit—
quite
a bit—from the strict outline Gordon and I had created and poured out all of my passion for gardening and my love for my grandmother and aunts and the important lessons they’d taught me. Admittedly, the proposal involved some rather sweeping changes in the plants that were used and how the grounds crew cared for them. But the ideas were sound.

“I believe, if adopted, the organic gardening principles applied at the White House could become an important model in changing how gardening is practiced in backyards all across the United States.”

I stepped away from the presentation boards and waited for the questions to begin. I’d prepared an extensive list of possible questions that the committee might ask along with thoroughly researched answers. I could quote studies conducted at the Rodale Institute or findings of papers written by some of the leading academic experts in the field of organic gardening. And I also had my own personal experience to draw upon. I was ready.

So I waited.

And waited.

Silence.

I glanced at Gordon, hoping he’d say something either to support what I’d proposed or to get the conversation moving. He pursed his lips and fixed his gaze on his shoes. Apparently I was on my own.

The ticking of an ornate gold clock sitting on a bookshelf seemed to drum louder and louder with each passing second.

“Well,” Margaret Bradley said, breaking the awkward silence. She rose from her chair at the front of the room. “Thank you for that, Casey.”

M
Y mouth dropped open. The committee members and staffers rose from their seats and started talking with one another as if my presentation had never happened. I glanced back at the presentation boards behind me. Yep, they were set up on their easels. I was standing in the First Lady’s office. So why did I feel as if I were stuck in a nightmare?

The White House chef patted my shoulder as she passed by me on her way out of the office.

Gordon laughed at something a large man with a full beard had said. Several members of the Grounds Committee joined Gordon and this other man as they headed toward the door.

I waited for a moment, expecting Gordon to return. The remaining committee members shuffled out, leaving me alone with my presentation boards.

“What am
I
to believe? It certainly feels like he’s working against us.” I recognized Senator Pendergast’s crisp tone. The older woman had stationed herself a few feet outside Mrs. Bradley’s office. Her hands propped on her hips, her cheeks flushed, she looked as if she was ready to take someone apart with her sharp-edged tongue.

“My husband would never do that.” Margaret Bradley’s gentle voice was harder to hear.

“How am I to know that? Everyone knows you attended college with several of them and how quickly you rose through the ranks to become the youngest vice president at BLK Investments.”

“I resigned from that position a month before John and I wed.”

“But you haven’t cut your ties to the banking world.”

“How can I? Brooks and Lillian are dear friends. I won’t deny that. But you have to understand that my friendship with them has no bearing on what measures my husband will or will not support when it comes to banking reform.”

“Then why is he spending so much time cozying up to your high-powered friends with this banking summit? I think it’s because Wall Street has the President in their back pocket. Admit it, you and your cronies are exerting extraordinary pressure on him to yank the teeth out of my proposals.”

“Obviously, you’ve already made up your mind about this matter, Senator, so I think you had better leave.”

The senator’s reply was quietly spoken. I couldn’t make out the words, but her cool, staccato tone sent a shiver down my neck.

I quickly gathered up my presentation materials. Balancing the cumbersome boards in my arms, I rushed into the hallway. I wanted to talk with the First Lady. I needed to reassure her that I would work with the committee, find out their concerns and make certain they felt comfortable with the plan I’d proposed. But Mrs. Bradley was nowhere to be found. Though voices could be heard from behind the closed office doors to the left and right of me, the hallway was empty.

I gave myself a pep talk as I made my way down the stairs. I’d run into resistance plenty of times during the course of my career. People tended to shy away from change. Change meant taking risks. And risks were dangerous. I understood that. It was my job to prove to them how the rewards of this project outweighed the risks. I could do that.

“Oof,” a man grunted, and gave my presentation boards a powerful shove that nearly sent me tumbling. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I doubt I would have spotted anything smaller than an elephant while carrying these boards. They were nearly as tall as I am and twice as wide. So it was tough going down the steps without Gordon’s help. I stepped to one side of the stairway, lowered the boards, and was surprised to find Brooks and Lillian Keller being led by the same West Wing staffer who’d had so much trouble herding the banking officials back to the windowless Roosevelt Room after their lunch break and tour of the Rose Garden earlier that afternoon. He glared at me.

“Look Lillian, it’s the hippie gardener from the newspaper, Casey Calhoun. We seem to be bumping into her quite often,” Brooks said with a broad smile and twinkle in his eyes.

“She does seem to be everywhere,” the staffer grumbled.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Calhoun.” Lillian gave a nervous tug on Brooks’s sleeve. “We’re in a hurry, brother dear.”

“Run along without me. The gardener needs a hand carrying these atrociously large boards.” Brooks reached out to help me.

“Thank you, but I can manage.” Though I would have appreciated the assistance, if Ambrose saw or even heard about a guest at the White House being put to work because of me, my head would roll out the front door and across the North Lawn, never to be seen again.

I picked up the boards and started down the steps again, this time keeping to one side of the wide stairwell.

“See, she can manage quite well without you,” Lillian chided.

“Quite nicely, indeed,” Brooks drawled.

I channeled my inner Scarlett O’Hara and descended the steps with exquisite grace. I only wished I’d handled the situation with Lorenzo with the same degree of finesse. Because of me, the police had hung an umbrella of suspicion over his head.

Sure, he’d been wearing the same shoes as the killer. But maybe they were popular shoes for men. Even Brooks had them on.

And Brooks was a trusted friend of the First Lady.

No wonder Steve had reacted so strongly when I’d suggested the Secret Service investigate Brooks’s involvement in Pauline’s death.

It wasn’t only the shoes. He was about the same size as the man I’d seen wearing that baseball cap and carrying the silver briefcase yesterday morning in the park. But so was Lillian, for that matter. I propped the presentation boards against the wall and trotted back up the stairs in hopes of catching them.