The First Gardener (5 page)

“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 wondered 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.

And Gray had to admit he’d made some poor decisions in the beginning. He had approached his first year of the whole budget process with an ax instead of a pruner, generating anger instead of a healthy team spirit in the General Assembly. He’d learned quickly that Robin Hood wouldn’t accomplish his goal of being a unifier. He had spent the last two years working closely with his colleagues in the legislature. But the impression he’d made that first year still haunted him, especially when it came to the media.

He looked at the stack of papers on his desk and picked up the folder that held his weekly agenda. His phone beeped.

“Good morning, Governor.” The familiar voice sounded tired.

“Morning, Fletch. Tell me that you and Kurt slept.”

“What’s sleep?” Fletcher Perry was Gray’s communications director and another friend from college days. “Anyway,” he added, “we’ve got the special session meeting today with the Education Oversight committee and the TEA members before we go to final vote. Anything you need me to have a heads-up about before we meet? Any announcement you want to make?”

Gray leaned back in his chair. “No, I think we’re good. We’ll make an announcement after we have the vote. A few committee members still feel wishy-washy to me. I don’t want to play anything until we know it is solid.”

“Sounds good. You headed this way?”

“A little later. It’s Maddie’s big day.”

“Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Well, I’ll see you when you get Mack put back together.”

Gray laughed. “You won’t want to wait that long, I assure you.” Gray hung up and looked at his watch. His girls should be up by now. And he knew exactly what they would be doing.

Chapter 4

If heaven had a backyard, it would look like this.

Mackenzie stood on the mansion’s back veranda, breathing in the dampness of the already-sticky day and enjoying the breathtaking beauty before her. This home had been named “Far Hills” when it was built in 1929 because of the spectacular view. A large fountain and a reflecting pool adorned the middle of the grounds, the splashing water circled by stonework that seemed to hold the fountain in the palm of its hands. From there, immaculate manicured gardens spread out. Boasting some of the South’s most beautiful flowers and trees and at least thirty varieties of roses, they were tended by trustees from the Tennessee prison system under the careful supervision of Jeremiah Williams. In charge of these grounds for the last twenty-five years, Jeremiah ran as tight a ship as few she’d ever met and was as kind as few she’d ever known.

Mackenzie looked at the playhouse that sat next to the swing set and the trampoline. It was just one of the reasons she treasured Jeremiah. Their first week in the mansion she’d been so busy setting up their home that she’d had little time to focus on Maddie. Eugenia was away on a long-planned cruise with her girlfriends, so Mackenzie hired a babysitter.

But Maddie was far more intrigued with Jeremiah, who seemed to know exactly what an almost-three-year-old needed. He made sure her swing set was set up their first day in the house. And when Maddie got bored with swinging, he took the time to show her
and
the babysitter around the garden.

By the end of that week, Maddie knew the Tennessee state flower was a purple iris and could name quite a few other plants. And by the end of the second week, Jeremiah had built her the most beautiful playhouse, fully equipped with a little bench and a tiny flower garden out front.

Mackenzie had looked at that playhouse and burst out crying. Her emotion had startled him.

“Ain’t mean to do nothin’ wrong, ma’am.”

“You didn’t, Jeremiah. It’s just . . . well, my dad made me one just like that when I was a little girl.”

He nodded. “I knowed your dad. Good man, Judge Quinn.”

She looked into Jeremiah’s black eyes and saw compassion. “You knew my father?”

“Yep, met him a time or two. And he always do what’s right. Ain’t ever heard one bad thing ’bout that man.” He chuckled. “’Cept from folks he done put in jail.”

She laughed too. “Thank you. My dad would have loved Maddie’s playhouse.”

“Ain’t nothin’. Just think little girls need playhouses; that’s all.”

She had leaned over and kissed his freckled cheek, startling him once again. “You just gave me a piece of my daddy, Jeremiah.” And from that day on, a friendship had developed between the two of them, one that ran to deep places, strong enough to bridge the gap between an elderly African American gardener and a much younger governor’s wife.

Mackenzie hugged herself, her fingers rubbing the smooth silk of her baby-blue Christian Dior robe. She came out here nearly every morning to greet the day. But today her heart was in her throat, and she was exhausted. She had stayed up until two getting everything ready. Now every crease of Maddie’s little skirt was perfect. The white collar of her polo shirt lay as if it had just come from the store. Her little backpack contained supplies and a few secret treats.

Madeline London was ready for kindergarten. Whether her mother was ready—that was another question.

“I’m here, Mommy.” Maddie’s little hand tugged at her mom’s side. The other rubbed at the sleep in her eyes while still managing to hold on to her doll, Lola.

Mackenzie looked down into those endless blue eyes and took Maddie’s hand for their morning ritual. It had been Mackenzie’s alone for years, but since Maddie had learned how to talk, she’d decided it would be hers too. And as if she had some internal alarm, Maddie always showed up right on time.