“Goddamn it . . . ,” he muttered. I got the sense he was talking to himself rather than to me. The whole time I was with him that afternoon, in fact, I’d felt he had been carrying on some sort of interior argument or debate whose answers kept eluding him.
“Oh, what the fuck, Alice,” he said after a moment, in his familiar combative tone. “Let’s just go ahead and do it!”
10
Vera Yoland was thrilled, of course. We talked a number of times over the next couple of days about copy for the press release and the self-guided tour brochure she was having designed as a handout for attendees.
“And I’ll need a simple black-and-white map with legends of the gardens,” she told me. “Is that something I should talk to Mr. Mackenzie about?”
“No,” I said. “He asked me to handle all the details.” In fact, he’d phrased it a little differently. You sic that Yoland woman on me again and all bets are off! “I’ll e-mail you a plan as an attachment later this afternoon. And I’ll give you my edits on the press release then as well.”
“That’s lovely, dear. But I really feel I should talk to Mr. Mackenzie myself. I’ve been getting queries from some of the local newspapers about his company. And I thought he might perhaps be kind enough to clarify a few—”
“I’m sorry,” I lied, “but Mr. Mackenzie is tied up in business meetings all this week. He specifically told me he can’t be disturbed and asked that I handle everything on his behalf. Is there someone in particular you’d like me to speak to?”
“Oh,” Vera said, obviously disappointed. “Let me get back to you on that.”
I assumed the subject was closed—until a few days later when Mara told me we’d gotten a call from a reporter at the Berkshire Herald.
“I tried to help him,” she told me, “but he wasn’t interested in the garden or the Open Day. He wanted to know a lot of stuff about Mackenzie’s businesses.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Why would we know anything about MKZEnergy?”
“That’s just what I told him. But he didn’t seem to want to take my word for it. He said that Vera Yoland had promised him you would call him back and go over his questions.”
His name was Jeff Isley and he’d left a cell phone number, which I took with me to Mackenzie’s later that morning. I was there to troubleshoot the installation of the underground watering system, but the company seemed to have everything well in hand, so I tried Isley’s number. Reception is often spotty in the mountains and, though the call went through, it was dropped after a couple of rings. I tried again, but without success, and decided to wait until I could get to a landline.
I’d forgotten all about him when my own cell rang about an hour later.
“Hi, it’s Jeff Isley. Returning your call.” There was static on the line, but I could hear him well enough.
“Yes, you wanted to speak to someone about Graham Mackenzie’s garden?”
“The garden. The man. The fact that his company’s stock price has fallen another seven percent since Tuesday. And that there’s word on the Street that MKZ’s desperate to raise cash.”
“I’m a landscape designer,” I told him. I understood now what Mara meant about Isley’s attitude. “I don’t know anything about the business side of Mr. Mackenzie’s life. But I’d be happy to talk to you about his garden. What would you like to know?”
“How much did it cost? I think his shareholders would be interested in hearing that while their investment in MKZ is in free fall the CEO of the company has had no compunction about ramping up his extravagant lifestyle.”
“Do you have any interest in the garden or the Open Day event? If not, I’m going to have to hang up.”
“Wait, sorry, hold on. I do have a couple of questions I think you can help me with. But you’re right—I’m not writing a piece just about the garden. I’m actually doing a feature profile of Graham Mackenzie. He’s one of the wealthiest and most controversial residents in our area, and I think our readers would like to know more about who he is and what he’s really like. Can you give me your impressions of him?”
I didn’t trust Isley. It seemed clear to me from things he’d already let drop that his “profile” of Mackenzie was going to be a hatchet job. I’d realized by now, of course, that my client was having financial problems. In fact, I was pretty sure it was affecting his health. It made me furious to think how quickly the media had smelled trouble and started sniffing around for blood. Isley’s tone and approach reminded me a lot of the relentless scrutiny my daughters and I had faced after Richard’s disappearance. It was clear why Mackenzie had originally hesitated about agreeing to the Open Day. He knew perfectly well that the Jeff Isleys of the world were lying in wait. I also realized why he’d agreed to go ahead with it. This Open Day business means a lot to you, I take it. He’d done it for me, even though it could very well mean more trouble for him.
“He’s a very generous human being,” I told the reporter. “And he has a real passion for gardening—and garden preservation. In fact, I have to say he’s one of the most knowledgeable clients I’ve ever worked with. I feel that this garden—which you really should make an effort to come out and see on Open Day—has been a true creative collaboration and, in many ways, Graham Mackenzie has been my inspiration.”
“Wow,” Isley said. “Do you have any idea how totally opposite your take on Mr. Mackenzie is to that of most people I’ve spoken to about him?”
“No, I don’t. You asked for my opinion—and that’s what I’ve given you.”
“And I can quote you on that? That Mackenzie’s been ‘an inspiration’ for you?” His tone was laced with sarcasm, and I knew I’d been right. He was determined to damage my client’s reputation. I didn’t care if mine was the only positive voice in Isley’s entire article. In fact, I’d be proud of it.
“Absolutely. You can quote me as saying Graham Mackenzie’s a very generous human being as well.”
I’d hoped after our initial tour—and Mackenzie’s obvious enthusiasm for what I’d shown him—that he might make himself more available to me. But my creative collaborator remained behind closed doors during the final days leading up to the garden’s opening. And I missed him. A good deal of the pleasure I’d taken in working for Mackenzie had to do with enjoying his company. As I oversaw the final touches—the outdoor lighting, the Tuscan terra-cotta urns planted with annuals and trailing vines—I felt let down. I’d hoped to be sharing all of this with him. And I kept turning over in my mind what Isley had said about the negative opinion others had of my client. How his stockholders might be upset to learn about the personal expenses he’d been racking up. I decided I owed it to Mackenzie to tell him about what the reporter was up to. A couple of days after my conversation with Isley, I told Eleanor I needed to speak with her boss. I’d tracked her down to the kitchen where she was making a pot of tea.
“He’s not up to it,” she told me bluntly. “He didn’t even get out of bed this morning. Though it doesn’t keep the man from working. I don’t think anything can.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said.
“He’s having trouble keeping food down,” Eleanor told me. “And he’s getting these dizzy spells. It’s the high blood pressure—and all this business pressure. He lives on that damned phone. I just wish he’d break down and see a real doctor.”
“Real? In what way?”
“Mr. M’s a big believer in natural medicine. Vitamins, herbal supplements. Red yeast rice extract for the cholesterol. That sort of thing. Which has been fine until now because he’s mostly been as healthy as an ox. But since the market took a dive—and whatever else is going on—he’s been one big walking complaint. I’ve been doing what I can about the stomach problems with diet. I thought these tisanes might help.” Eleanor glanced down at the pot that was steeping on the counter. “But I’m beginning to think they’re only making matters
worse. And Mr. M won’t listen to me.”
“Do you want me to try? I know some good local physicians I could recommend. And I really do need to talk to him. I have to warn him about something.”
Eleanor looked at me and frowned.
“More bad news is not what he needs right now. You got your way about the Open Day. I think you should just leave Mr. M alone until he can sort out some of these other problems and get back on his feet.”
I was surprised by Eleanor’s vehement tone and by the fact that she obviously counted me among her employer’s long list of worries. It bothered me that she thought I’d pushed Mackenzie into agreeing to the Open Day event. I wanted to explain to her that it was an honor for him, not just for me. Anyone who knew about the prestige of the Garden Conservancy would understand that. But I decided to just let the matter drop. Eleanor was being overly protective of Mackenzie, I realized. She’d always struck me as more emotionally invested in her boss than perhaps was normal for an employee. I remember the pride she took in first showing me the house. Her thinly veiled dislike of his difficult ex-wife. The fierce way in which she guarded his privacy.
“Well, please let him know that I hope he feels better soon,” I told her. “And that—if he’s up to it—I’d really appreciate a moment of his time.”
“Will do,” Eleanor said, transferring the pot to a tray. But it was pretty clear she meant will not.
“I hope you’re planning to bring Danny with you tomorrow,” I told Mara the morning before the grand unveiling. I’d stopped by the office to touch base with her on my way to the site. As I sorted through the stacks of mail and messages, I realized that things had started to pile up again. Among the dozens of “While You Were Out” slips, I saw that Sal Lombardi had finally returned my call. And Isley had phoned. Twice. I crumpled up the reporter’s messages and tossed them into the wastebasket.
“Where?” Mara asked. I glanced over at her to make sure she was kidding. She returned my look with a blank stare.
“Oh, come on, Mara!” I said. “You know perfectly well what’s happening tomorrow!” Though she’d apologized about her initial response to the Open Day news, in fact, she’d made it increasingly clear to me over the last few weeks that she considered my proudest professional moment nothing much more than a distraction. She continued to complain that I wasn’t around enough. She objected so often to my using our regular Green Acres crew at Mackenzie’s that I finally stopped asking for their help. Or hers. It really bothered me, though, that she couldn’t see how important the event was for our future. I’d told her just the week before how it was going to do more good for our reputation than any amount of advertising or publicity.
“It’s bound to bring in new business—and just the kind we want. Wealthy, top-tier clients who understand the value of the Garden Conservancy imprimatur.”
“Oh, that’s just great!” she’d said sarcastically. “We can’t even take care of the ones we already have.”
Now, however, she chose not to respond at all, turning her back to me as she swiveled around to her computer. Suddenly, I’d had enough of her attitude.
“Let me put this another way,” I said as I walked to the door. “I expect you to be at Mackenzie’s tomorrow to help with the tour. It’s the perfect opportunity to meet potential new clients—and make a good impression. Feel free to bring Danny, if you like.”
“Do you have any idea how much I already have to do around here?” she replied. “I was hoping to finally get to the accounts tomorrow. We’re almost a month behind as it is.”
“I’m sorry, but I think I’ve made myself clear,” I said as I left. I didn’t slam the door, but I didn’t close it gently behind me either.
I was scheduled to give Vera Yoland and Lisbeth Crocker, another regional representative, a walk-through of Mackenzie’s gardens that afternoon. I warned Eleanor ahead of time that they’d be coming.
“I don’t think Mr. Mackenzie would particularly like to run into them, so he might want to stay inside.”
“Don’t worry,” she told me. “I don’t think he’ll be going out today.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, “is he still in bed? I hope he’s going to feel well enough to participate tomorrow.”
Eleanor gave me a hard look.
“I hope he’s going to feel better, too. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up—and I certainly wouldn’t try to pressure him into it.”
“Of course not,” I told her, once again taken aback by her attitude toward me. Where was this coming from? Could it be Mara? Despite the long hours she was putting in at the office, I did occasionally see her and Danny visiting with Mackenzie’s housekeeper. I knew Eleanor doted on Danny and that—for whatever reason—the two very different women appeared to have formed a close bond. I could easily imagine them sharing their mutual dislike of the Open Day event and what they both seemed to view as my unhelpful preoccupation with it.
Vera and Lisbeth, however, made me realize that my excitement was not at all misplaced. If anything, their enthusiasm for the garden rivaled my own.
“This is absolute heaven, Alice!” Vera exclaimed as I led the two women through the garden rooms. We’d stopped halfway down the corridor of lime trees and were looking out over the rooftops of Woodhaven and the rolling farmland beyond. From where we stood, we could see two male volunteers roping off a freshly mowed field at the base of the mountain. This was where the guests would park. The Conservancy had arranged for a couple of vans to transport attendees who couldn’t make the long hike from the parking area up the steep driveway to the house. The three of us had spent the last hour discussing other logistics for the following day: the best place to set up the sign-in table, where to serve refreshments, how many volunteers they’d recruited and where I’d like to see them placed.
“Of course, most people will want to ask you their questions,” Lisbeth said. “But we’re expecting quite a crowd, so we will have experienced gardeners on the grounds who can pinch-hit.”
“That’s great,” I said. “My assistant is quite knowledgeable, too.”
“And will Mr. Mackenzie be putting in an appearance?” Vera asked.
“Well, I hope so . . . ,” I said. Vera and Lisbeth exchanged a look. Vera seemed poised to say something more, but then hesitated. She pursed her lips and looked down. For a moment, a certain uneasiness hung in the air—a question, a doubt—but I chose to ignore it. Instead, I repeated in a somewhat forced upbeat tone: “I really hope so! But we’ll just have to see. Mr. Mackenzie has so many demands on his time these days.”
The lights were on in the office when I got back, though it was nearly eight thirty. I felt a pang, remembering how I’d left things with Mara.
“You’re still here?” I asked as I pushed open the door.
She looked up from her desk, which was cluttered with files and ledgers.
“We’ve got a problem,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Nate called before. The bank stopped payment on our last check to him.”
“That’s strange.”
“I’ve been looking up our account online. I know I should have been keeping a closer eye on all this, but I’ve just been so busy with other things.”
She sounded so apologetic and upset, I felt bad. After tomorrow, I’d be able to take some of these responsibilities off her shoulders.
“We all make mistakes, Mara. We’ll just issue him another—”
“No, we can’t. We’ve exhausted our credit limit. That’s why I didn’t realize what was going on. But for the last week or so, the checks have been eating into our overdraft protection. Nate’s was the first one over the line.”
“But that’s crazy. I deposited Mackenzie’s last payment to us days ago. We should have tons of cash on hand.”
“That’s just it. I’ve been getting e-alerts from the bank, but I thought they were
routine, so I didn’t bother to open them.”
“E-alerts? About what?”
“Mackenzie’s check,” Mara told me. “It bounced.”
Part Two
11
I didn’t sleep very well that night. I knew there had to be a good explanation for Mackenzie’s check not clearing, but the slipup was still pretty unsettling. I’d spent thousands of dollars recently on my client’s behalf—more, much more, than I could possibly cover on my own. Most of my regular suppliers had offered me extended payables schedules, but I would need Mackenzie’s money very soon to satisfy all the bills that were coming due. I kept waking up and going over the situation. There couldn’t be any doubt that Mackenzie was good for the money. Jeff Isley had mentioned a cash crunch at MKZEnergy. That’s all this was, I decided. The man was worth many millions of dollars, I reminded myself as I finally started to drift off to sleep again. . . .
I had a confused and fragmented dream about Tom Deaver. We were alone together in some great forest, and we kept trying to reach for each other through the undergrowth and tree branches, but our outstretched hands never quite joined. But, oh, how I longed to touch him! How I yearned to feel his strong arms around me, comforting and reassuring me that everything was going to be all right.
I woke up with a start. It was still dark at six thirty. But at this time of the year, the sun should have risen about an hour ago. I got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. My backyard—the garden, the hemlocks, the path leading out to the barn—all seemed to have disappeared! My own reflection stared back at me from the whited-out window. It took me a disoriented moment or two to realize that the morning was socked in with fog. I listened to the radio while I hurriedly showered and dressed. The inversion, most prominent in low-lying areas, was supposed to burn off by midmorning.
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