Bleeding Heart (2 page)

“I guess it would be unprofessional of me not to return the call,” I said.

I was doing this for Mara, I told myself. But in fact, my pulse quickened as I reached for the phone. I had to admit that I was
curious, too. And something else. Something more complicated. Green Acres was still basically a start-up. There were half a dozen bigger and far better established landscaping firms in the area. Mackenzie was probably seeing them all. But, still, he’d heard of me. I was on the list. Word was getting around. The fact that he was even considering Green Acres allowed me to feel something I don’t often get to experience these days: pride.

Though I still would never work for the son of a bitch.

I
used to be such a nice person. Personable, obliging. My husband, Richard, once jokingly told me after a particularly dull dinner with a business associate of his that I “suffered fools too gladly.” He was right, of course. And prescient in ways I couldn’t possibly have imagined at the time. But the truth is, for most of my life, I liked being liked. I’d been raised to be polite and well mannered. But I think it was also in my DNA. So it still surprises me how much my personality was altered by what happened. How quickly my anger can flare these days! I think that many of the people who once formed Richard’s and my circle in Westchester would hardly recognize me now. I’ve become so demanding. I won’t tolerate sloppiness, and I hate being kept waiting. Which is why I almost didn’t meet Graham Mackenzie after all.

“He’ll be with you in just a minute,” Mackenzie’s housekeeper, Eleanor, had assured me as we crossed the enormous sun-filled space that appeared to serve as Mackenzie’s combined dining area and living room. If Mara was expecting opulent Trump-style furnishings and outsized pieces of art, she was going to be
disappointed. Someone with restrained, if extremely expensive, taste had decorated what I could see of the downstairs. A small herd of dove gray Italian leather sectionals grazed on a Tibetan carpet the size of a meadow. Eleanor, who didn’t divulge her last name, appeared to be equally understated. If she had any misgivings about being a black woman who was required to wear a uniform, she didn’t show it. In fact, she seemed to take a proprietary pleasure in welcoming me to Mackenzie’s home.

“Can I bring you some coffee or tea?” she asked as she led me to the far end of the room, with its wall of windows overlooking Woodhaven, the valley, and the hills rolling back to the Catskills in the distance. The whole front section of the house was cantilevered out over the side of the mountain, making me feel as though I was suspended in midair with the world literally at my feet.

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I said. After Eleanor excused herself, I was left on my own to revel in the prospect below. The countryside was still covered in snow, though I noticed that several of the ponds in the area were starting to thaw. The late-afternoon sun glinted off the dam that regulated Heron Lake west of town. From where I stood, the distant meandering course of the Housatonic River looked like a hose looping through a garden.

On my way up the mountain earlier I had, on impulse, lowered the car window to take in a few deep breaths of the chill March air. I’d felt so cooped up over the winter! I couldn’t wait to dig my fingers into the soil again. It’s hard to explain to those who used to know me best, but probably my deepest sense of connection these days is with nature. I’m most alive when I’m outdoors. I think my two daughters view it as some kind of retreat on my part—a need to distance myself from people. But, in fact, it feels to me as though I’m actually in touch with something larger, more embracing—and, yes, more important—than humanity.

I’d missed gardening these past four months with almost the same kind of ache I used to feel when Richard was away on business trips. There was an emptiness in my life right now—just as there had once been an empty space in our bed. As the minutes went by, though, my reflective mood slowly morphed into annoyance. I glanced at my watch and realized that I’d been waiting almost three-quarters of an hour. What the hell was taking Mackenzie so long? I’d seen enough of the house to be able to report back to Mara. And even if Mackenzie deigned to offer me the job, I wasn’t going to take it. So what was the point of waiting around for the man to put in an appearance?

I did, however, feel I owed Eleanor the courtesy of telling her I was leaving. I walked back across the living room trying to remember which corridor—three different ones fed off the two-story entranceway—she had taken when she left me earlier. I heard a voice behind a door to the right of the entrance and stopped in front of it. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but the hostile tone was clear enough. This wasn’t soft-spoken Eleanor. It was an alpha male in full bullying mode.

I realized to whom I was listening, of course, even before the door opened—forcing me to stumble backward—and Mackenzie appeared. He was well over six feet tall, with a substantial belly, a dramatic mane of receding silvery hair, and a flushed, pockmarked complexion. His eyes were a pale, glaucous blue that looked almost milky in contrast with the high color of his skin.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said.

“Nothing,” I told him, straightening to my full five feet four inches. I was furious that he’d thought I was eavesdropping. “I was looking for Eleanor. Please let her know I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Ah—” he said, exhaling. “You’re the landscape designer?”

“Yes, I’m Alice Hyatt. I own Green Acres. And I had an
appointment with you,” I added, attempting to move around him, “about an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, extending both arms to block my departure. “I was on an important business call that ran long. Listen, you’re here now—so you might as well stay. Give me a chance to make it up to you?” He added, smiling, “I promise you won’t regret it.”

The smile lit up his face and transformed his whole physical presence. A few moments ago, he’d been rigid with anger. Now he leaned toward me, literally bent on winning me over.

“No,” I said, deciding we’d already wasted enough of each other’s time. “I might as well tell you I’m here under false pretenses.”

“Oh?”

“I only came because a coworker wanted to know what you’ve done with the inside of this place.”

“Really?” he said, starting to laugh. Then he kept on laughing—a rolling roar that filled the hallway. “I love it! Is everybody talking about it? Do they all hate it? I bet they think it’s too big and modern.”

“It’s not universally admired,” I admitted.

“Ah, well, fuck them,” he said pleasantly enough. “Come on, let’s have a drink. You can tell me what you have against working for me.” He took off down the hall, and I had no choice but to follow him. No, that’s not true. I could easily have walked in the other direction and out the front door, but the fact is that Graham Mackenzie’s frankness disarmed me. I’d prepared myself for the kind of buttoned-up, self-satisfied CEO that I used to run into when I accompanied my husband to business functions. Mackenzie, clearly, was cut from different cloth. Besides, I was ready for a drink myself.

We came to a stop in front of the windows and that million-dollar view again. It was nearly five o’clock. A voluminous cloud bank drifted over the sun, smearing bright reds and pinks and
oranges across the darkening horizon. I took the glass of wine he offered and a seat on one of the couches facing the windows. He folded himself into an Eames chair angled in my direction and crossed his long legs on the leather ottoman.

“So?” he said. “What’s the problem? Is it the incline? I’ve already heard that it’s going to be a challenge. But most of your colleagues think it’s doable.”

“I take it you’re seeing everybody? Halderson’s? Maggione?”

“And Coldwater, too. I also looked into some of the bigger outfits in Connecticut, but, I don’t know, I feel like I just keep seeing the same ideas. Don’t get me wrong—everyone’s work is great. Very professional. But it all looks the same. And then I remembered the enormous limestone outcropping at Sal’s place. I was there for a fund-raiser last summer, and saw that some crazy person had turned that incredible eyesore into this wonderful wall of ferns and dangling trillium and little waterfalls.”

I felt my face flush with pleasure. Though Sal Lombardi, a Green Acres client who was one of Mackenzie’s neighbors down the mountain, had been far more impressed with the fairly standard perennial border I designed to complement his newly installed Olympic pool, I felt the wall garden Mackenzie had admired was, in fact, my most creative and successful effort to date.

“So I called him,” Mackenzie said, “and asked him who the fuck had come up with that.”

I raised my hand.

“Bingo! I did a little digging around—forgive the pun—and found out that you’re the new kid on the block. Scrappy. And opinionated as hell, Sal told me. Which I like.”

I was tempted to smile. It felt good to be singled out by someone who could afford to buy whatever took his fancy. At the same time I knew he was playing me. It was clear that Mackenzie was a
deal-maker, and he was trying to close on something he wanted. I was enjoying our conversation, but I knew I had to be careful not to antagonize him.

“It’s not the incline,” I said. “That would be a challenge, but it comes with the territory around here. Have you ever been to Naumkeag in Stockbridge?”

“Love the place. And the whole Margaret Choate–Fletcher Steele collaboration. I want that, too, by the way. Someone who’s open to ideas. Who’ll be willing to listen to me and work with me.”

“You’re aware that it took Fletcher Steele more than three decades to put in the gardens at Naumkeag and, even then, he never felt they were really finished?”

“What great garden ever is?” Mackenzie said, taking me in over the rim of his wineglass. “But I don’t have that kind of time. I’ll want the whole thing designed and installed by the end of June.”

“That’s a tall order. I’m sure it can be done,” I said, hesitating before I took the plunge. “But not by me.”

“Okay, let’s hear it. What’s the problem?”

“I’m opposed to fracking,” I told him.

He looked at me for a moment without saying anything. But I sensed some kind of disconnect. He could have been looking through me. His opaque gaze made it difficult to know for certain where he was focusing.

“So?” he asked. “What’s that got to do with this?”

“You make your living destroying the land,” I told him. “I make mine trying to beautify it.”

“Oh, what total bullshit!” he said, though his tone remained cordial, even amused. “That sounds to me like something you rehearsed on the way over. What do you really know about hydrofracking besides what you read in the
New York Times
and listen to on NPR?”

“That’s a little condescending, don’t you think?”

“Come on—I asked you a question.”

“Okay. I know it’s bad for the environment.”

“So is driving a car. And I don’t think you walked up here.”

“Yes, but my Subaru doesn’t pollute the groundwater and sicken livestock.”

“Neither does hydrofracking when it’s done right. Which is how my company does it. In fact, I can make a very strong case that fracking—when handled correctly—actually has the potential to help
save
this planet from global warming. But I didn’t invite you here to debate the pros and cons of clean-air energy. I wanted to talk to you about this property. About this project. I’m looking for something on par with Naumkeag and the rest—but contemporary and truly innovative. That’s why I built this house, frankly. From the beginning I saw it as primarily the backdrop for the landscape design. I realize this is going to sound grandiose, but the fact is I want you to create the most beautiful garden in the Berkshires for me.”

He had gotten up from the sofa and was pacing in front of the windows, which had blackened with nightfall and now mirrored his movements.

“I don’t care what it costs. I’m willing to pay whatever it takes. But what I’m hoping for is something totally unexpected and unique. Like what you did for Sal. Only on a much grander scale. Don’t worry about being able to handle it. Bring me a plan that I love—and I’ll make sure you get the resources you need to make it a reality.”

“I just don’t think so,” I said. “Listen, I’m sure you can make a very persuasive case for fracking, but I’m never going to buy it. And I’ve reached a point in my life where things like this matter.”

“What? Things like principles?” he said, shaking his head before he abruptly crossed the room to retrieve the wine bottle.

“Yes, principles,” I replied, nodding when he held the bottle up in the air in front of me. He refilled my glass.

“You know,” he said, sitting back down, “I often find that when people start talking about their principles, it’s an indication that they’re just not all that up on their facts. It’s easy to see things in absolutes when you don’t know the details. No important issue I can think of is that clear-cut. Good or bad. What I do for a living has allowed thousands of families to stay on their land—to keep their hopes and dreams alive. That’s what I think about when I fall asleep at night. And I sleep pretty damned well.”

“That’s great, but the decision still looks black-and-white to me.”

“Okay, I think I’m about to make it a little bit grayer. I’m going to tell you something that I haven’t shared with any of the others. It’s not something I like to publicize, because I know that people would be all over me if they knew.”

He got up from the chair again and stretched. I began to realize how physically restless he was. He hadn’t stayed in one position for more than a few minutes the whole time I’d been in his company.

“I’ve established a charity in my name,” he went on. “It’s called the Mackenzie Project. Its mission is to save and protect endangered horticultural spaces, particularly historic arboretums and gardens. As I said, it’s not something I want the general public in on, but I hope your knowing about it will make you realize that I, too, am trying—how did you put it?—‘to beautify nature.’ And I’ll tell you what I’ll do if we end up working together on this. I’ll put into my charity dollar for dollar what I pay out to you, earmarked for this region.”