Chapter 25 Mackinac
Locals either loved the governor’s summer residence on the island or hated it.
A white mansion perched on a bluff on the east side, it couldn’t be missed. People complained that the house was an eyesore,
that it wasn’t built within the zoning regulations, that the governor’s private plane was deafening, an environmental stain.
There were criticisms, too, that the governor used the estate as a backdrop for photos—grilling burgers for neighbors, playing
cornhole with kids, wading ankle-deep into the lake while discussing climate change. It was a prop, some felt, to create a
narrative of being in touch with constituents, everyday folk, when the reality was the house sat empty ten months a year.
And governor after governor, no matter which side of the party line, seemed to quickly forget Mackinac once they were back
at the Lansing capitol.
Islanders liked to speculate on who would be invited to the governor’s famous “spur-of-the-moment” barbecues (read: the staff planned them for months, then sent out last-minute invites to preserve an air of spontaneity, as it polled well with voters).
Many insisted they wouldn’t attend even if they were invited, that they would boycott to send a message about whatever controversial political policy was currently in the spotlight.
But no one ever turned down an invite, except for old Mrs. Neely, who had just broken both her hips in an unfortunate tumble down the fort steps.
Even then, the governor stopped by to visit her at the medical clinic, bringing her flowers and chili mac and cheese. The photos were a big hit.
But it was the kidnapping attempt that brought the most notoriety. Several years ago, there was a plot to kidnap the governor
while she was on Mackinac. The whole thing failed spectacularly—FBI agents had the crooks in cuffs before they even got off
the ferry—but the lore lingered, sweetening with age. Islanders were starting to place bets on when the next kidnapping might
occur. They didn’t want anyone to get hurt, of course, but the news coverage was exhilarating.
Before the kidnapping story, the governor’s residence was known for the tale surrounding Alexander Vanderhosen III. The prior
governor’s son, he ran away with Mackinac Island high schooler Georgiana Jenkins.
It was a privileged getaway if ever there was one. They took the governor’s private plane.
It might have ruined Alexander, but it didn’t. The governor was able to control the angle of the story, clear her son’s name
so he could carry on with his Ivy League to Wall Street path. The reporters framed it on Georgiana, a troublemaker, shoplifter,
clout chaser.
In the years since, it had become one of the few things islanders agreed upon, and fudgies too. The governor’s son had been
taken advantage of. It was the girl’s fault.
Mackinac didn’t agree, but what could she do? She was only an island, after all. She could spit waves onto the shore, but
no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t speak.