There are two kinds of stories about Jeb Bush.

In the first story, which comes in many forms and flavors but is always roughly the same, the storyteller finds himself in a private moment with Jeb—a chance, at last, to bond. Maybe they are on Jeb's personal jet over Tampa. Maybe the back nine of a Sarasota golf course. Maybe inside a limousine near Dsseldorf. Wherever they are, the storyteller is excited to buddy up to Jeb and, after a bit, clears his throat and tries to say something casual. At which point Jeb, who has been either deep in thought or reading or doing something equally serious, looks up and breaks into a smile and begins to chat, too. About education reform. Or Medicaid statistics. Or the judicial nominating process. "This is fascinating," the storyteller says after a while, "but let's talk about football, man! Let's talk Seminoles!" And Jeb, with some embarrassment, says, "Oh, sure," and for about eleven seconds they do…until Jeb has somehow worked his way back to the topic of school vouchers. Or hurricane preparedness. Or prison demographics.

Jeb Bush, the story goes, is a man of policy, not politicking.

In the second story, the narrator is also alone with Jeb, traveling to a public event. Once again, Jeb is smushed down into his seat, reading or writing or mumbling into the phone, being very Jeb. But as they arrive and the doors swing open and he strides into a crowded room, there is suddenly a strange sensation, as though a bright light has come on, and the air is expanding, and the ceiling is rising, and all of the eyes in the room have received a magical signal to pull toward Jeb like spindrift caught in a riptide. Hands reach out to touch him, old ladies gasp.

Jeb Bush, the story goes, is a natural politician.

The first time I saw Jeb, at a Rotary Club lunch in Tallahassee, both of these stories made sense immediately. Watching him dazzle the men and women who approached him, then sprint to the stage for an extemporaneous, free-form declaration of his most complex political ideas, I could instantly see that Jeb was indeed both things: a political natural and also a man for whom politics is merely the delivery system of policy. Having followed him over the past six months, I've only become more convinced of this. Bush represents the twin pillars of modern politics: He is introvert and extrovert, glad-hander and wonk. He is an inexhaustible flurry of energy, traveling constantly, often overseas, and packing more meetings into his schedule each day than most men hold in a month, sometimes six or ten high-stakes sessions before lunch, then working late into the evening with his staff and later still at home, bent over his computer to produce a torrent of e-mails, even while absorbing stacks of reports and data, deep into the night, every night, not so much from a sense of urgency as pure, intellectual delight. When he stands on a stage, he towers, six feet four with a full head of tousled hair and piercing brown eyes that dart across the room as he expounds in neat, crisp paragraphs on his ideas and his intentions, drawing statistical minutiae from the ether of his memory with a readiness and eagerness that is impossible to fake or resist. Drop him into the heart of a crowd and he radiates, hugging women and children and men with equal ease, holding their hands and kissing their cheeks and pausing, briefly, to listen.

To find a man like Jeb Bush, positioned where he is in the political landscape, is a rare thing. He stands at a unique nexus, in a unique moment, with a unique set of talents. He is not only the popular governor of one of the largest, richest, and most politically significant states in America; he is also the first member of his party ever to win that office for two terms and has amassed within that office more power than any other governor in Florida history. Despite presiding over a period of economic uncertainty and record natural disasters—at one point, he oversaw eight hurricane-relief efforts in fourteen months—he has added $7 billion to the state's cash reserves, maintained high personal approval ratings, and used his popularity to lead his party to total dominance in the state. Today the Florida GOP occupies every statewide elected office except one and controls the Florida legislature by astonishing margins of 84–36 in the House and 26–14 in the Senate. Now entering his final year in office, with a national party in disarray—plagued by scandals, an unpopular war, and record deficits, not to mention a lame-duck president with no heir apparent—Bush stands before the most obvious opportunity of his life: If there was ever a man positioned to run for the White House, if there was ever a time suited for a campaign, if the stars have ever aligned for anyone, anywhere, it would seem to be Jeb Bush, right now.