In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  PRAISE FOR HEATHER BURCH

  “Heather Burch has proven herself to have such an exceptional storytelling range that one might be tempted to call her ‘the Mariah Carey of romance fiction.’ One Lavender Ribbon blew my expectations out of the water and then swept me away on a wave of sweet romance. Don’t miss this one.”

  —Serena Chase, contributor to USA Today’s Happy Ever After blog and author of The Seahorse Legacy

  “Burch’s latest combines a sweet, nostalgic, poignant tale of a true love of the past with the discovery of true love in the present . . . Burch’s lyrical, contemporary storytelling, down-to-earth characters, and intricate plot make this one story that will delight the heart.”

  —RT Book Reviews on One Lavender Ribbon, 4.5 Stars

  “Heather Burch draws you into the story from page one and captures your attention, your emotions, and your heartstrings until the very end. She reaches into your very soul with a story that is so real that it stays with you for weeks after the last page is turned, the last sigh has floated away, the last giggle has played out, and the last tear is shed.”

  —Carolyn Brown, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author on Along the Broken Road

  ALSO BY HEATHER BURCH

  Adult Fiction

  One Lavender Ribbon

  The Roads to River Rock

  Along the Broken Road

  Down the Hidden Path

  Young Adult Fiction

  Summer by Summer

  Halflings

  Halflings

  Guardian

  Avenger

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Heather Burch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941144

  ISBN-10: 1503941140

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  For Isaac, my favorite artist, my parkour hero, and my son. All your talents amaze me. I’m honored to be your mom.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 Baxter House

  CHAPTER 2 Cobwebs

  CHAPTER 3 Special Ingredient

  CHAPTER 4 The Garden

  CHAPTER 5 The Letter

  CHAPTER 6 Epic-Fail Date Night

  CHAPTER 7 The Ghost

  CHAPTER 8 Discovering Daisy

  CHAPTER 9 Weeping

  CHAPTER 10 The Secret

  CHAPTER 11 The Hurricane

  CHAPTER 12 Searching

  CHAPTER 13 Water Rising

  CHAPTER 14 Aftermath

  CHAPTER 15 The Call

  CHAPTER 16 Founders’ Day Ball

  CHAPTER 17 Snakes in the Parlor

  CHAPTER 18 The Railing

  CHAPTER 19 Fault or Forgiveness

  CHAPTER 20 Moving Forward

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Baxter House

  When Charity Baxter was little, she believed in fairies and pixies and the kind of magic that made unicorns and cotton candy. To her, Gaslamp Island itself was as magical a place as any in this world, except maybe for the one Alice found while chasing a white rabbit. Charity’s island was perfect, mainly because of Grandpa George and Grandma Marilyn and the big mansion of a house they lived in. It had towering arches and comfy rooms, cozy beds and warm tomato soup, and, best of all, Gramps’s potter’s wheel.

  Charity witnessed the magic each year while traveling to Gaslamp Island on Florida’s Gulf coast. Every summer she and her mother would board a water taxi. Fluttery excitement would fill her belly, and she would stand at the front of the long, flat boat—a marvel in itself, really, hauling people and cargo and even a few cars. She always counted down the days to the end of school, packing and repacking her suitcase. Marking each sunset on a secret calendar she hid beneath her bed.

  This year was no different. Except, of course, now she was eleven and that was practically grown up. She’d matured over the long months since seeing her grandma and gramps. They’d be amazed at how grown-up she’d become.

  “Charity Monroe Baxter!” Her mother’s sharp voice shot through Charity’s heart. It always did. And she hated that. One day she’d grow up enough that the shrill sound wouldn’t cause her hands to shake and her teeth to clamp. “Step back from the railing, young lady. You’re scuffing up the new shoes I bought you.”

  They’re not new, Charity wanted to say. And you didn’t buy them. Your boyfriend, Kendrick, found them, or at least that was the story Charity and her mother had gotten. It was after her mom had complained about having to make that awful trip to that horrible little island. Momma never stayed with Gram and Gramps. Sometimes she’d stay for dinner, but that was all, checking and rechecking her wristwatch so as not to miss the last ferry. Never overnight. And never seeing the miracle that was the island. Some people couldn’t see magic, Charity supposed, but she saw it everywhere.

  Not wanting to disappoint her momma, Charity slid her feet a few inches from the railing and glanced up for her approval. She received the quick flash of a half smile, and her momma turned on her heel, mumbling about the ghastly wind and her hairdo.

  Charity chewed her lip. She supposed she was a disappointment to her mother, and now that she was practically grown up, she was beginning to understand such things. Momma was what Gramps liked to call a free spirit. Gram said her daughter needed to grow up, stop acting like a teenager and act like a woman. A mother. That’s why Momma never spent the night on the island with Charity. It always ended in an argument with Charity’s heart at the center.

  Sometimes at home she’d hear her momma and Kendrick talking, and Momma would say the island was too small for her. She had big dreams, and an insignificant place like Gaslamp couldn’t contain them, and maybe they’d float right off her and disappear in the waves or be carried off by the coastal breeze.

  Charity tightened her fingers on the railing. What did the waves and the breeze want with her momma’s dreams and plans? Nothing. That’s what she’d decided a while back while watching soap operas and eating Pop-Tarts. Sometimes she wondered whether her momma thought she was living a soap opera. Gram said Momma’s flair for the dramatic had always gotten her into trouble. Charity didn’t know. And she didn’t mind helping her momma with things like dinner and housework because it all seemed to stress her out so much. Housework was something Charity was good at. There weren’t many other things. She was an OK student. She wasn’t pretty or popular. Or a sports girl. She liked to read but often got lost after the first few chapters of a book and sometimes never picked it back up again.

  But she could cook spaghetti and hamburgers, pancakes and dip eggs, where the yolk was runny but the white part cooked. She liked to use Windex and wipe down the windows until a rainbow of colors appeared and disappeared in the sun’s rays. She always did the windows when it was sunny, and, sometimes, she’d curl up like a cat in the warm pool of light on the carpeted floor. There were strange shapes from the windowpanes, and she’d drag her knees to her chest and pretend it was a box of sunlight. A safe, perfect box where no one and nothing could hurt her.

  The first time Momma saw her curled up like tha
t, she’d made fun of her. But that was OK. She wouldn’t expect her to understand. After all, what did her momma have to hide from? She was beautiful and popular with all the gentlemen who lived in their apartment complex. Kendrick, the upstairs neighbor, had practically moved in. Charity didn’t like him much because he laughed when her momma made fun of her. And he always left a mess for Charity to clean up. She liked Rover Gentree. He lived across the hall and taught at the college nearby. With his wool coats, round glasses, and kind green eyes, Charity thought he was almost perfect. Then, one day, he’d seen her getting frustrated while reading a book, and he’d stopped to help her. But Charity’s momma never even gave him a glance, even though he looked at her with moonbeam eyes—just like the men on the soap operas. Rover steered clear after Kendrick moved in.

  Charity sighed and shook off the soap opera drama of her momma’s life. Besides, she’d be gone for the whole summer. No Kendrick. No cleaning, except her room and making her own bed. No Momma. It made her sad that she didn’t miss Momma more when she was away. She closed off the thought and concentrated on the sea spray peppering her cheeks. It was full of salt, and by tonight, her legs and arms would taste salty from splashing in the spray. She’d fall asleep touching the tip of her tongue to her arm . . . just to make certain she was really at the island.

  Her heart quickened as the island came into view. Charity’s head jutted forward, her hair flying behind her. Sun rays of pure silver danced on the water, so bright she had to squint to look at the rolling sea. Suddenly, something rose from the water, some tiny flicker, and when her gaze traveled to the spot, it was already gone. A pixie, no doubt. Rising from the water and teasing her with its shimmery wings. Off to the right, another one appeared and disappeared, and Charity’s heart beat faster. Her smile grew. Her knees weakened with excitement. On this went until they neared the sandy beach and the long pier that poked out into the water. Waves rose and fell, sneaking onto the beach, then retreating and dragging shells and seaweed along. The motion made the island appear as if it were breathing, deep intakes of air as the sandy shoreline expanded, slow exhales as the water rose and engulfed the long, narrow beach. To Charity, the island was alive.

  By the time the boat landed, Charity had wiggled from her new used sandals. Her feet hit the wooden deck, and even though her momma was yelling her name, she ran toward the end of the pier. Charity was never disobedient. Except on the island. She ignored her mother’s pleas that had grown tighter with frustration. “Charity Monroe Baxter!”

  But Charity let the wind and waves and even the smell of boat fuel carry her mother’s orders away. She ached to feel the water, the sand against her feet, the pulse of the ocean. When she reached the part of the beach where the water would hit her knees, she leaped off the pier and into the warm, moving liquid. Instantly her feet sank deeper, and she knew there’d be a slurping sensation when she went to take a step. She opened her eyes and saw her mom, so she turned and faced the island. Overhead, palm trees swayed, their giant leaves like curved ceiling fan blades. She spotted a cluster of green coconuts near the top of one and wondered if she’d ever learn the trick to climbing the slick trunks of palm trees. Every year, she tried . . . to her gramps’s delight. He’d laugh, head tossed back, fists on his hips. Sometimes he’d give her a boost, but she never made it more than a few feet before tiring out.

  Charity breathed in the scent of sea air and fish. The tide was out, so the smell was stronger. Smelly or not, this was always one of her favorite moments . . . when she was finally here. As if she’d been on fire and burning for the last several months, and now her charred skin was getting the chance to heal.

  She spotted her gramps at the edge of the beach. Her eyes darted, looking for her grandma, but she didn’t see her anywhere. Gramps waved, his Florida-tanned hand high over his head. She ran toward him, splashing enough water to draw sharks. By the time she got to the shore, her shorts were soaked, and her shirttail sported sand confetti where her feet had kicked up a mess.

  Her momma gave her a disapproving look, so she ran full speed toward Gramps for support. He grabbed her up, catching her with one strong arm and tossing her headfirst over his shoulder, saying, “Come here, you sack of potatoes. I’ll take you home to Gram, and we’ll drop you—peeling and all—into the hot iron skillet.”

  Her stomach rolled with delight, and a laugh escaped her mouth. She was too old for this kind of silliness, but she loved her gramps, so she’d play along. Small fists pounded his lower back. “I’m not a sack of potatoes.”

  “What?” He tossed her forward, examined her from head to torso. “Well, of course, you’re not. Let me get a better grip on you, you sack of onions.”

  “Gramps!” She giggled and squeezed her eyes shut tight as she hugged him hard. He smelled like the coal oil he used to keep lamps burning in the pottery studio. There was a hint of cinnamon around his mouth and the very faint smell of tobacco. He’d been trying to quit for years.

  Charity felt her gramps’s muscles stiffen as her mother neared.

  “Dad,” Momma said, and Charity already knew she was planning to take the water taxi back to the mainland.

  “Ellen.” Gramps’s tone was short. “Doing OK?”

  Charity watched the thoughts flicker in her mother’s eyes. “I suppose.”

  He chucked Charity in his arms. “She feels thin.”

  Momma’s eyes turned to ice. “Good for her.”

  He looked at Charity. “You been eating? Plenty of food in the house?”

  Before she could answer, her momma spoke up. “Rent went up. It’s tough, you know. Making ends meet.”

  “Won’t give you money, Ellen Marie. I’d be happy to send boxes of food for Lil’ Bit.”

  Momma’s gaze went from cold to fiery hot. “We don’t need your charity. We’re fine. She eats plenty. She grew taller is all.”

  Charity hugged his neck. “I eat whenever I want to, Gramps. Really, I do.”

  Momma looked past him. “Where’s Mom? Didn’t even care to come see me?”

  “She’s down with a flu bug. Maybe you’d like to come back to the house for the night. It’d do her good to lay eyes on you.”

  Momma scoffed. “And risk taking the flu home with me? Really, Dad. I have a job. I can’t just take off whenever I get sick. I’m not retired. Or rich.” There was such a bite to her momma’s tone.

  “Well, guess this’ll be good-bye, then.”

  Charity hated the crackly tension in the air between her momma and Gramps. It was even worse with Gram. Maybe she hated it because it was her fault. She was the topic of all the heated discussions. She’d ruined her mom’s life by being born when Momma had big plans to be her generation’s Marilyn Monroe. No woman had captivated like Marilyn for fifty years, and Momma was ripe for the task. So she said. Gram and Gramps called her a fool and told her that Charity was the one thing that mattered, and she was ruining that too . . . just like she’d ruined so many things.

  Gramps took the suitcase and kept Charity tight in his arms, as if Momma might change her mind and force Charity to return home with her. The thought shot like fire into Charity’s stomach, and she tightened her own grip around her gramps’s neck.

  “I’ll be back at the end of August to pick her up.” Momma adjusted the new handbag on her arm. Charity didn’t know where it had come from, but Momma was proud of it.

  “I love you, Momma.”

  She flashed a smile, patted Charity’s cheek. “Be a good girl.”

  “I will.”

  Gramps huffed. He didn’t like it that Momma didn’t tell Charity she loved her. Charity didn’t mind. It hurt on the inside, but Momma had once explained that it was a difficult thing to say, and even though she felt it, she had a hard time saying it. She constantly told Kendrick she loved him, but Charity supposed that was different. It certainly sounded different on the other side of the thin wall that separated Charity’s bedroom from her momma’s.

  Gramps walked the length of the sand
-and-shell parking lot to his pickup truck. Most of the folks on the island had cars, sedans, Gramps called them. He waved to a fisherman and put the suitcase in the back of the truck as Charity’s momma disappeared on the retreating water taxi.

  “Hey, George!” The man held up a stringer. “Got dinner?”

  “You get into a school of amberjack?” Gramps closed the truck door and Charity propped her arms on the frame and watched her gramps and the man meet in the middle of the parking lot. They were discussing “fisherly” things. By the time they were done, the man was dropping two large fish into Gramps’s cooler beside Charity’s suitcase.

  “Much obliged. You sure I can’t pay you?”

  “Nah, let me borrow the pickup next week so I can haul those boat parts.”

  The men shook hands. “You know it’s always there for you.”

  When Gramps first bought the big house on the beach, the neighbors didn’t want his beat-up old pickup sitting in the driveway. There were rules, they claimed. But Gramps said that was silly because there were lots of work trucks, and they were frequently in driveways. In the end, Gramps won over the people on the island, and now every neighbor around borrowed the truck on occasion. Gramps didn’t hold anything against them. He called them “old money.”

  “We’re new money,” he’d say.

  He’d been poor most of his life, but when his little hardware store grew and doubled and tripled in size and more stores came along, all of a sudden, he was a self-made wealthy man. When the doctors told him he had too much stress and not enough relaxation, he’d left the business in capable hands and discovered a love of pottery.

  Gram and Gramps had left Atlanta and drove until they ran out of road. Then they boarded a boat and found the island. The only house for sale was a giant home built at the turn of the century by William Baxter, the famous circus man. And wasn’t it a strange coincidence that his last name was the same? Gramps claimed the place, Baxter House, was too much money, too much house, and too perfect to pass up. Serendipity, Gram called it. The fact that the house already had their name attached to it.