Emily cocked her head in a way that suggested fondness. “George. He insisted I call him by his first name.”
Charity nodded. “OK. Call him George. You don’t have to say ‘your grandfather’ anymore. It makes him seem too far away.”
Emily’s mouth quirked. “George made sure there were cleaning supplies, even had Mrs. Cready pick up a few groceries for you. Mrs. Cready helped George over the last few years. George’s arthritis made it difficult for him to do every task. Louise Cready was a big help and a good friend. She’ll be back in a couple of months. She’s gone to visit her sister in Nebraska.”
And just like that, all the good feelings about the house and the windows and the seagulls all disappeared in a swirling cesspool of Gramps’s rheumatoid arthritis. Though she hadn’t seen her gramps in the last few years, she knew what rheumatoid arthritis did to the body, to the joints. Thinking of him like that . . . “I wish I’d known.” Did she wish she’d known? Would it have changed things?
“How long had it been since you two saw each other?”
Charity swallowed the cotton in her throat. “Three years, Christmas. I’d sent him a plane ticket, and he visited me in New York. He hid his pain.” She thought back to decorated storefront windows and snow and Christmas lights. How Gramps would rub his hands together as they walked, curl them carefully around a mug of hot cocoa or steaming coffee. Now she knew the joints in his hands must have been throbbing. Back then she’d assumed it was just a habit.
“He was very fond of you.”
Charity’s gaze landed on Emily. I was fond of him, too.
Their steps and voices echoed as they crossed from one room to the next. Parlor, library, crisscrossing the entryway again and again. Just beyond the entry was one of her favorite spaces in the house. The large, open dining room anchored by massive white columns. Back in the day of turn-of-the-century parties, it had been filled on one side with a long dining table and the rest of the space open for dancing. Charity and her gramps had found a picture of a group of people enjoying the space in the 1920s, the men in smooth, dark suits and the women in waist-length pearls over flapper dresses. It had looked magical, and when Charity told Gramps she’d like to step inside the photo, Gramps and her great-uncle Harold—he often visited in the summers—had hauled the massive table so that it fit into the same spot as in the photo. Then he told Gram to turn up the music, and, right there, they became a 1995 copy of that picture. Gram wrapped tablecloths with tassels around Charity’s shoulders and waist and piled on pearls from her jewelry drawer. From that day on, the dining table remained there.
Charity rubbed her foot back and forth over the smooth marble floor. “Gramps used to say we’d wear out the flooring.”
Emily came to a stop beside her and stared down. “What?”
“He loved to dance.” She tipped her head. “I bet you didn’t know that about him, did you?”
Emily grinned. “No. I’m certain he never offered to take me dancing.”
Charity hugged herself and swayed ever so slightly from side to side while the echoes of the decades of old music played softly in her memory. “We’d dance here.” She moved to the center of the room. “Right here.”
Emily’s gaze flittered around the room. “So that’s why the long dining table is off to the side. I’d always wondered.”
Charity nodded, glad she knew some things about her gramps that Emily didn’t know. She was thankful for Emily’s knowledge, but Charity was his granddaughter, and it seemed wrong that there was nothing secret, nothing private about their family. That every detail had been spread out for a stranger.
They continued around the house, and Emily filled her in on various details that Charity would need to know. A window in the parlor wouldn’t open. Did Charity want her to contact the handyman George preferred?
“No, thank you,” she’d said. Really, there were plenty of other windows, and she wasn’t ready to share the space with anyone else. Her gramps was still here, in spirit, and what if someone came in and stole him away? That was silly, she knew, but she didn’t have the energy to fight silliness right now. Instead, she’d humor it and choose carefully who came and went for a while. Emily was OK. She made Gramps feel as though he was even closer, more tangible.
He needed to be here with her because this was a huge, massive, giant, towering house. Too big to be in all alone.
Just as she stepped through a doorway and into the kitchen, a new level of calm descended. The kitchen smelled like her gram’s gingersnaps and bread and old wood. Her gaze drifted up to the candelabra where tiny cobwebs connected the wrought iron arms. Back in the day, it had held real candles over the table for illumination, but for the sake of modern convenience, it had been wired years ago.
“Looks like we have a cob infestation,” Charity uttered.
Emily’s sharp gaze shot upward. “A . . . a what?”
A knowing smile crossed Charity’s mouth. It was an inside joke. “Cobs.” She pointed to the candelabra.
Emily stepped away from her to examine the fixture, but Charity was already learning the woman’s tells. How she turned subtly away when uncertain what to say or how to react. Probably no poker face. That was unfortunate for an attorney. Emily spun back around with a winning smile on her face. “I assume Mrs. Cready has given up climbing on chairs to remove cobwebs.”
“It’s no problem. I’m sure I can combat them. There’s undoubtedly a pot in the cupboard big enough to fit over my head and a spatula for a weapon. Plus, knowing Gramps, he’s always got a good supply of honey and cinnamon for bait.” Why the ever serious Charity had launched into the disparaging topic of how to best divest cobs, she wasn’t sure. But here, in the kitchen of her gram and gramps’s house, she felt young again, childlike, if only for a few moments.
Emily’s wide-eyed stare brought her right back to earth. Her face said it all. Cobwebs are made by spiders. Not cobs. There’s no such thing as cobs.
Maybe Charity’d sailed into the topic simply because it was clear that Emily liked her. And she liked Emily, and Charity was so very good at pushing potential friends away. She could explain about the cobs. It would be easy. You see, my grandmother made a game of taking care of the cobwebs. She’d sport a pot on her head and a broom handle in her hand and would come find me, and we’d try ever so quietly to sneak up on the cobs. They’re hard to see, you know. Fast little things. I’d shine a flashlight on them, and she’d swipe the broom across the ceiling. Sometimes she’d go into a fit of jumping about, saying, “One’s on me. One’s on me.” And I’d laugh until my belly hurt.
Instead, Charity remained quiet and let the awkward silence saturate the room.
“Charity, after you’ve had a bit of time to settle in, could you come by my office? Or I could meet you here. There are a few other matters regarding George’s estate that we will need to discuss.”
“By other matters, I’m assuming you mean my mother.”
Emily’s hand landed on her sleeve again, just near the elbow. “I understand the difficulties that could arise, but George was very clear about his wishes.”
“He didn’t cut her out of his will, right?” That would cause her mother to go into a fit.
“No. That could easily be contested. She is the only child. Actually, he left her a small house in Atlanta.”
“The house Gramps grew up in?” It was old, worn down by the decades, but a fine little house with a white picket fence. And it had family history, though Charity doubted her mother would appreciate that.
“Yes. You understand, I’m only discussing this with you per his wishes.”
Charity nodded.
“She was also left a trust.”
Charity frowned. “That means she will have some access to a certain amount of money, but not actually be in control of all the funds, right? Kind of like an allowance for grown-ups?” It didn’t matter. Charity’s mom had everything she wanted. She hadn’t become the generation’s answer to Marilyn Monroe, but she
’d landed—her words, not Charity’s—a fine, rich New York doctor who loved nothing more than doting on her. She was living her dream in the big city, where she attended private parties and fancy affairs and helped raise her husband’s nearly grown daughters. “My mother has all the money she needs. I don’t think any of this will be an issue for her. She hated this house.”
When Emily pulled a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, Charity followed. “The estate became sizable when George sold the hardware stores a couple years back. All left to you. It’s not just the house, Charity.”
“He called me two years ago when he sold and wanted to know if I needed money.”
Emily smiled. “Yes, he wanted me to keep an eye on your pottery business once it was open in case you needed anything.”
“Always taking care of me,” Charity mumbled.
“As I said, the estate is sizable.”
Charity chewed her thumbnail. It tasted like dirt. “Sizable?”
Emily smiled. “That’s an understatement.”
Charity’s gaze left Emily and flittered around the room. Well, there’d be need for money. What if she had to replace the terracotta roof on this place . . . or rewire the thing, or redo the plumbing? She remembered a friend back in New York who kept having tiny drops of water appear on her carpet and blaming her kids when really, the water pipes had rusted through. Charity must have muttered something about that because Emily was addressing the issue.
She chuckled. “There’ll be more than enough to reroof or rewire.”
Charity nodded because everyone knew that equaled understanding. One second she was scraping to make ends meet; the next, she was wealthy enough to rewire a mansion.
Emily rested her fancy bag on the table. “Would you like to discuss numbers?”
Charity flew up out of the chair with enough force that it toppled backward. “That’s not necessary.” Her voice was a high squeak. “Not now, anyway.”
Was she insane not to be curious about the money? Well, yeah. To the passerby, it would seem ridiculous. But money was a strange thing. Having great power and yet none. It could buy you the world but not happiness. It could purchase perfection but not make you feel any more whole. At least, that’s what she’d assumed . . . having never had an abundance of it but watching her mother always needing more, more, more.
Emily closed the purse. “There’s plenty of time. Don’t worry, Charity. Your grandfather’s legacy is in capable hands. When you’re ready, we can talk about amounts. OK?”
“Can I make us some tea?” Charity asked because the money thought niggled at her, and right now she just wanted to move on. She took the teapot from its designated spot on the back burner of the stove and headed to the sink. Her gramps had only been gone a few weeks, so she knew there was tea in the cupboard without having to look. Twining’s Earl Grey. The kitchen overlooked the backyard and the ocean beyond. She glanced at it as she filled the teapot. The sleeping porch was off to the right, and until she sloshed water from the overfilled pot, she hadn’t noticed the haunting mass of green in the far right corner of the property. When her gaze trailed there, drawn by a seabird that had angled across the colorful ribbons of clouds, Charity’s heart stopped. Cold flashed from her head down, leaving her nerve endings raw and exposed. The teapot shook in her trembling hand. It was the weeping tree. The one black spot on the perfect property. Growing up, she’d hated the tree and all the legends surrounding it, especially the legend about trimming the branches. If the willow’s branches aren’t trimmed, and one touches the ground, someone you love will die.
Why she had assumed the tree would be gone, she couldn’t say. Even when she’d entertained the thought that the tree might still be there, she’d brushed the idea aside. She was a grown woman now. Trees were plants. Rooted in the ground and nothing more. But as her eyes sailed over the long, swooping branches and the narrow, green leaves, she knew. The weeping willow was so much more. Once, a long time ago, it had devastated her life. The sour taste of hate rose like bile in her throat. She’d dig it out of the ground by the roots. She’d hire a man tomorrow and fell the tree.
A voice behind her brought her lethal thoughts to a stop. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? George once told me his favorite thing on the planet was to watch the occasional beachgoer sit beneath that tree.” Emily was just behind her. “One of his main requests is that you tend the tree. Everything around it has become so overgrown. I suppose it was too much for George in the last few years. But you’ll get to bring it back to its former glory. Now you’ll tend the tree.”
Those words brought Charity’s world to a sudden and complete halt. Tend the tree? She’d have it chopped, not tended. She’d have a crane come in and drag it from the ground. She’d have her final revenge on the green monster. After all, her grandmother’s death was because of the tree. Not just the tree . . . her mind added, but she refused to listen.
“Emily,” she said, forcing the despair from her voice as best she could. “Could we do tea another day? I’m feeling tired, and I still need to unload my things.”
“Of course.” A perfect smile. An attorney’s way of shifting gears without ever giving away the thoughts rummaging through her head. “The landline is still on, and I have your cell. Shall I give you a call tomorrow?”
“Mm hmm.” Charity had just agreed to something. What was it?
“Fabulous. I’ll call tomorrow.” Emily headed out of the kitchen.
Oh. That’s what she’d agreed to. She didn’t have to answer the phone tomorrow if she didn’t want to. She could decide when the phone rang. Talk. No talk. It was up to her.
Emily reached the front door and spread her spiked shoes. She grabbed the knob and jerked. That made Charity smile. The woman really had been here a lot to know the secret of the door. To know one must throw one’s whole weight into opening it. With the Florida sun shining in on them, Emily straightened her spine. “Great to have you here, Charity. I hope we’ll get the opportunity to become friends.” Red smile again. White teeth. Genuine niceness.
It all made Charity wish she was better at friends. Maybe she could be. Maybe here she would be. But then she thought of the tree. She wasn’t even sure she could stay with it out there. And that just wasn’t something she could explain to Emily Rudd, potential friend, attorney, wearer of dangerous heels and purchaser of handbag shields. The woman—sweet as she was—had been ready to cut and run when Charity had started talking cob talk. Cobs. Maybe Charity’s head was full of cobs. Maybe that’s what was wrong with her. They were hard to see. And practically impossible to get rid of.
Maybe cobs were why she was a thirtysomething with no real friends, no real relationship, and a business that failed practically before it even began. Cobs. That was her problem.
Dalton Reynolds was tiring of the inquisition. Especially when he knew there were snook to catch just beyond his window on Gaslamp Island. “Did Mom write down these questions, or are you working from memory?”
His brother, Warren, huffed and then stood up from the little wooden table that held two fresh cups of coffee, a smattering of various cans labeled STAIN, PAINT, and THINNER, a bouquet of paintbrushes, and, finally, cinnamon rolls. “Look Dalton, we’re all suffering from the loss, OK?”
It was strange to Dalton that anyone in his family could assume their loss compared to his. He had an empty house in Jacksonville that would never again hear the laughter of his family.
Outside the kitchen window there were multiple tasks that needed his attention, so whether or not his brother was visiting, fishing would have to wait. Early spring on Gaslamp Island had brought coastal winds ripe with fresh waves of heat. He’d need to get whatever spring plants he wanted in the ground before the summer heat came and singed their delicate roots.
“Dalt, listen to me. I can understand why you needed a little time away. But it’s been long enough.” Warren had aged over the last year. They both had. But his brother was more than capable of handling the landscaping bus
iness back in Jacksonville, so Dalton wouldn’t allow himself to be guilted into returning home before he was ready. He’d tried that once. It was an epic fail. He’d only been on Gaslamp for three months, fixing up a tiny cottage for an elderly couple who planned to sell it next spring. And it had become the first time in the last year when he’d actually been able to take inventory of his life. Or what was left of it.
Dalton sat back down at the table, leaving the sunshine through the window on his back.
Warren stood. “I told Mom I’d bring you home.”
“Really?” Dalton knew his brother didn’t understand. He himself didn’t even understand, but it didn’t matter. This was where he was, and this was where he was staying . . . for as long as it took to begin to heal from the loss of his wife and child. He’d known he was coming here the second he’d seen the small ad stuck to a bulletin board in a gas station on the mainland. He’d driven aimlessly for hours, but as soon as the handwritten ad was in his hands, he’d had purpose.
COTTAGE REMODEL NEEDED. ROOM AND BOARD PROVIDED. AT LEAST SIX MONTHS OF WORK.
It was a perfect fit.
Warren, tall as Dalton’s own six feet, stared down at his brother, a cloud blotting the sun and darkening the sky. A sky already filled with gray. “You can’t hide forever, Dalt.”
Those words went down rough as whiskey on a sore throat. Dalton fisted his right hand. It wasn’t anger that drove him to tighten the grip; it was desperation. “I’m doing what I need to do for me. I’m sorry if the world disagrees.”
Warren dropped into the seat across from him. Dalton hadn’t bothered to rise from his own chair at his brother’s challenge—and that’s what that wide stance had been, a challenge—he hadn’t bothered to meet him eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe. That’s what brothers were supposed to do. But Dalton didn’t respond in kind anymore. There wasn’t the energy in his bones.
Clear blue eyes studied him from across the table, filled with just enough pleading to cut right into Dalton’s heart. “We’re all worried about you. It’s been over a year since we lost them.”
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 3