“Do you remember what I told you about the clay?”
“To listen to it?” She knew, but she wasn’t certain she understood.
“Do you know what that means?”
“Mm hmm.” But her mouth twitched, and Gramps grinned and picked her up like she weighed nothing and sat her on the very edge of the settee. But then he reached to the arms and dragged the settee closer to his wheel.
“I want you to watch me first. Then it’ll be your turn.”
She’d been watching him for days, but that was OK. She loved watching. Only now her hands would itch to feel the clay, the slippery water, the movement.
“I’m going to make a piece; then you’re going to make the same.”
That was a big order. Her gramps was a master at this, and she was just an almost grown-up kid sitting on a settee. She forced a nod and pushed the stringy strands of her hair out of the way. “OK. What are we making?”
He dropped a good hunk of clay onto the center of the wheel. First, his hand wobbled at the sides of the gray-brown clump as it spun and spun. He dipped one hand in the water and crowded his upper body around the clay until there was no wobble, only smooth turns.
“What are we making, Gramps?”
He looked up at her with a smile, and she was sure that pixies and fairies must be playing just behind her, the way his eyes sparkled. “You tell me.”
She thought hard. Needed to get this right. Gramps said the clay liked to be consulted on what it would become. A beautiful vase popped into her head. “A vase!”
Gramps’s approving nod warmed her, fueling her desire to create her own piece.
“Yes, I believe it’s a vase.”
His hands were slick with water from the little cup nearby, and his attention went to the piece. Once the edges were smooth, he dipped his thumbs at the top in the center, first one, then the other, right into the mound. In response, the clay expanded gently, its shape being coaxed by soft caresses. He made it look so easy. But it was hard. Just getting the clay to spin without wobbling was hard. But it was wonderful, too. After a little time and more water, more gentle touches and more spinning, the vase’s shape came into full form. Gramps finished by using a sharp tool to notch out a design. He cut the vase from the wheel and supported it by its bottom. He held his creation at arm’s length and inspected the piece. “Good,” he uttered and placed it carefully on a shelf to dry.
When it was Charity’s turn, and she’d coaxed the mound of soft, cool clay, her thumbs worked from the top, creating grooves and then an indentation. Her heart hammered, and her shoulders ached as she kept her fingers at the right angle to make a copy of her gramps’s vase. After two attempts and her back aching, Charity found her sweet spot. Her movements became soft enough to produce a perfectly round vase. Its sides rose like magic as she spun the wheel, trying to not get so excited she’d crush the delicate walls.
“Water,” Gramps instructed.
Charity dipped her hand again, spreading the moisture over the piece. The water traveled quickly, as if it were in a hurry to help. Cool wetness covered both her hands now, making them slick and smooth and making her feel one with the piece, like it took them both to create the vase, like they were partners, meant to be together. By the time she finished, there was sweat on her brow. “Do you want to score it, like I did? I can show you how to hold the tool.”
She knew Gramps meant well, but she’d finished the vase, and it was perfect. Still, she didn’t want to disappoint him. He used the cutting tool to remove her vase from the wheel. “You know what? I think yours should stay just like this. It’s happy, Charity.” He lifted it to sit on the shelf beside his. If Charity had ever felt a more proud moment, she couldn’t think of it. There on the shelf, her vase sat beside her grandfather’s.
Present day
Charity had discovered that life was filled with important moments. They were brightly colored confetti strewn on a landscape of gray. Each one, its own miracle. Sometimes, those moments passed quietly. But a few—a glorious few—were recognized immediately for their inexplicable but undeniable significance. They were bombs of promise. When Charity found the royal-blue-lined leather bag with the golden tassels the day after the storm, she knew she was in the crux of one of those moments. It was in a cabinet in the small pottery studio where as a child she’d watched her gramps work his magic.
She’d saved the studio for last after divesting all the cobs in the entire house and then unpacking and cleaning and ignoring the phone when Emily Rudd, potential friend, called.
Her gramps’s pottery studio rested behind a half wall by the kitchen. Charity knew herself well enough to know that once she started doing any pottery work, little else would get accomplished. She’d saved this as the dessert after dinner. It had been a first-class dinner, though. She’d dined on memories and dreams of twenty years ago, letting them play out in her mind, indulging each and every one. The big house was already beginning to feel like she remembered. Except it was quiet. Too quiet. That was a pity. She missed the sound of her gram humming in the kitchen and the low, melodic tone of the wheel as Gramps worked.
But she was alone here, her clothes filling only a tiny corner of the master bedroom closet, opposite the wall that overlooked the Gulf through floor-to-ceiling French doors and a private balcony.
Her dishes remained in a box because Gramps had dishes. Some were new, but some were old, like the metal drinking glasses that used to be various colors of the rainbow but now sported darkened spots that suggested their age. There were Fire King coffee mugs and dainty china tea sets. Wooden salad bowls and a wide platter Gram had purchased when a restaurant was going out of business. Stainless steel pots and pans were a newer addition to the collection of iron skillets Gram had preferred to cook in.
Charity wished she’d gotten her gram’s skill in the kitchen. She cooked, but Gram had been a master at blending and mixing ingredients. Charity tended to fix simpler fare. No, she hadn’t inherited her gram’s kitchen ability. She’d have to do with Gramps’s gift for making pottery. But for her, that was more than enough to be happy. Even if she wasn’t as good at it as he.
The clay in the small room caused the space to smell like earth and life and every perfect thing. She flipped the light and there in the center like an antique jewel was the seat and the wheel. She stepped inside, feeling both the nostalgia of the special place and a claustrophobia she hadn’t expected. Had this room always been so small? One tiny window overlooked the Barlows’ house. She tried to force it open, but the frame wouldn’t budge. Charity dropped onto the seat and took in the room. Two bookshelves lined the two remaining walls, their wood splattered with dried clay from decades past. Along the lower shelves, she found a few pieces unfinished. One half-painted, another cracked—seeing them made her miss her gramps. A couple were in good repair and Charity toyed with the idea of glazing and firing them in the kiln that sat in the mud room beside the sleeping porch.
On the opposite wall was a wooden counter, it too was scarred with drops of clay and housed her gramps’s pottery tools. Sponges and chamois, potter’s needles and calipers. Above the counter was a cabinet. It likely held more tools, but as Charity stared at the faded, peeling paint on the wood, she wondered why she’d never noticed the cabinet before. She didn’t remember it. Didn’t remember it at all.
Curiosity sent her to it. Her fingers closed around the handle, and she pulled. The cabinet doors opened with a groan. The inside was empty except for what looked to be a full suede bag that sat on a round bottom. When the hair on the back of her neck stood up, Charity knew there was something unusual about this moment in time.
She reached with both hands and carefully lifted the bag, then placed it on the counter. The top had a drawstring and was pulled closed with a gold cord with golden tassels on the ends. Charity lifted the edge of the cord and rolled it between her fingertips. The sheen was still on the tassels though the bag had likely been in the cabinet for ages. The suede was smoot
h and fresh—not what one would have assumed of a bag that seemed so old. It looked expensive, one that might have been carried by a king or perhaps one that brought gold to a child in a manger.
Charity slowly tugged the bag open, half expecting to find gold, half expecting fairies to come flying out in all directions. But as the bag opened fully, she frowned. Inside, held dearly by the dark-blue satin interior, the bag was full of . . . dust? Or perhaps sand. Charity couldn’t tell what the light-brown substance was, so she slipped a finger inside to test the texture. Her finger swirled in the mix. It wasn’t quite sand, but it wasn’t fine enough to be dust. It was soft, cool to the touch, and when her fingertip scraped on something in the bag, she jerked out her hand. Her finger had left an indention and there, at the bottom of the divot, she saw a warn edge of paper. Charity dove in with her index finger and thumb until the small piece of onion skin paper was free. Clutching it closely, she read the words,
Charity,
Add one scoop to each special order.
Love, Gramps
She spun and looked at the wheel behind her, then back at the paper. It crinkled as she swiped the ribbons of dust still obscuring some of the letters. Her heart hammered inside her chest. Gramps had always done special orders for folks in the area. But he’d never told her about a bag filled with a mysterious substance. Charity held the small, handwritten note to her heart. Gramps wanted her to continue in his footsteps, to make special orders for the islanders. Of course, she still wasn’t half the potter he’d been, and she knew no one on the island except Emily Rudd, so really, how many special orders could she expect? Still, this was a treasure. A personal message from her gramps. Having it in her hands caused the ache in her heart to settle a little deeper.
The knock at the front door drew her attention when it rose in volume. The intense banging must be someone with little patience and less manners. Charity gently placed the note in the top of the bag and tugged the drawstrings until the opening closed like a portal. She hurried to the front door and its persistent knocker on the other side. Once there, she realized her skin was clammy.
Charity took a deep breath, spread her legs, and jerked until the front door opened. Dalton offered a white smile, contrasting with his Florida tan and green eyes.
“Yes?”
His brows rose, and he lifted the beam he’d had resting against his collarbone. “I thought you could use this.”
But Charity’s thoughts were in her pottery shop, and her mind was deep in a bag of sand or dust where her gramps had seen fit to leave hidden notes. “Use it for what?”
Dalton frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”
Charity pressed her hands to her cheeks, still feeling a little off-kilter. Apparently Mr. Bright and Cheery noticed, because he started to step forward, his smile fading to concern. The beam shifted, and he had to wrap an arm around it before asking, “Hey, are you all right?”
Charity gazed up at the porch ceiling, blinked a few times, noticing the beam supporting the span above. “Oh. You brought me a beam.”
He must have been expecting more of a reaction because those brows tilted again. “I’m not certain the broken one can take another good storm. Even with the two-by-four reinforcement.”
“Come in.” Charity stepped aside.
Dalton situated the beam against the front porch wall and followed her. “Is that your phone ringing?”
“Huh?” Charity tuned in to the sound she’d been ignoring for the last few days. “Oh, um.” She didn’t want to talk to Emily right now, and she was certain that was who it was. No one else she knew had the number. But when Dalton kept staring at her, she excused herself and headed for the kitchen.
The phone stopped ringing as she reached for the receiver. Charity stared at the flashing red light and waited until the answering machine beeped. She hit the playback button.
Emily Rudd had left a message. She wanted to get together. Oh dear.
Dalton waited at the front door while Charity answered the phone. She was odd. That was the only way to explain it. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard the phone until he mentioned it. He’d never been inside the house, so stepping in should have been breathtaking, except he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off his curious bird of a neighbor. She had on another knee-length T-shirt and stretchy pants. Bare feet, unpainted toe nails, pale skin.
With her gone, he took a moment to glance around the house. Marble floors bounced the light onto the walls, and large windows flooded the room with luminescence. A round stairway led to the second floor. Off to the left of the entry was a library, filled with books and tall ceilings. He loved to read. Little did he know the next-door neighbor had a stash like this. Against the opposite wall, a stone fireplace decorated the space and invited visitors. He could easily see most of the lower level of the home from his vantage point. It had to be a hundred years old. He was staring up at the detail work on the top of the stair rail when she reentered the room. His gaze followed the railing down down down to the bottom, where a carved figure held the railing and stood on the first marble step. He squatted down. “Is this a bear . . . in a dress?”
Behind him, Charity giggled. “Yes.”
He suddenly became interested in what manner of creature held the opposite post. Dalton moved to it. “A lion on a round platform. Like at the circus?” He turned to face her.
Charity was smiling—a first—and he noticed a spark in her eye as she said, “Just like a circus.”
His gaze drifted around the home, looking for more hidden additions.
She moved to stand beside him and pointed out a carved image of a circus train car over the front door. “When the original owner built the house, he had everyone at the circus add his own touches. He gave the plans to the builder, who, from what I understand, practically had a heart attack trying to figure out how to make some of the creations come to life.”
“Wow.” Dalton glanced over at her. “Do you know where all of them are?”
She shook that head of long, dark hair. “Nope. I still find things. Or I guess I should say, I’m finding things again. I hadn’t been here for twenty years.”
“So you didn’t buy the house from George Baxter?”
Her eyes lit up. “My grandpa. You knew him?”
He hated to make that fresh fire burn out, but no, he really hadn’t. “I only met him a few times. I hadn’t been here long when he passed. I’m sorry for your loss.” And even though George Baxter had been friendly, even inviting Dalton in once, Dalt had declined. Those first several weeks of being there on the island, he’d been consumed with self-pity and had only wanted to be left alone.
Giant brown eyes left his and settled on the floor beneath them as if drawing strength out of the marble.
“I wish I’d gotten to know him.” That was true. He’d heard great things about George Baxter from the Barlows and Mrs. Cready.
Charity remained silent. Not much for conversation, apparently.
“The beam needs to be replaced. Soon, if you want to keep that little covered porch.”
“Thank you for buying it.”
“Do you have someone who can do the work?”
She chewed on her index fingernail. “In the kitchen,” she said, so he followed her.
Surely she didn’t keep workmen in the kitchen. Or maybe she did. Charity pulled a drawer open and searched tiny pieces of paper while mumbling, “Plumber, electrician, masonry.” She turned and looked at Dalton. “I’m not great with building, but I don’t think any of these are right for beam installation.”
Dalton laughed and joined her at the kitchen drawer. “How about a seamstress?” He held up a card with a knitting needle on it.
Charity chuckled. “Here’s a good option, pest control.”
“I can do the beam.”
Her gaze floated up to meet his. “Are you a carpenter?”
“No, but I’m more qualified than your seamstress or the bug man.”
Again, the smile on her f
ace. It was nice. Conversation, the warmth of another human being. When she hesitated over his offer, he added, “I can give you references if you’d like. But it’s a small beam, really not that big a deal.”
“I can pay you. Just tell me what the going rate is.”
“Deal,” he agreed, because he figured if he told her no charge, like he’d planned, she’d run him out of the circus house, and he’d never get the chance to see that upstairs with all those rooms he’d seen from below. “It’s a two-man job, and I’ve got a guy here on the island I use sometimes for an extra pair of hands. Will that be OK?”
“Whatever you need.” Sometimes she seemed too trusting, sometimes not trusting enough.
“OK, well, I’ll haul the new beam around back and be here first thing in the morning.”
She followed him to the front door. He was filled with questions but figured he’d exhausted her conversation quota already. Some people, he could just tell about them. She was one of those. Quiet, watchful some moments, completely oblivious at others. As if there were no middle ground with her. She was either full speed or dead stopped. And it was not like he was looking to make friends, but he’d always been a social kind of guy. That was before. And before and after were two different worlds separated by a cavern of torment.
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 5