In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  As he hauled the beam to the back porch, he knew it’d be a good idea to branch out and get to know his neighbor. He just wasn’t certain he could do it.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Garden

  Harold Baxter turned on the light that illuminated the long set of wooden stairs. He cast a glance behind him at the Birmingham apartment he’d called home for more than two decades. Trophies lined the living room wall, a tattered quilt sprawled across the sofa because old men got chilly easily, and he was an old man now. At seventy-five, he could finally admit that.

  It’s not that Harold didn’t want to grow old; he just hated the limitations age brought. He rubbed a hand over one knee, gazing down at the stairwell that would take him to the dance studio below. He used to take those stairs two at a time. Had never even considered them as a worthy adversary. Now he dreaded that first step where his aging knees would crack and pop and even groan in protest. The stairs had never seemed so long, so steep until lately. It’d be better once he got his body moving. It was merely the first trek down the steps that he dreaded.

  He wasn’t one to feel sorry for himself, so he focused on all the things for which he had to be thankful. He’d realized his dream and opened his own business some twenty years back. Before that he’d been a bit of a drifter, the only real anchor in his life, his brother George.

  His thoughts had been on George lately, though he hadn’t spoken to him in over five years. He needed to reach out. Needed at least to try. Again. After all, they were old men now. But even as he took that first step, he knew the idea of reaching out to George was one steeped in selfishness. Harold missed George. Still. Even after all this time.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairwell and moved across the dark studio, he wasn’t surprised at the welling of emotion. He’d miss this place, too. The smooth feel of the beech wood sprung floor, the way soft light bounced off the warm walls. The sounds of voices and laughter as couples floated across the space from 5:00 p.m. till midnight. The music. Maybe he’d miss the music most of all. To Harold, music was life.

  A rap at the front door drew his attention. Harold unlocked the door, then went to the long picture windows as his attorney, Phil Borland, shook the rain from his coat and stepped inside.

  “Coffee?” Harold asked as he pointed to the pot on the long, help-yourself counter. He’d programmed the coffee maker last night, and now the scent, fresh and inviting, filled the room.

  Phil shook his head. “I have to be in court in thirty.”

  That was his way of telling Harold he didn’t have time to get dragged into another debate about how they could save the studio. Harold’s bushy brows went up. “I’ve got to-go cups.”

  Phil fought a grin. He was a softie, despite being a high-powered Birmingham attorney. “OK. Half a cup, I’m cutting back.”

  Pleased, Harold poured the coffee. Just a little more than half because folks should always have a little too much, rather than not quite enough. He handed over the steaming cup and knew there was unrealistic hope in his eyes when he said, “Any good news?”

  Phil sighed. “Harold, you signed over the business. We’ve been over this. There’s not much I can do.”

  They’d been over and over and over it. When Harold took on a junior partner—young Ephraim Conner—the spirited young man had said all the right things. They’d worked together for three years without incident. “He lied to me, Phil. I had no idea those papers were the business.”

  Ephraim had told Harold he’d needed his signature on an agreement between the dance studio and the local television station. Harold trusted him, and there had been no reason to doubt him. In three years, Ephraim had never given him a shred of a reason to think he was anything but honest. In fact, he’d started thinking of him as family, the son he never had.

  Phil glanced at his watch. “Look, there’s nothing I can do. However—”

  Harold perked up.

  Phil took a long drink of his coffee, his eyes fast and piercing, moving around the room in that way attorneys had. Finally, he continued. “I’ve got you a meeting this afternoon with Tray Sharples.”

  “He’s kind of famous.”

  “He’s had some success with situations like this, cases of coerced elderly people. No offense.”

  Harold bent his knees, straightened them. “None taken. It’s no sin to tell an old man he’s old. You think Sharples can help?”

  Phil shrugged in a noncommittal way. “I don’t know. You’re a businessman, Harold, not some little old lady sitting at home counting her coupons and storing money in a mason jar. It’s not going to be easy to prove you were tricked into signing over your entire business.”

  “I’d planned to sell it to Ephraim, eventually.”

  “That only makes it harder to prove you didn’t sign it over, then change your mind. He’d been making payments on the place. He played this smart.”

  “He’s a crook and a liar. And I extended too much trust.”

  “Live and learn, I guess. Anyway, Tray Sharples is your best shot. And he’s meeting you as a favor to me. So, don’t waste his time with a bunch of details he can’t use. Cold, hard facts. He’ll want some details, but let him ask. Don’t volunteer everything. Maybe he’ll see something I didn’t.” Phil took a step closer and placed a hand on Harold’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see you lose this place.”

  Phil had brought his momma to Harold’s Dancing on Air Studio six years back after Phil’s daddy died, and his momma didn’t leave the house for weeks at a time. Between the big band music and the nostalgic atmosphere, Laverne Borland had found her zest for life again and was able to move on. In the bargain, Phil met his wife Mitzi, a Chicago transplant who loved all things from past eras, including the dances.

  Harold’s lips pressed together. “How can I ever thank you?”

  Phil smiled. “No need. He’s carved out three hours this afternoon. Meet him at the dining room in the Four Seasons Hotel. Three p.m. Don’t be late.”

  With renewed hope he hadn’t felt for weeks, Harold nodded. “I’ll be there, God willing, and the creek don’t rise.”

  Phil chuckled. “No rain in the forecast, so I think we’re safe.”

  Harold watched Phil leave. He knew the attorney had done all he could. It just hadn’t been enough. Maybe hotshot Tray Sharples could help him. He hoped so; quite honestly, if he lost the studio, he’d have nothing left.

  Just as he was getting ready to flip the OPEN sign, he remembered to go get the mail. It had sat for a few days while he’d stared out the upstairs window of his apartment wondering how he could ever survive losing the place. He’d have no home, nowhere to go. And he was an old man now. His savings account had about $11,000 in it, and that wasn’t much to start over with. But he supposed he should be grateful that he wasn’t completely destitute.

  Outside, the air was warm and already balmy as the morning dew of downtown Birmingham was replaced by the early sun. Not a cloud in the sky. Harold drew a deep breath and gave thanks for the air in his lungs, for the fact that his own legs could still carry him to and fro and for the fact that he’d made a difference in the lives of so many people who’d walked through the door of the Dancing on Air Studio. That was something that could never be taken from him.

  He crossed the empty street and opened his mailbox. A small stack of bills and advertisements greeted him, but there in the pile was a handwritten letter. He plucked it from the box and held it closer.

  The return address was Gaslamp Island, Florida. The letter was from his brother, George.

  Harold left the other letters where they lay and rushed back to the studio, tearing the envelope open as he went. When he noticed the world going dark around him, he groped for a chair that sat just inside the front door. After a deep breath, Harold willed the world back into focus and unfolded the letter.

  Dear Harold,

  This is no way for brothers to end up. I haven’t laid eyes on you in twenty years, and we haven’t spoken in six.
You called that Christmas Eve, but I couldn’t talk. I’d allowed myself to be swallowed up in my grief, and because of it, I pushed everyone away. I hardly even see Ellen Marie and Charity anymore.

  But I didn’t write this letter to complain or to talk about all the things I did wrong. I wrote it to apologize. You’re my brother, Harold. And I miss you. I know it’s not like me to reach out for help, but I need help right now. I need you. I’m dying.

  Harold tried to choke back a sob that echoed off the walls of the studio. He read and reread those last two words. I’m dying. A trembling hand went to his mouth, where tears ran over his fingers and dropped onto his lap.

  I don’t know how long I have left, but I need you here. Will you come? We have to mend this thing between us. We have to fix the wrong and bring it all out into the open. Hidden things fester. Hurts need air; they need oxygen; then they can begin to heal. I need to know we can heal this, Harold. Too much hangs in the balance. I love you, brother. No matter what happened, I’ve always loved you.

  Your brother forever,

  George

  The letter dropped into Harold’s lap. He dragged the words into his heart and wished he could conjure the image of his brother, but it had been so long. So long since he’d seen him or even heard his voice. It wasn’t supposed to be this way—one of them deathly ill before they reconciled. He used the back of his hand to swipe his cheeks. Once his legs were steady enough to carry the new weight—the weight of knowing his brother was dying—he crossed the studio and grabbed the phone.

  On the other end of the phone line a woman answered, “Delta Airlines.”

  “I need a flight to Sarasota, Florida, from Birmingham, Alabama. Today, if possible.” His voice sounded foreign, filled with despair and a barrage of echoes from the past, voices and murmurings that told him he didn’t deserve his brother’s forgiveness.

  “We have a three p.m. direct flight. May I book that for you, sir?”

  Without hesitation he answered yes. He’d leave a message for Phil to cancel the appointment with Tray. Some things were more important than business. Family was one of those things.

  Charity woke with her head in a fog. It was 8:00 a.m., and there were hammering, sawing, and other carpentry noises rising from her back side porch and interrupting her sleep. She looked out her window and saw nothing but porch roof. She stumbled to the bathroom, splashed some water on her face, and headed downstairs to make muffins for the workmen.

  She’d questioned the muffin idea but kept telling herself that’s what Gram would do. Since she hoped to become a part of the island’s community, it seemed a good idea to cultivate a What-Would-Gram-Do? System, since Charity was socially inept.

  Unfortunately for the beam installers, Dalton and his helper, she burned the muffins, so her idea of thanking them with treats went right out the window with the smoke in the kitchen. She was still fanning the smoke when a knock on her back door startled her. She tossed the kitchen towel on the counter and pulled the door open to find Dalton standing there. A tool belt hung low on his hips, and a red bandana caught the sweat on his neck. “Morning.” He sniffed the air.

  “I was making lemon muffins,” she said and waved a hand behind her in the kitchen.

  “Beam’s done. If you have a broom, I’ll sweep up. We left a mess of sawdust.”

  “Do you want coffee?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you want to see your new beam?”

  She followed him out. He stopped short of the awning and knocked his knuckles against one of the windows on the sleeping porch. “This is a really cool area.”

  She placed her fingertips on the sill and looked in, her gaze trailing from the far wall down to the marble floor. She’d never seen it from this angle. “I’m planning to turn it into my studio. The one my gramps used was tiny, smaller than I remembered, and kind of hot. I think he chose it because it was right by the kitchen, and that’s where my grandma spent most of her time.”

  He used his index fingernail to scrape at some old paint that littered one corner of the window. “Did she make lemon muffins?”

  “Sometimes. But she didn’t burn them.”

  “I’m sure they’ll taste fine.” With the strip of paint removed, Dalton used a shop towel to wipe his fingerprints from the spot.

  Charity hid a grin. “Don’t bother cleaning off your fingerprints.” She pointed to the row of long, wide windows. “They’re covered in salt and dust.”

  He leaned back. “So they are. What kind of studio are you turning this room into?”

  “Pottery,” she said.

  “It’ll be a great place to work. Lots of sunshine and the beach view.”

  She was just getting ready to tell him that whenever she was working, her gaze was so focused on the project, she could face a blank wall, but Dalton had already stepped away. He rounded the corner and pointed up to the roofline of the porch. “Here’s your new beam.”

  Charity followed and craned her neck. She examined the work as if she had a clue what she was looking at. “Nice job. And don’t worry about sweeping. I’ll get it later. Should I write you a check? I’ve got some cash, too.”

  “Either is good. What about those muffins?” Dalton gathered up his few remaining tools and slipped them into spots on his belt. Though he was nonchalant about the way he lifted, dusted, and placed his work gear, she had the distinct feeling he was giving her time to answer.

  “You can’t be serious about wanting to try one. Did you see the smoke coming from the kitchen?” When he shrugged, she raised her hands in the air. “OK, but they’ll be terrible.” Shaking her head, Charity went back inside. Dalton followed.

  “Your helper? Did he leave?” Charity asked as she poured two cups of coffee. Her hands were sweating because she was lousy at small talk, and her voice tended to crack on words.

  “Yes. I would have introduced you, but he was in a hurry. Kid’s ball game today.”

  She set the coffee on the long, wooden butcher block that doubled as a kitchen island.

  Dalton had placed his tool belt on the gray-and-white marble floor as he’d entered. Now he lowered himself onto a padded leather bar stool. “Coffee smells good.”

  How could he smell anything over the charred muffin scent? “It’s an Ethiopian dark roast.” Charity took the plate of muffins from beside the stove and placed them on the table with a sigh.

  “They don’t look so bad.”

  The edges of the paper cups were burned, and the underside of each muffin was black. “The frosting is disguising what’s underneath.”

  He snagged one and peeled away the paper. “You just have to know how to eat them.” His fingers scored a line halfway up the muffin. He carefully peeled away the burned section and then showed Charity the bottom. “See, good as new.”

  She sat across from him and watched as he took a huge bite.

  “Mmm.” His eyes closed, and Charity swallowed. Lemon frosting clung to his upper lip, and when he opened his eyes to smile at her, she rose quickly and brought him a napkin.

  “Do you burn a lot of your food? Is that why you don’t mind the taste?” The words popped right out of her mouth like popcorn in a hot skillet.

  He laughed and swiped the napkin across his mouth before taking another bite. “No,” Dalton said around a mouthful of muffin. “But my wife did.”

  Divorced? Charity chewed her lip wondering if she should ask. Her eyes trailed down to the ring finger of his left hand. Wide gold band. No, not divorced. A certain sadness rested on his shoulders. “Your wife is . . .”

  “Gone,” he answered.

  Dead was what he meant. He didn’t need to say it for Charity to know. “I’m sorry.” Though the two words were small, they needed to be said, because whatever sorrow Dalton still felt was as palpable in the room as the scent of scorched lemons. And sorrow was one thing Charity understood.

  His eyes settled on her. Green as a stormy sea and lonely as the ocean at night. “Thank you, Charity.�
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  The moment stretched, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable in the cool kitchen with the beams of sun splashing the windows and the warm, solid wood of the butcher block to lean on. And for some reason, the comfort of the kitchen made her want to talk. “When I was in college, one of my roommates was killed in an accident. This woman who’d gone back to school after raising her kids called me. My roommate and I both knew her from classes. She said, ‘I’m not going to ask how you are or how you’re coping.’”

  A shadow of a frown crossed Dalton’s face, but he leaned forward, his forearms pressing into the counter.

  Charity took his interest as an invitation to continue. “She just said, ‘Tell me about your roommate.’ For about an hour, I talked on and on.”

  “It helped?” His words were barely a whisper over the hum of the refrigerator and the sounds of the ocean beyond the kitchen window.

  Charity pulled her mug to her and cradled it. “I just talked. I mean, the woman hadn’t really known her very well, but there was something so pure and profound in the request. I can’t explain it. Yes, it helped.”

  Dalton’s body language shifted. He’d been lucid, pliable, but when she spotted a tear glistening in the edge of his eye, he leaned back, stiffened, and glanced up at the ceiling for a few long seconds.

  “Anyway,” Charity said on a long exhale. “If you ever want to call me and tell me about her, I’d like to hear. I won’t ask how you’re doing or how you’re coping.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, but the word seemed as if it had to fight to get out of his throat.

  Charity peeled the paper from a muffin and removed the bottom half, “Like this?”

  A shard of a grin touched his mouth. “Now, take a big bite.”