She closed her eyes and dove in, knowing she’d leave lemon frosting on her lips. Still warm from the oven, sweet, tart. “Hey, these aren’t too bad.”
He chuckled and offered her his dirty napkin. She waved it off and grabbed a fresh one from beside the sink.
“Are you staying here long term, Charity? Or just getting your grandfather’s estate in order?”
It sounded so big. Estate. To her he was just Gramps, the pottery master, the teller of bedtime stories, the dancer who was light on his feet and quick with a laugh. “I’ve moved here. Permanently.”
The green in his eyes darkened by a tiny margin. Maybe he was trying to figure her out. “You just up and moved?” And yet there was a thread of envy to his tone. “Did that make the people around you crazy?”
What did he mean? “No. I mean, I still have my apartment in New York—at least until the end of the year. It’s all packed up, though. Full of boxes.” She focused on her cup. “It wasn’t hard to come here.”
“Because this was your grandfather’s place? It’s really incredible, Charity. A mansion.”
“A lot of work, too,” she added. “Of course, I can cross beam replacement off my list of chores. Beyond that, I don’t know where to begin.”
“No problem there, the house will dictate what you do when.”
“That sounds frightening.”
“If you’d like, I can help you make a list of some of the things I think will need to be done. There are plenty of skilled workmen in the area. I know you’ve got a drawer full of them.”
“OK, yeah. That would be helpful.”
“And I’m for hire on some things.”
She pointed at him. “Like beams?”
He nodded, the earlier tension gone from his body, replaced by the comfort of a common goal. “You’ve got some vines climbing the side of the house. They’re going to need attention unless you’re interested in an indoor garden sprouting through the eaves. That’s something I can do.”
“Great, you’re hired. Anything else you’d like to take on?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, he shifted from casual to serious. And excited. His eyes flashed with a new light as he dug a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket.
Charity leaned back a bit.
“You’ve got this . . .” He sprung from the chair and went to the wide back window, arms stretched from side to side as if trying to hug the universe. “Incredible tropical-inspired garden that is literally falling apart.”
Charity rose and walked slowly toward him when he motioned for her.
“There’re vines overtaking the perennials around the gazebo, and weeds are practically running the place. I mean, underneath all this mess is probably one of the most beautiful gardens on the island.”
Charity chewed her bottom lip, remembering the garden her gram and gramps had created, tended, cared for. Loved. She’d sit in that garden and watch butterflies and honeybees, lie on her back and make puff animals out of the clouds, imagine pixies and the tinkling sound of their music.
Dalton was talking. She should listen, but her attention was lost to yesteryear and the faraway scents of fresh earth and gardenias.
“That magnolia tree is covered with bugs. But this is all repairable, Charity.”
At the sound of her name, she tuned in to his words.
“I can resurrect this for you. I’m sure of it.”
Resurrect the garden. It was another part of Gramps and another thing that could help her feel closer. A hammer pounded in her chest, thoughts and ideas and memories colliding with the fantasy of a grown-up Charity sitting outside, beneath the magnolia on the concrete bench or in the gazebo sipping coffee. Resurrect the garden. The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. She could tell him to get started right away. She didn’t care what it cost. Resurrect the garden. Just as she was opening her mouth, he said the unthinkable.
“And that incredible weeping willow. I’ve never seen one so large. I can carve a perfect path to it and clean up all the brush around it, scrub down the rocks on the short ledge that frames it.”
Ice shot down Charity’s spine.
“Those branches have to be trimmed or they’re going to start breaking off. I’m sure some of them are dragging on the ground.”
She stepped away from him, cold and wet from a sudden sweat. “Stop.” Her hand came up. It was trembling. To her surprise, Dalton stopped talking. Instead of arguing, he stood there, waiting for her to say something.
She pulled a calming breath, slowly lifted her other hand until they were both level, a perfect shield protecting her. From the look on his face, her hands were even more effective than one of Emily Rudd’s handbags. Seconds ticked by. The clock on the far wall counted each one. After what felt like an eternity, she said, “I don’t like the weeping tree.”
A frown deepened the lines on Dalton’s forehead. “Why?”
Charity closed her eyes. “I just don’t.” She hadn’t realized she was shaking her head until strands of hair cascaded over her shoulders.
Dalton examined her with a new look, one of concern. “You just don’t?”
This was the part where he’d tell her she was being childish. He’d say to stop acting like a spoiled little brat and act like a grown-up. Well, she’d heard that for as long as she could remember. She dropped her open hands and pressed them against her sides. “I just don’t.”
He glanced out over the garden. “OK.”
She was ready for the fight. She’d been pushed and shoved her whole life, and this was her house and her garden. “I don’t have to explain anything—”
He cut her off. “OK, we leave the willow, the brush, all of it past the rock edge. You got a dry erase marker?”
Her mouth was hanging open, and apparently, she was just supposed to skip the whole discussion about the willow tree—which of course was what she wanted—and not at all what she expected.
He snapped his fingers. “A dry erase marker?”
She pointed to a drawer behind them. He pulled it open, then returned to where she stood at the window.
“Look.” He used the dry erase to section off the garden areas by drawing on her large kitchen window. Roses along the left side of the house, low flowering ground cover in the center. And to the right, where the massive weeping willow sat alone, like a sentry guarding a path to another dimension, he drew a thick square, then scribbled it in, blotting out the tree and its immediate surrounding area. Gone. Just like that. Gone, but she could still have her garden.
His voice softened, and she liked the sudden change. It was a low hum beside her as he named specific plants and flowers and shrubs, all the while drawing little curlicues and zigzags. “Charity, it would be an honor to work on this. Some of this flora is . . . well, things I’ve never actually seen growing. Cut plants and flowers, sure, but these are from various tropical regions all over the world, all growing here in harmony. It’s a landscaper’s dream.”
A thought struck her, one she didn’t like. “Is that why you came over here in the first place?”
“What? No. I couldn’t even see it for all the tall weeds.” He pushed the top on the marker with force. “If you don’t believe me, come over to the cottage. At the angle it sits, I see the back of your house from my back patio. I will admit to counting the windows on the second floor and wondering how many bedrooms were up there. And I really like the way the sleeping porch is lit up at night. It glows. Your side porch is adjacent to my house, so of course, I see that.”
Her hand up went up again. This time to stop his string of confessions. More, she did not need.
“I drew up some plans while Manuel and I took a break.” He retrieved the folded paper from where he’d placed it on the table and showed her the idea, but not before folding back the top right edge, removing the willow from her view.
She took the paper and studied it. He’d drawn swirls for bushes, smaller ones to represen
t the roses in the rose garden; the concrete benches were drawn at haphazard angles, but he’d fully represented the nice spots to sit and enjoy the shade. “You’re a landscaper?”
“Landscape architect. I swear I won’t do any harm to the garden’s integrity.”
Her brows rose. “Harm to that mess? I think we’re safe.”
“So that’s a yes.” It was a question and an answer.
She consulted the page before her. It didn’t speak, but from the corner of her eye, something flashed outside, causing her to look out on the garden. She tried to focus, but the sun bounced off the water beyond her yard and seared her eyes. That’s when she remembered that sensation. From when she was a girl, when she’d scorch her eyeballs to catch one glimpse of the gossamer wings and hear their tinkling sounds. “Pixies,” she whispered. When the scent of cinnamon entered her nose, she placed the paper flat on the counter. She took a deep breath and faced Dalton. “Yes. Do it. All of it. I don’t even care if some plants have to be shipped from . . . wherever.” She thought a moment. “All of it but the weeping tree.”
“I’ll get started tomorrow morning. Charity, if it’s not too personal to say so, I think George Baxter would be really proud of you right now.”
Charity’s mind went to her gramps. He’d always been proud of her, even when she didn’t deserve it. But this, yes, this would make him happy. Her heart was light, filled with excitement and a sensation she couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was hope.
Harold Baxter clutched the suitcase between his aging fingers. Stopping at the edge of the driveway, he closed his eyes and prayed. He hadn’t remembered the ride on the water taxi being so long. He was tired, already. When he started to sway, his eyes flew open to stabilize him. The letter pressed against his heart in the shirt pocket where he’d stored it. He itched to read it again, but his heart wouldn’t let him. One shaky breath later, he took a step toward the front door, leaving everything else behind. His business, his life. Earlier this morning, the situation at Dancing on Air had seemed surreal, both unbelievable and a bitter betrayal. Now it hardly mattered. Oh, the difference one letter could make. He was urging his feet forward when he heard a voice.
“Hey, do you live in that big house?”
Harold had to refocus his attention to even be able to answer. Slowly, he turned to see a teenage girl standing behind him. Her feet were bare, her shorts, cut-offs. But it was her deep tan and long, sun-blonde hair that made her an unmistakable island inhabitant, not a visitor. “No, I . . .”
She tilted her head so that the breeze would push her hair behind her, out of her face, as if the wind were an extra set of her own personal hands. Bright-blue eyes waited for him to give an answer he didn’t even possess.
“My brother owns the house.”
The girl crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, and her gaze trailed to the small suitcase he carried. “Cool place.”
He turned back to the dwelling. He had to agree with the girl. It was a cool place. Pushing both the past and the future aside, he turned to her, and his mouth opened. She was gone. He glanced down the road in both directions. Gone. He heaved a sigh and headed for the door. Maybe ghosts appeared in the form of teenage girls. With regret as his tailwind, Harold set his feet in motion, making the long trek to the door, a journey he should have made a long, long time ago.
Charity had enlisted Dalton’s help to move the potter’s wheel to the sleeping porch. She’d also brought the bag of Gramps’s special ingredient, though she’d not had a request for any special orders, so it sat unused on the bookcase behind her. The garden and the ocean lay beyond the window and, true to his word, Dalton was spending each morning trimming her overgrown yard. Then he’d return to the Barlows’ cottage and work there the rest of the day. He’d grabbed the water taxi today to head to the mainland and had even invited her along, but she’d declined the offer.
Just as she was refilling her mug of coffee, someone knocked on the door. She glanced at the wall clock. Too early to be Dalton. Maybe it was Emily Rudd. Charity had grudgingly agreed to go out with Emily and a couple of her friends who would be visiting the island soon. Though Emily hadn’t referred to it as a double date, that was the impression Charity had gotten. Well, this would be her chance to bow out gracefully. Always better to do those things in person. She was just forming her rejection speech when she tugged the door open.
A sudden intake of air forced all the thoughts of Emily and double dates aside. The older man standing on her front porch was too familiar to be a complete stranger, yet too much a stranger to be someone she knew. He stared at a crumpled letter in his hands and when he looked up to her, her grandfather’s eyes were looking back.
Air hissed from her lungs, and she grabbed the doorframe to steady the suddenly shifting room. Her fingers were cold against the wood, no blood reaching her extremities; it all seemed to be swirling around her heart and surging into her head.
His hand trembled as he reached out to her. “Please. Please tell me I’m not too late.” His voice was low and graveled with concern, each word its own plea, as if life and death hung in the balance.
Charity’s mouth was desert dry, words seemingly unable to form in her mind.
He lifted the letter as if it held every secret. “Please.”
But when she still didn’t answer, she watched the weight of all he carried rush over him. He seemed to be held together by glue and string, and suddenly it was all unraveling. Words poured out of him. “I got here as quickly as I could. But the letter sat in my mailbox for a week before . . . before . . .” His pleading blue eyes closed. His shoulders quaked, and there on the front porch of her circus house, the man broke into sobs.
When he swayed, Charity moved to place an arm around him. She slid the suitcase from him and set it on the porch floor. She didn’t dare touch the letter in his other hand, for it seemed the catalyst for the splay of emotion. But this man seemed so familiar. She stood there with him as he mumbled words she couldn’t decipher. He was taller than her, nearing six feet, but his shoulders held the loose skin and boniness of age, a man who’d once been broad and strong but had succumbed to the rigors of a long life, time taking its toll and gravity dragging his flesh.
He sniffed, and once he seemed to be slightly more stable, Charity patted his shoulder and moved out of his personal space. She stayed close though, lest he sway again. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed at his watery eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s just that I—” Finally, he said, “I’d like to speak to George. He’s my brother.”
CHAPTER 5
The Letter
Charity’s knees weakened beneath her, eyes going wide. “Uncle Harold?” And that’s when she realized she was unmistakably looking into the eyes of her gramps. Same almond shape, slightly turned up at the outer edges, same sparse lashes. Same shade of blue, pale like the sky in springtime and warm as sun-kissed berries.
He stared for a few long moments as the past played in his eyes. She could practically see him searching to find the child he’d known in the woman who stood before him. “Charity?”
She closed the distance, this time hugging him, clinging to his neck. Her eyes squeezed shut, and it almost—almost—felt as though it was her gramps hugging her back. It comforted her but at the same time caused an even deeper ache. A wail of a cry left her throat—it was a foreign sound, something that had clawed its way up from the deepest parts of her stomach, something filled with hunger and despair. No one—no one—but Uncle Harold could understand what she’d lost in losing her gramps.
She heard the crinkling sound of paper near her ear. It must be the letter, the thing that had brought him here. He shifted for a moment and must have shoved the page into a pocket because now he was stroking her hair, trying to soothe her. Charity pressed her cheek to his chest. Typically, she wasn’t one to draw strength from the touch of another human being. Growing up in a house where her mom rarely touched her had caused her to stop needing that. But
her gram and gramps had always been rich with the ability to show their love through touch, and right now, it was as if she’d die if she had to step away. But then a thought struck her. Uncle Harold had asked to speak to Gramps. That meant he didn’t know. She pulled away from him because she’d have to tell Uncle Harold that his brother was dead. Charity opened her mouth, expecting words, but none came.
Harold squeezed his eyes shut, his brow creased with age lines creating deep crevices in his forehead. His mouth pressed into a straight line, and he shook his head back and forth. When his eyes opened, he said the saddest words Charity had ever heard. “I’m too late.” The words left his mouth and gathered power as they fell, landing on the porch floor like bombs.
This was where Charity was supposed to confirm that Gramps was gone. But there was no strength left in her. The world around was hazy, her power stripped and lost in the moment. “He, uh, he—”
Harold placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone.”
She nodded, fighting the tears again, and fighting the need to cling to a man she hadn’t seen for twenty years. But as he lifted her chin to look her in the eye, Charity felt something else, too. Fresh as morning rain and cool as a conch shell, she felt a connection to her gramps that only Uncle Harold could bring. It was like having a little bit of Gramps back at the house. When her gaze landed on his suitcase, an overwhelming sensation hit her. He’d come to stay . . . at least for a short time. Hope unfurled in her stomach.
Realizing that George was gone, Harold suggested he should leave, but Charity insisted that he stay, at least for the night. She placed his suitcase on one of the beds in an upstairs room, and she left him to freshen up in the powder room downstairs. He couldn’t escape, her mind teased, what with his suitcase here. For good measure, she turned off the light and closed the bedroom door. She’d refrain from saying in which room she’d placed his things.
Childish as it was, she’d lost her gramps quite suddenly, and she refused to lose her uncle in the same—or any—manner. He was here. And they had so, so much to talk about.
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 7