There was a plea and a sadness in her tone. Also, the sound of a woman giving up. Charity moved closer to her. “Did you say, taupe?”
The woman turned. “Yes. But any neutral color will be fine. Or perhaps not a neutral. Something bright and colorful.”
For someone who so desperately wanted a plate, the woman seemed far too agreeable. And in that instance, Charity felt the weight of her own situation. The idea of filling her gramps’s shoes seemed as insurmountable a task as emptying the Colorado River with a drinking straw. Sweat broke out on her forehead. “You know, Gramps—George—left some inventory here. I’m sure I can find a beautiful plate—”
A meaty hand gripped Charity’s forearm. “Oh no. That would never work. It has to be made for me.”
Charity decided it was time to stop dancing around the crazy tree and just agree. “OK. I think taupe will be lovely. Not too ornate. I’ll have it ready in about two weeks.”
The woman’s face lit up. “Wonderful. I can’t thank you enough.”
They exchanged information, and Charity watched her leave without bothering to give her a price. No need to, if the woman was expecting a work of Gramps’s caliber, it was possible she wouldn’t even want the plate after seeing it. Still, Charity would do her best. She’d pour her heart and soul into the plate as if it would be the only dinnerware used by the queen of England for the rest of her life. Gramps had taught her to do everything with excellence. She just wished her own level of excellence measured up to his.
Harold had napped, showered, and changed into a nicer pair of pants and a button-down shirt, so Charity felt the need to change as well. Though she rarely dressed up, and never for dinner in her own house, she donned a pair of new jeans and a dark-pink, short-sleeved sweater. Around her neck, she placed a locket she’d found in her gram’s jewelry box. Gramps had left it full of costume jewelry, and she suspected he’d known she’d one day treasure sifting through it. She left her shoes off. No sense in going too hog wild—as Gramps would call it.
“So, this young man of yours,” Uncle Harold said as he entered the kitchen carrying the set of dishes Charity had discovered in a box marked UNCLAIMED ORDER.
“He’s not my young man.” Her knife hovered over the strawberries she was trimming. “He’s the neighbor who is rehabbing the garden. I hope it’s OK that I invited him. Fresh snapper is hard to turn down.”
“I’m glad you did. Good for both of us. Probably for him, too.”
Charity couldn’t imagine why her uncle thought that, but at least he wasn’t upset. The truth was, they needed to get to know each other all over again, and Dalton seemed a good buffer. Harold poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter. “Is he a full-time resident?”
“No.” Charity placed the strawberry knife on the counter, where it left a small, red stain. “He lost his wife and child a year ago. He’s fixing up the Barlows’ little cottage.”
The mug stopped halfway to Harold’s mouth. “How awful. I can see why he’d need a friend.”
Charity nodded. She felt strange about admitting Dalton’s secrets so readily but thought it might make for an easier transition if the subject came up. One thing she already knew about Dalton Reynolds was that he hated the looks of first horror, then pity at the mention of his lost family.
She placed the bowl of freshly trimmed strawberries in the center of the table where their scent rose and beckoned. Her uncle’s words rang in her thoughts. I can see why he’d need a friend. She liked the idea of being Dalton’s friend. Funny how she’d been hoping to do better on the friend front and was really committed to attempting a relationship with Emily Rudd. And here, out of the blue and thanks to her gram and gramps and their irresistible garden, a friend had been dropped right in her lap.
“You ever hear strange noises in the house?” Harold asked as he started chopping the ingredients for the salad Charity placed before him.
“Sometimes I think I hear footsteps and music. It’s far off, barely there. In fact, I think it’s most likely my imagination.”
Harold grinned. “Good imagination you’ve got there, girl. I think I heard your music, too.”
“I smell tobacco now and then. And cinnamon. Like Gramps is standing right behind me, and his scent is drifting over my shoulder and into my nose.”
Harold lowered his head. “Guess he’ll always be here.”
Charity could see the top of Harold’s white head and the bottom of his face, where his chin quivered. She reached across the counter and placed her hand on his forearm where springy hairs tickled her palm. “And now you’re here. I’m so glad you came.”
His eyes came up to meet her, saying so much more than words could have. He patted her hand. “Thanks, Lil’ Bit. It was worth the world to get here.”
And had he given the world to get here? The look on his face suggested so. “Is everything OK at home, Uncle Harold?”
“Ah, nothing for you to worry about.”
He was a bad liar. Must run in the family. “Can you tell me?”
His mouth stretched into a straight line. “Nope. I’m here to spend time with you. Not talk about crusty ol’ business.” He pointed a crooked finger at her and closed one eye. “Now, not another word about it, girlie. OK?”
She gave him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
Dalton returned to her house smelling like a man who’d showered and readied for a date. His fingernails were clean, she noted, and resisted the urge to tuck her own in the pockets of her cooking apron as she let him in the back door. Because mercy was shining on her, Charity had found Gram’s recipe box, dusty and sitting like a sentry on a shelf in the library. It was filled with recipes, all written in Gram’s own hand.
Recipes she’d try, each and every one.
Dalton held out to her a bouquet of wild flowers wrapped in a wet paper towel. She suddenly hoped he hadn’t misinterpreted her invitation. But of course he wouldn’t have, because his heart was far away, lost in another life with the family he’d had to say good-bye to.
“These are beautiful. You shouldn’t have.” They smelled like the floral warehouse she used to sneak into in New York. It was on her way home and something about the rows and rows of fresh blooms always made her feel warm inside despite the cold in the chilled warehouse space. She’d step through the long plastic strips and be transplanted from crowded and greasy city streets to a dimension where fairies and pixies rested on gerbera daisies while plotting their next adventure. Lilies, ferns, bursting pots of baby’s breath, all in neat rows, filling the world with color and scent.
“I thought you’d enjoy them. But don’t thank me. They’re all from your backyard. You could say I stole them.”
She used a deep green vase for the flowers and filled it with tap water.
Dalton watched her. “Did you make the vase?”
She moved the strawberries and placed the flowers as the table centerpiece. “No. Gramps. His mark is on the bottom. Pretty much everything you see here—potterywise—was made by him.”
Dalton nodded.
“I’m just getting started.” She felt the need to explain. She’d done a few pieces but hadn’t fired any yet, so nothing was finished. “I have a special order.”
At that moment, Harold reappeared in the kitchen. “A special order. You don’t say?” His eyes twinkled, but he looked away from her quickly.
“Uncle Harold, Gramps left me a bag with a note inside. It says to use one scoop on each special order. Do you ever remember seeing a bag like that when you were here?”
Harold’s long hands dusted the thighs of his pants. If Charity wasn’t wrong, he looked a tad uncomfortable. “I can’t say as I do.”
He turned from her toward Dalton. “So, you must be the gardener.”
Dalton laughed. “Yes, sir. You must be Uncle Harold.”
Harold gave him a mock glare. “Harold to you. We’re not that friendly yet.”
The two men shook hands and launched into a conversation about
fish, lures, the weather, and boats. Charity watched in awe. Men. It seemed so easy for them. Why couldn’t she have had a lovely, nonstrangling conversation with Emily Rudd? Because you’re hopelessly awkward and don’t know anything about the things women discuss. In fact, she really didn’t know what women discussed. Recipes, maybe? No, that seemed like a horrible cliché. Restaurants? She took the baked potatoes from the oven, burning her finger on the foil. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t.
Both men stopped their conversation and came over to her, Harold grabbing her hand and inspecting the damage. “Hurts like a son of a gun, doesn’t it?”
Dalton hovered over her right shoulder, and the kitchen suddenly felt too hot. “Be right back,” he announced.
“You subscribe to that theory about rubbing a burn in your hair?” Harold asked.
She had to laugh. Her gram had told her that from the time she was tiny. “No, I do not.”
“Me neither,” Harold admitted with a half smile. “I think it makes you feel stupid and you forget about the sting.”
Dalton came back inside with a snippet of gooey plant matter. Without invitation, he took her hand in his and rubbed the clear jelly oozing from the amputated plant piece on the meaty part of her hand. Instantly, the burn cooled. “Aloe?”
He looked over at her and winked. “Hello.”
She rolled her eyes and withdrew her hand. “Not hello. Aloe?”
“Cures what ails you.” Dalton took her spot at the potatoes and placed them on a plate, then carried them into the dining room, where the table was lit with an overhead chandelier that looked like it held flickering candles.
Charity watched him. He made himself at home so easily. She wouldn’t want it any other way. If she invited someone to dinner, she wanted them to feel like family. But it was so effortless for him. She could learn from him.
He arranged the potatoes by the stack of plates, then turned to face her. The soft glow caught in his eyes as if those sparks were meant to bounce off him. As if the light had been awaiting his arrival. He likely altered everything he touched. Dalton squared his shoulders and gave her a smile. This fit him, helping someone prepare the table for dinner. Her heart squeezed as she wondered how many meals he’d sat at alone in the last year. Still, there was a granite quality to his posture, and what else but granite could survive the storm he’d lived through?
Harold stepped to the table. “Taters are gonna get cold.”
Charity giggled. Taters. She hadn’t heard them called that in a long time.
They helped themselves to grilled snapper, potatoes, and crusty bread she’d planned to make into croutons. They ate the strawberries right out of the large bowl, using their fingers and letting the juice have its way. They forgot about the salad. It sat wilting in a salad bowl on the kitchen counter.
Dalton leaned back from the table. “That was incredible.”
“Gram’s recipe. She really did win awards with it.”
Dalton drained his water glass. “There’s only one problem. You promised not to burn anything.”
She sucked in a breath; the fish had been perfect.
Dalton grinned and pointed to her hand.
“Oh. Yeah, that.” The last thing she wanted was all the attention on her again. She turned to her uncle. “So Harold, let’s talk about Gramps’s bag I found.” Charity wasn’t done with her questions. Harold knew something—of that she was certain.
He pushed his plate away and smiled.
“I’m supposed to put one scoop of the special ingredient into the special order per Gramps’s instructions.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Any thoughts as to what’s inside that sack?”
He folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back in the dining room chair. “Nope.”
She opened her mouth to continue the interrogation, but Harold yawned. “Listen, kids, I’m not tired, but I don’t want to help clean up this mess, so, I’m going to force a couple of yawns and wave good-bye while I head up to bed.”
Same old Uncle Harold. Honest to a fault. Charity rose and caught him by the arm. “I’m so happy you’re here. I hope . . .” But what to say? Fact was, she wanted Harold to stay. As long as he wanted. “I, um, hope you sleep well.”
He patted her cheek, his soft, blue eyes watery and saying all the things she wanted to hear. “Good night, Lil’ Bit.”
Her heart practically sang as she watched him walk up the stairs. Lil’ Bit. The nickname could have come straight from Gramps’s mouth.
Dalton helped clean up from dinner, but it was quick work, so he poured them both a mug of coffee and suggested they sit in the garden. The night was quiet with soft, rolling waves of indigo ink pressing toward the shoreline. “It means the world to you that he’s here, doesn’t it?”
Charity had no poker face. She was as easy to read as a pop-up book. “I already feel like I’m losing him, and I don’t even know when he’s leaving.”
Dalton sipped his coffee, then pointed to a spot far out in the water. “See the light of that buoy?”
Charity squinted. “Yes, but only when the waves are just right.”
“Whether you see it or not, it’s always there. Don’t be afraid of losing your uncle, Charity. He’s here. And even if he wasn’t, he’s—” Dalton took a tiny step closer to her and placed the tips of his fingers over her heart. “He’s here.” He tapped her breastbone.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The gentle rush of waves created a rhythmic lullaby. A half-moon shone above, dropping silvery light on the ocean, giving it form. With the rise and fall of the soft waves, it looked like the shoreline was breathing. “I used to believe this island was alive.”
Dalton stepped into the gazebo and sat down. He moved to one side, leaving her room to sit beside him. “It is alive.”
“No, I mean, like a living, breathing organism with a mind and a soul and plans and dreams. I thought it was magic. A place where fairies from another realm came to live and play.”
Dalton remained still, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see him dwelling on her words, as if testing them to see how much validity lay in them.
Charity sighed. “I used to believe in magic.” Without wanting them to, her eyes drifted to the willow tree. “But then I learned that magic can also be destructive. And one day, I stopped believing in any of it.”
Tension rose off him, and Charity could only wonder why. Maybe she’d said too much. Maybe their friendship didn’t have a strong enough foundation for confessions about magic.
But then he spoke, and his words were soft. “You still believe in magic.”
She tilted her head to look at him. He struck a handsome profile in the reflection of light from a silver moon and beams on the water.
“You believe in magic, or you couldn’t create vases and pots out of a hunk of mud.” He didn’t look at her when he said it but rather kept his eyes focused on the water’s edge. He shrugged. “I believe in magic, too.”
Dalton rubbed his hands on his thighs and exhaled a long breath, the way someone does after admitting something he wishes he hadn’t. He felt exposed now. It was almost palpable. In a quick movement, he was on his feet. “Good night, Lil’ Bit.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Please. That was a nickname from childhood, one I’d hoped would be left there.”
“That’s the thing about when our past catches up to us. We don’t get to choose what stays behind and what follows us.” Grass crunched beneath his feet as he slowly walked away. He disappeared beyond the edge of her house. His cabin was dark, devoid of any light, and as Charity sat in her garden alone, she realized that the past has destructive power. Incredible power. But there was one thing, one tiny thing that kept that power from ruining everything. Hope was its foil. As long as there was hope, there was promise. And promise was enough to light all the stars in the sky.
CHAPTER 6
Epic-Fail Date Night
Uncle Harold left the following morning—much to Charity’s sorrow—but when Charity begged for his return, he promised to come back as quickly as he could. He’d claimed he had business to take care of in Birmingham, but Charity had the feeling that things for him—like her—were swiftly changing, a churning whirlpool one could only hope to navigate and not drown in.
In the days that passed, she made her first special order. It felt great to have completed the commission, but the plate looked ordinary. Lovely but ordinary. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Just . . . something. She’d also watched Dalton work in the garden, and though she’d admitted too much—about believing in magic and all—she hadn’t run him off. Their friendship continued to blossom . . . like the garden.
After completing the plate, she received five more special orders. All as weird as the first, and she’d taken care to add one scoop of Gramps’s special ingredient to each. There was a local businessman who wanted a name plaque for his office desk, a young man who wanted two wine goblets—he’d told her he was planning to propose to his girlfriend. Wine goblets made from pottery. Not crystal, not etched glass. Pottery. Maybe they were outdoor enthusiasts. Hiking and backwoods and all. She had no clue, but like the others, he was thrilled when she agreed.
She was firing the last few pieces when she glanced at the wall clock: six fifteen. Charity was already running late when there was a light knock on the front door. If she hadn’t been passing through the living room, she’d never have heard it. She threw her hip into tugging the door open to find a tiny wisp of a lady on the other side. Charity was instantly drawn to the kind, gray eyes. A strong wind rushed at them from around the side of the front porch, and Charity wondered whether the small woman could withstand its push. She had two thin sticks for legs and a plain yellow housedress dusting her knees. Her feet were clad in Oxford shoes and spread just enough to steady her. Between the folds of her sagging skin lay the unmistakable marks of a life well lived. Wrinkles turned her face into an interesting roadmap of trials and triumphs, and Charity liked this woman instantly.
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