In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  “Are you Miss Baxter?” The woman’s voice was bumpy at best but also filled with emotion and gentle as a butterfly’s flutter.

  “Yes, I am.”

  A handbag hung from the woman’s arm and swung like a pendulum as she spoke. “Oh, lovely. I live just down the way. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Thin brows rose as she peered past Charity to look inside the house.

  Where had Charity’s manners gone? She motioned behind her. “Please come in.”

  The woman licked her thin lips as if contemplating the offer. “No, no. I don’t want to impose.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Are you George’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A single nod of the woman’s head had Charity wondering what cryptic message might follow. The eyes that had been soft were now intense. “I’m Mrs. Gorben.” She cast a glance behind her as if there were eavesdroppers listening from the bushes.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Charity.”

  Her hands came together in front of her. “Of course you are. And Charity, you’re continuing your grandfather’s work? Correct? You take”—she leaned forward again—“special orders.”

  Charity bit back a smile and thought about how any onlookers might just think she was dealing drugs, the way people seemed to be so cautiously nonchalant, which never worked. As soon as someone begins glancing over his shoulder to see who’s listening, it tends to draw attention rather than avert onlookers.

  “Yes. What are you needing? I’ve just finished the orders I had, and I’m looking for something to sink my teeth into.”

  This seemed to please the woman, evidenced by a smile that made all the lines on her face curve. “A candy dish.” But after she said it, her voice drifted off, along with her gaze. She looped both hands through the handbag and held it tightly. “I’m . . .” The next words seemed to slip away as if she couldn’t remember what she was going to say.

  “Ma’am?”

  Mrs. Gorben blinked. “I’m lonely, dear.” It was a matter-of-fact statement delivered in a matter-of-fact tone. One Charity might even doubt had it not been for the lost, emotion-filled look in her eyes just before. “The house is too quiet since my husband became bedridden. I’d like a candy dish. A big one, the kind people use on Halloween when there’s lots of laughter and lots of children. Is that too much to ask?”

  Charity wasn’t sure what she was asking. A candy dish, sure, but what did that have to do with being lonely?

  The woman winked. “I like to sit on my porch in the early afternoon and watch the children walk past from school. Right on the bus route, I am. Close to your house, in fact. Last week, one of the moms sat with me while it rained. I had a little dish of candy. Do you think it’s OK to give pieces of candy to strangers?”

  Charity’s heart was heavy with emotion. “I think it’s very nice.” She set her mind to creating a beautiful candy dish worthy of the sweet lady before her. “I can have it for you in two weeks.”

  “Oh, that long?”

  “I’m sorry. But it takes time to create, dry, and trim the piece, then glazing and firing. But I’ll rush it as much as I can. How would that be?”

  Thin cold fingers snagged Charity’s hands. For an old lady, she had one tight grip. “Wonderful. I’ll return in two weeks’ time.”

  Charity watched her leave, then ran upstairs and changed clothes quickly. She smeared on a bit of makeup because she’d be sitting all evening staring at pretty Emily Rudd and their two dates. Dates. The idea shouldn’t make her want to dry heave, but it did.

  And a blind date was even worse. She pulled the light summer sweater out of the White House Black Market bag and dug deeper for the shoes. Though Charity had lived most of her life in New York, she’d never been doted on by a store stylist the way she’d been a couple of days ago when visiting the small mall on the island. Brandon—“call me Bran”—had led her through the store grabbing items and telling her she had a great vibe. Some $631 later—and that was with a significant coupon Bran produced from the pocket of his linen pants—she had a complete outfit that she loved. And that fit her vibe. Brandon gave her his business card and told her he loved being a personal shopper and to call him any time she needed threads.

  She bolted down the stairs two at a time when she heard another knock. She paused at the bottom, her hand on the bear’s head. Back door. For some reason that made her smile. Only Dalton used the back door. “Come on in,” she hollered, her black sandals dangling from her hand. In her other hand was an empty leather handbag, smaller than the one Emily toted around, but stylish and fitting her vibe and most certainly a shield Wonder Woman would envy.

  Dalton was wiping the sweat from his forehead and cheeks with a shop towel. He’d been toiling intensely the last several hours in her garden and now smelled like man and work. She stopped just inside the kitchen doorway when Dalton’s bright-blue eyes found her over the towel. He didn’t speak, but there was a look in his eyes that inched across the marble to her.

  Suddenly, the room was hot. Tendrils of fear rose and bloomed on her face. “What?” She croaked the word because if Dalton—someone she knew—was staring at her like she was some kind of alien, her date might actually run in the other direction. And here, she’d thought Bran had done her a favor.

  Dalton closed his mouth, swallowed, and let his eyes trail down to her bare feet. “I’ve never seen you cleaned up like this.”

  She tried to focus on his words. He didn’t sound appalled. She bent and set the shoes on the cool marble floor where she’d be able to shimmy her feet into them. “I’m going out with Emily Rudd.”

  Dalton’s brows rose slowly, a grin toying at his mouth.

  She huffed. “It’s a double date thing. Something she set up.” Charity chewed on a fingernail. “I’m not great with social.”

  Dalton stepped closer. “Well, don’t ruin your manicure.” When he got to her, he took her hand in his and studied her fingers.

  She still had clay under the nails.

  He led her to the sink, turned on the water, tested the temperature, and then started scrubbing. The room was a tight ball of oxygen-deprived space. Her gaze left the sink and all that cool water where Dalton’s hands rubbed over hers. In the reflection of the window, she could see the concentration on his face. He reached for the soap, and the muscle in his upper arm stretched and then bulged as he grabbed the nail brush sitting nearby. She hardly ever used the thing, but Dalton handled it like a pro and scrubbed at the ends of her fingertips.

  “Am I rubbing too hard?” His voice was a whisper against the long strands of hair that separated his face from hers. She tried to focus on him in the window but couldn’t quite make him out in the fading light.

  “No.” Water ran in cool rivulets over her hands and wrists causing everything to feel fresh, alive.

  Dalton’s eyes looked different inside the house. Often, he’d show her plants and shrubs he was introducing to the garden, and there in the sunlight, his eyes were a green starburst. Here in the kitchen, with the overhead sink light playing off the colors, his eyes were softer. Warm. Trustworthy. And some of the sadness that swam in them was gone. If not gone, at least well hidden.

  “Do you think you’re ever going to tell me about your wife?” Charity didn’t know why it was suddenly important to know, but it was.

  He blinked but didn’t look away. “Maybe.”

  She could live with that.

  He shut off the water. “You think you can have a good time tonight? Now that your date won’t have to wonder what’s creeping under your fingernails?”

  She half smiled. “Maybe.”

  Dalton handed her the kitchen towel. “You look nice, Charity. Take a deep breath and have fun.”

  She pulled a long breath but didn’t let it out until tiny black spots danced in her vision.

  He nodded toward the backyard. “I finished the right section of the garden. I’m going to replace some pavers, and there are a few tools I left in
your sleeping porch. I didn’t feel like hauling them back to the shed, and it might rain later. Can I stash a couple more things in there tonight?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.” Charity had gotten used to Dalton coming and going through the sleeping porch and the kitchen. He never messed with her pottery stuff and always made coffee, so he was golden. “I’ll just leave the doors unlocked when I leave.”

  A frown creased his brow. “Don’t do that.”

  She dropped the towel on the counter. “It’s no big deal. Half the time, I forget to lock the sleeping porch anyway.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  There was a look in his eye. Something she didn’t like. Something territorial. She knew that tone. It was one used by people who wanted to control. But this was Dalton, and though she didn’t know him well, controlling and overbearing didn’t ring true. And yet . . .

  “You’ve been meaning to talk to me about my sleeping porch being unlocked?” Her voice was strained.

  “I figured it probably wasn’t too big a deal since there’s a lock on the kitchen door, but I’ve actually found that one unlocked before, too. Twice, in fact.”

  Apprehension crawled over her flesh, causing her new sweater to itch. “And this concerns you, why?” An unsettled feeling took root in her gut, causing her to gauge his every movement as he took a small step closer. The kitchen light caught in his eyes, and she saw something there that she hadn’t expected. Honest concern.

  “Charity, you live alone.” He motioned around him. “In this massive house.”

  This had been her childhood summer home, and of all the things it was, scary wasn’t in the mix. She felt perfectly comfortable here. “Yes, on an island where zero crime happens.”

  The muscle in his jaw flexed. “Crime happens everywhere.”

  For some insane reason, that sentence, and the look accompanying it, ended her discomfort with what she’d thought was nosiness. “You’re not very trusting, are you?” she said.

  “I know people can do bad things. Maybe you’re too trusting.”

  She tried to smile. “Probably. I let you in.”

  This caught him off guard, and he chuckled. “My point exactly.”

  Charity went to the kitchen drawer and found the spare keys. She removed one from the ring and tried it on the kitchen door; then she held it out to Dalton. “Here. The sleeping porch will be unlocked, but in case you need anything in the kitchen. I’ll start being better about locking up.” She didn’t even know why she wanted to do this for him, but she did. It was kind of sweet that he worried about her.

  Dalton felt a sudden rush of relief. He took the key from Charity but failed to mention that he’d seen someone skulking around her house a few nights before. It was after her Uncle Harold had left and so late at night that Dalton had first thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  But the shadow had run from the beach area to the far side of the house and disappeared. He’d run out front to see if the person was in the road, but there was nothing. The next day he’d checked for tracks. Again, nothing. Sometimes he had to wonder if his imagination was drawing him down a rabbit hole.

  He watched Charity leave when the attorney, Emily Rudd, pulled up in her sports car. Some red exotic that probably cost more than the cottage he was living in. The night was a quiet one, complete with a Hemingway he finished as the night dragged on. Beyond his small window, the surf hummed. When he heard a car door and the unmistakable sound of Charity’s laughter, Dalton peered out the front window. There in the drive was a car he didn’t recognize. It was midnight, and he knew he should just go to bed. He hadn’t been staying up to make sure Charity got home OK. No. When he heard her laugh again and focused on the silhouette of her and a guy just stepping into the pool of light from the porch lamp, Dalton’s hair rose on end. Had Charity just stumbled?

  He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on as he slipped out his back door. He went straight through the sleeping porch and unlocked the kitchen. He was at the front door just as Charity was muscling the mahogany giant open.

  Dalton smiled. “Hey there.” He smelled alcohol.

  Charity’s glassy eyes focused. “Dalton?”

  His gaze trailed to the man with his arm draped over Charity’s shoulder. The guy glowered at Dalton.

  In response, Dalton thrust a hand out in front of him. It fully blocked they guy’s entrance. “I’m Dalton.”

  Reluctantly, the man shook his hand.

  Charity leaned on the doorjamb. “Dalton is my—”

  “Brother,” he finished for her and gave such a wide smile, the guy leaned back a little.

  Charity giggled.

  “Been drinking, sis?” There was a tightness to his tone.

  She brushed her hair from her face. “I might have had a couple of glasses of wine.”

  “Or a couple of bottles?” Dalton took her arm and directed his next words to the date who—by the look on his face—had already kissed his plans for the rest of the night good-bye. “I can take her from here. Very nice of you to see her home safely.” There was only a moment of challenge. Men were good at sizing up their competition, and this kind of man was good at cowering when he knew he was bested. Dalton didn’t often rely on his intimidation power, but when necessary, he had no problem bringing out the grizzly bear in his personality. And if the dude in the dark suit thought he was taking one step into Charity’s house, he’d be searching for his teeth between the porch boards. “Good night.”

  One last glance of challenge, and the rodent crawled back into his hole. He was halfway to the driveway before hollering back at her. “I’ll call you.”

  Charity waved, but he was scurrying to his car. She turned to Dalton. “I’m not much of a drinker.” She tossed an arm over his shoulder.

  “Your posture would suggest otherwise.”

  “I was nervous.” She used a stage whisper to tell him this, even though he was less than a heartbeat from her. He could smell wine on her breath. It mingled with something sweet. A scent he couldn’t place but liked.

  “Let’s get you some coffee.” He started to head into the kitchen, but she stopped in the dining room, deadweight coming to an abrupt halt. “Did Uncle Harold tell you how we used to dance here in the dining room? That’s why the table is over there.” Her hand flopped toward the table as if he needed it pointed out. “Gram and Gramps loved to dance. Uncle Harold taught them.” Her shoulders began to sway, and though Dalton didn’t like seeing her in this state—eyes glassy, thoughts undoubtedly foggy—he also knew that sometimes a mind could more easily trek down memory road with a bit of liquid lubrication. Charity’s eyes misted. “I miss my gram and gramps. Is that silly? For a grown woman?”

  “No.” He understood. He missed Melinda and Kissy, and sometimes it wasn’t just the thought of them, it was a scent, a feeling, a sound he missed most of all. He’d pass a playground on the way home from work, and he’d hear the laugh of a small girl who sounded like his daughter, and he’d scan the crowd, searching. But she was never there.

  Charity planted both hands flat on the table. “Did you ever want to just be little again?”

  He wanted to just stop aching. Wanted to quiet the demons. He touched her shoulder. “Little was probably simpler. Do I ever want to go back to a time that was simpler?” He hadn’t meant for the tremor to pass through his hand and to her shoulder, but it did. “Yeah. Every day I want that.”

  Charity turned to face him. “Dalton?”

  His nose tingled because there was something so honest in the look she was giving him, so pure, he’d be forced to tell her whatever she asked. Her honesty demanded it. “Does it ever get any easier?”

  His throat closed.

  “Does the grief ever let up?”

  Tears tried to spring to his eyes, but he’d gotten good at swallowing them, drowning the emotion. He’d done it for a year. But the peculiar woman before him frowned. She saw through him, and sh
e obviously didn’t like how he’d already answered her honesty with a slap of deceit. Because behind that swallow and that closed throat, he was hiding. So he did the only thing he could do. He pulled a deep breath, let it hiss from his lips and let the first tear come. It filled his eye, then trickled onto his cheek. There, it trailed over his face and jaw.

  Charity said nothing, but she watched the tear as it slid down and down until it could keep its hold on his chin no longer. It landed on the floor below them.

  Another followed. And a third. And just the few tears felt strangely cleansing. They stood toe-to-toe in the dining room that used to double as a dance floor back when Charity was little, and love and laughter filled her life. She was grieving, too, he realized, maybe as much as he was. So he didn’t brush the tears away as they filled his eyes and fell. His breathing was slow, his pulse normal, but his tears were full, and he wasn’t ashamed to cry them.

  Two streams ran the length of his face, the tears finding an easier and easier path as they dropped one by one. There was no sound in the room save for their breathing. Inhales and exhales. And something about it was sweet. Though he tasted despair, he also tasted something new. Something fresh and tinged with hope. He’d mourned. For over a year he’d mourned. But now he was getting the chance to grieve. The two were different. One was a sorrow for all that was lost. The other was an understanding that life had to go on.

  Several minutes passed. Finally, Charity smiled. Dalton smiled back, his cheeks cracking with so much salt water dried on them. She swayed, and he said, “You better get to bed.”

  She yawned. “I am sleepy.”

  When the wine on her breath hit him again, he remembered how tipsy she was. “I’ll lock the front door.”

  “Just like a big brother.” She moved to the banister and rested her hand on the bear’s head. “Everything’s a little blurry.”

  He glanced up at the tall round staircase above her. “I’ll probably regret this, but I’ll walk you up.”

  “OK.” She threw her arm over his shoulder again and hung on. “But don’t wake up the ghost.”