He stopped midstep. “What ghost?”
“Ssshhh. He lives in the attic. Sometimes I think I hear him walking around and sometimes I hear music. Uncle Harold heard it, too, so stop looking at me like I’m bonkers.”
His heartbeat tried to increase, but he stilled it. People always talked about ghosts in their attics and footfalls and music. Normal, right? Common. Still, the hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he made a decision to check out the attic at first opportunity.
He’d never been upstairs, and the French doors leading to the master suite were as solid as two wooden walls. He deposited Charity inside and turned to leave as she made her way across the floor, only twice zigzagging. He heard her yell at him from the en suite bathroom. “Don’t leave, Dalton, ’K?”
Almost escaped. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he heard water running, then the unmistakable sound of something crashing to the floor, he turned but opted not to go running to her rescue. “You OK?”
“I knocked some stuff over while brushing my teeth. My mouth tasted like vinegar. I spilled water on my new pants.”
He sat down on the corner of the bed. When she came out, he stood and faced her, then quickly spun around away from her. She was wearing a long T-shirt, and below it were only legs.
“I have on shorts,” she said, a half laugh in her voice.
Well, that was a relief. How had he signed up for babysitter of inebriated next-door neighbor?
She made her way to her bed and pulled back the covers. Before she got in, she faced Dalton. “Will you stay with me for a little while?”
Cold shot down his spine, causing every excuse he could gather to swirl into his head. They fought for position, and he could easily give her thirty reasons why he couldn’t—wouldn’t—stay with her for even a few moments longer.
When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “It’s OK. I shouldn’t have asked.” Her gaze went to the second set of French doors that overlooked the dark ocean beyond. “I’ve spent most all my life alone to one degree or another. Have you ever seen those people who seem to thrive on human touch? I’ve never understood that. And at the same time, I’ve always envied it. When I was little, I’d hold my own hand crossing the street because I knew my mom wouldn’t.”
A small piece of Dalton’s heart broke for her. A young woman willing to risk herself to feel. He could take a lesson. Life had always shown him love. His parents, then Melinda and Kissy. And here he was closing off emotion when Charity was searching for it, hoping to find and even understand it, a woman who’d maybe only been shown love by her grandparents, and that was only for the first eleven years of her life.
He didn’t remember lifting his hand to stroke her hair, but there it was, fingers threading through the strands. Soft, silken. It was delicate, like her. Delicate but still strong. “I’d love to stay for a while.” The words had no choice but to leave his mouth.
She seemed to drink them in. When she slipped under the covers, he caught a glimpse of hot-pink shorts covering her bottom. Dalton looked away until she was throat-high in blankets. She’d scooted over, making room for him. His feet were already bare, so he stretched out on the bed on top of the covers. She didn’t seem to notice. Or mind, as she turned to face him, tucking her hands against her cheek.
It made her look angelic, with her big, dark eyes and long, dark hair splayed across the white pillowcase. He should say something.
She beat him to it. “I’m not a very good potter. But I thought that coming here, using Gramps’s wheel and tools and kiln, I thought maybe I’d be better.”
“Are you?”
She blinked. “I think I really am. I’ve had six special orders, and when Mrs. Parker picked up her plate, she was thrilled. It really was pretty, Dalton. Beautiful, in fact.”
Her words were soft brushes of air against his cheeks. He needed to not concentrate on that feeling, so much like angels’ wings. “That’s great, Charity. What else are you working on?”
“A desk placard, a set of wine goblets—”
“Wine goblets? Good Lord, I hope you don’t feel the need to test them out.”
She giggled. “I really don’t drink.”
“That’s what all the lushes say.” When her face pinched into a frown, he placed a hand on her shoulder. It was there or the waist, and his hands didn’t need to be that low on her body. “I’m teasing you, OK?”
“I was nervous. When I’m nervous, I don’t eat.”
A bit of her hair rubbed against the skin on his throat, and that sensation was one he didn’t need, so he drew an index finger along her hairline and brushed the strands over her shoulder. “So, you hadn’t eaten since lunch?”
“Yesterday.”
He frowned.
Charity shrugged one shoulder causing the blanket between them to tug. “When I’m working, I lose track of time.”
“You can’t go without eating, Charity. It’s not healthy.”
“And it makes me loopy drunk after two or three glasses of merlot.”
Her eyes were getting heavy; he could tell from the languid way they closed and opened. “I’ll do better about eating,” she said on an exhale. “And I’ll lock my doors. Geez, you really are like a big brother.”
Right now, not as much as he’d prefer. “Turn over,” he commanded, and for a moment her eyes sprung open, but she soon obeyed without any question. She scooted around, bottom wiggling and getting comfortable on the bed, and once she was, he gently looped an arm over her shoulder and, with dogged determination, pulled himself alongside her so that the only thing between them was clothing and blankets.
It was a few seconds before she released the air in her lungs. She must have sucked most of it out of the room because she exhaled and exhaled and exhaled, every last bit of tension leaving her muscles with the motion. “Dalton,” she whispered. “Will you talk to me?”
Of course he would. What else would two people do while stretched out on a bed? He ran his hand along her hairline again, hoping to remember the feel of it tomorrow. Because come tomorrow, he’d never ever be stroking it again. “My wife’s name was Melinda, and we met in high school. She was a cheerleader, and I’d been on the football team since Mighty Mites. Her hair was the color of sunshine, and I swear she had the moon and stars wrapped up inside her soul. For me, it was love at first sight. She was new to the school, and I tripped over a helmet looking at her across the field. She laughed at me. But she also came running over to see if I was OK. Her dad was a banker, and she was an only child. She loved skiing and had always wanted to go to Europe. We were planning to on our fifteenth anniversary. That gave us time to save up. We wanted to spend a month there, have her folks meet us for the last two weeks and bring Kissy.”
Dalton stroked her hair again and talked on. Even after he knew Charity was soundly asleep, he went on talking about Melinda. No more tears came. He just talked—everything about her—from her favorite pizza to her irrational fear of house spiders. It helped, the hollow place in his heart filling with memories rather than grief. It felt as though he’d righted a wrong. He hadn’t talked about her enough since she’d died. All the people back home just wanted to know about the death—and he’d finally shut down. Just giving pat answers that didn’t even always align with the questions. He’d given something back to Melinda tonight. Something she deserved.
He’d thank Charity for that tomorrow. But not until he scolded her about being too trusting with strangers.
Charity woke with a jackhammer in her head and a smile on her face. She sat up, smelling bacon and fresh coffee. Forcing her mind to clear, she leaned up to a seated position, eyes taking in the room as if she’d never seen it before.
Pieces of the night fell together. Dalton. Here. Beside her and now downstairs in her kitchen making her breakfast. She bolted from the bed and rushed down the steps refusing to regret what had happened. Something about it seemed right.
She found him in her kitchen, humming as he cooked.
Charity dropped onto the nearest bar stool. Suddenly, her words were gone.
Dalton faced her and put his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened. Lucky for you I was here, because all that regret you’re feeling right now would have been well founded if that poor excuse for a date had hung around.”
Charity chewed her fingernail. She hated to admit it, but the guy had kept shoving glasses of wine in her direction. Not that she was without fault. He hadn’t poured them down her throat.
“Can we just forget about the whole night?”
Something sparked in Dalton’s eyes, as if her request had pricked his feelings. Then she remembered. He’d talked about his wife, Melinda. His voice had carried Charity from this world to a dream world with words about her. It had been beautiful. It had been raw. A frozen moment in time when he’d been able to let go of all those emotions that kept him from just talking about her. What a rare moment for both of them.
He returned his attention to the scrambled eggs.
“Dalton, I’m really glad you were here with me.”
This time, he didn’t turn around. “Me, too.”
With his back to her, Charity took a moment to really look at him. He was tan from hours in the sun. He knew his way around a spatula and wielded it with finesse. He didn’t deserve the sadness life had dealt him.
And she didn’t deserve a friend like him.
After a few weeks of Saturday morning breakfast with Dalton, Charity wondered if her next-door neighbor had ulterior motives. Maybe he didn’t just enjoy her company on lazy Saturdays when work could wait, and the morning sun on the gulf beckoned. After her epic-fail date night, Dalton had been popping over bright and early on Saturdays. Only Saturdays, and he usually arrived with all the makings of a great breakfast. As far as ulterior motives went, she figured he was making sure she got at least one decent meal a week . . . given her propensity for grabbing little bites of this and that, rather than cooking full meals. But in a short amount of time, Uncle Harold would be back, and she’d be cooking meals again. He’d planned on only being gone a week, but that had stretched to two, then three.
As they ate, she’d told Dalton all about the sweet old lady and the candy dish she’d picked up the week before. “She lives across the street at the end of the block.” Charity scraped the last of her eggs into a small pile and scooped it up with her fork. “I hadn’t noticed where she lived until yesterday when I was out front, and I saw the school bus go by. I watched it and was thinking about her and how excited she was to get the dish, and when the bus pulled away from its stop, I noticed several parents gathered on one porch.”
“Her house?” Dalton looked up from his plate. He grabbed another biscuit—homemade by him the night before—and spread butter on the two halves.
Charity nodded. “Her house.” She shook her head no when he offered her half of the biscuit.
“I guess she’s not so lonely now, huh? When was the last time you went to town?”
“Uh, what’s the date today?”
His brows rose. “If you have to ask to know, you’ve been cooped up too long. Today, we’re going to town.”
She shrugged her agreement. She liked going downtown. It was the perfect combination of an island paradise and a small-town main street. Cobblestones and lampposts. Rocking chairs in front of a marine store and brightly colored beach umbrellas for sale at the hair salon.
Just as they were planning to leave, the phone rang. Charity turned to face the offender on the kitchen wall. It was her mother. She knew without having to answer, and though relics like this one didn’t have personal ringtones, there was a distinct frustration vibrating through the line and into the room. She lifted the receiver cautiously. “Hello?”
“Charity.” Her mother’s voice was as curt as the obnoxious ring had been.
“Hello, Mom. How are you?”
“Really? That’s how you want to play this?” A heavy exhale—worthy of Broadway—shuddered through the phone line. “I’m fine, Charity. And how are you?”
“Good.” Boundaries, Charity reminded herself. Where Ellen Marie Baxter was concerned, there had to be boundaries. Otherwise, her mother would steamroll right over her.
“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, perhaps you can explain why your pottery shop is closed?”
That’s why her mom had called. Not to check on her, not to see if she was doing OK. Charity choked back the hurt that tried to lodge in her throat, though she knew it shouldn’t. She’d only spoken to her mother once since Gramps had died. He hadn’t wanted a funeral. “I’m sorry. I should have called you.”
“Yes. You should have. I used up one of my last favors at the newspaper to get your little shop some much-needed publicity, and what do you do?”
Charity closed her eyes.
“Veronica called me. She’d been planning to do a nice piece about the shop and had carved out an hour to spend with you. And you show your gratitude by closing the doors and not even bothering to let me know.”
So that’s what this was really about. A favor at the newspaper office. Her mother’s embarrassment over not knowing her daughter had closed her business. “I’m sorry. It’s just that after I heard about Gramps—”
“Oh please, Charity. Don’t play the grieving granddaughter card. You hadn’t even seen him in three years.”
Charity bit into her cheek and counted to three silently. Yes, the words stabbed like daggers, but that was partly because her mother was right. When Charity saw Dalton making his way to the back door, she covered the receiver with the palm of her hand. “Please stay. I’ll only be a minute.” She knew that to be true because no matter how angry her mother was, she never kept Charity on the phone for more than a few minutes.
He nodded but turned away to give her privacy.
“Who are you talking to? When are you coming home?”
Home? She’d already started to think of this as home.
“Are you listening to me, Charity Monroe? When are you returning to New York?”
How to answer that? She still had her apartment. But with the shop closing, she had no business there. Her business was here. Not the New York set, but the Mrs. Gorbens who needed candy dishes and the Mrs. Parkers who needed taupe plates. Her business was special orders and the people who wanted them. Her spine straightened. “I’m not coming back, Mom. I’m going to live here. For good. I love the island, and I’ve already started doing some business here.”
Laughter filled the phone line. “Live there. You won’t last six months. You’re New York, Charity. Not tiny Florida island.”
Across the room, she caught Dalton’s eye. He was smiling. It gave her strength. “In fact, I think you’re wrong. You’re New York, Mom. Always were. But me? Not as much. I always loved the island and this house.”
But then her mother said the unthinkable. “Really, Charity? What about the willow tree? Do you remember what you told me about it? You said you never wanted to see it again. Is it there? Are you trimming the branches?”
She must have gone pale because Dalton—face awash with concern—had moved to stand at her side. He placed a hand at the small of her back, eyes studying her every movement.
Charity found her strength in his touch. “I’m hanging up now, Mom. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I just need to go. I have plans. I love you. But I’m staying on the island. Good-bye.”
The silence in the room echoed as if trying to scrub away the stain of her mother’s words. Dalton’s hand moved ever so gently back and forth over the small of her back. “We can go to town another day,” he whispered.
She tilted her head back. “No way. I want ice cream and to visit the farmer’s market. I want to walk the marina and maybe buy some fresh fish for dinner. I want lunch at an outdoor bistro.”
Dalton’s chin dipped. “You OK?
”
She thought a moment before answering. With most people, a static “Yes, I’m fine,” would do. But not with Dalton. Charity exhaled. “She can be such a difficult person. I’m not naïve. I know what she’s capable of.”
Dalton stayed silent. His only encouragement to continue was the light press of his palm to her back.
“And that’s the problem, Dalton. I know what she’s capable of. Then there are these glorious little glimpses of goodness that give me hope for her.”
“That’s not a problem, Charity. You’re a good daughter.”
She dropped her gaze. “I’m a fool. But I’m just not ready to give up on her. She’s my mom. And until Harold showed up, she was all the family I had left.”
Dalton stepped away from her, a smile appearing on his face. “Let me get this straight. Marina, lunch, farmer’s market. Whatever the lady wants . . .”
They left, with the sun shining down on them as soon as they stepped from the door. Charity chose not to think about the willow swaying in the salty breeze out back. If no one tends it, no one can be hurt by it, she told herself over and over again. She needed the constant reminder because deep in her mind a tiny voice whispered that all the tree was and all it was capable of doing would soon wreck her world again.
CHAPTER 7
The Ghost
If someone could take a snow globe filled with tiny miniature pieces of a quaint small town and add sand and boats, palm trees and bait stores, and then shake the dickens out of the thing and let all the pieces land where they chose, well, that would be Gaslamp Island’s downtown district.
A flat-roofed Florida house converted to a chiropractic practice next door to the marine salvage store. The ice cream shop beside Bessie’s Bait and Tackle. The hub of downtown was the general store that sat adjacent to Founders Hall, where dark, rich wood was visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The hall was the gathering place for all things Gaslamp Island.
Charity was glad Dalton had suggested walking. It wasn’t more than six blocks from home, and she’d used the time to let the remnants of her conversation with her mother roll off her in waves. Side by side, they headed to the long strip of downtown. At the far end—and just past the bright-white tents marking the farmer’s market—the horizon and the Gulf ran in a perpendicular line as if suggesting each person pause, take in the view, then hit every shop in town and spend, spend, spend.
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