Charity came around the kitchen counter and stared into the box of Gram’s hurricane provisions. July had started with a bang, the first potential storm bearing down on them and gathering strength in the Gulf of Mexico.
Daisy pointed to the ceiling. “There’s more up in the attic room. You want to check it out?”
“Sure.” Charity hadn’t been up there yet. She reached over and took Daisy’s hand. “I’m not trying to force you to do anything you don’t want to, but I care about you, Daisy. Sometimes, a lot of hurt can be avoided if we hit a situation head-on. Does that make sense?”
Daisy shrugged and mumbled, “I guess.”
Charity squeezed her hand and let it go. As they were leaving the kitchen, the wall phone rang. “What now?” Charity mumbled as she stepped away from Daisy to answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Charity, I’m coming to visit. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Charity’s mother’s voice sent a quick chill down her spine. She was coming to visit? “Mom, when?”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
Charity shook her head to clear it. Surely she’d heard wrong. “Mom, there’s a hurricane in the Gulf, making its way to us right now.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Charity. It’s expected to turn and hit Texas. And it’s only a tropical storm, not a hurricane.”
“No, Mom. That was yesterday. We’re going to get at least the southern corner of the storm, and hurricane or not, it’ll be severe on the island,” Charity said, feeling a rush of flulike symptoms coursing over her body.
“Well, that would have been nice to know before I rerouted my flight from Atlanta back to New York.”
And somehow, Charity felt like it was her fault that the storm shifted directions. “You’re in Atlanta?”
“I was in Atlanta. I had to go see to that shack Dad left me. I swear it’s falling in on itself. I’m driving from the Sarasota airport now. I’ll be on the water taxi shortly.” There was a frustrated sigh. “If you don’t want me to come, Charity, just say so.”
“No. Of course I want you to come. Uncle Harold is here, and you’ll get to meet my neighbor Dalton.”
“What’s Harold doing there?”
“He came for a visit. It’s so great to see him, like seeing Gramps, almost. And I have a house guest. Her name is Dai—”
“I need to go, Charity. It’s starting to rain.” Click.
Always such a loud click when her mom disconnected a call. Charity figured it was that she hung on her mother’s every word, even leaning into the phone, cradling it closer so that she didn’t miss anything, so when the click happened it was less of a disconnected phone line and more of a disconnected heart.
Slowly she placed the phone on its receiver. “We’re having company.”
Daisy chuckled. “Your mom?”
Charity nodded.
“She sounds like a real piece of work.” Daisy cocked her head. A tiny dimple appeared on the side of her cheek. “And it doesn’t sound like you’re all that excited to see her. Miss call-your-mom-she-probably-misses-you.”
Charity rubbed her hands over her face. “It’s complicated with her. I mean, she’s my mom. I love her. Really. But she’s difficult.”
“Yeah, I got that impression.”
“Even as hard as she is to deal with, if I’d ever run away as a teen, I think she would have lost it. Sometimes moms love us, but in the only way they know how—which doesn’t look like much when compared with the rest of the world. But maybe it’s all they have to offer. In my case, my mom’s too busy to offer much in the way of affection.”
“Is she like a doctor or a lawyer or something?”
“Nope. She’s a housewife.” Charity was trying to get a visual of the motley crew that would be there for the evening. If nothing else, Daisy would get to see what a dysfunctional mother/daughter relationship looked like.
“OK. Heading into a hurricane. Smart lady.”
One of Charity’s shoulders tipped up in a shrug. “She doesn’t let anything stop her. Not even Mother Nature. She’s a bit of a hurricane herself. Come on, I want to check out the attic before Harold gets home.”
Daisy knew Charity expected the third floor attic room to be a dark, spider-infested place, but that couldn’t be further from the space Daisy liked to think of as home. Even though Charity had given Daisy a room on the second floor—and she liked that, really, she did—her attic held a certain coziness that the other rooms of the house didn’t. It was her space. Her own.
At the top of the narrow stairs, Charity flipped on a light. It was a few moments before she stepped inside. From the doorway, her eyes trailed the room. “Did you move the furniture around?”
Daisy scanned the space—a daybed along one wall, with a small, round end table nearby; the trunk in one corner; a fabric-covered chair by the small window that overlooked the sea; and everything resting beneath exposed rafters of dark wood. So, maybe there were bags and boxes tucked and stacked around the furniture, but she didn’t mind. It made her feel safe, like everything was there to watch over her, protect her. There was even a wedding photo in a broken frame that Daisy had found and hung on one wall. “The room was like this. I didn’t change anything. Except that.” She pointed to the wedding picture.
Charity crossed the room to it. “There’s one like it downstairs. It’s my Gram and Gramps. This must be a copy.”
Daisy pointed to the frame. “The corner was busted, but I tacked it together and hung it up. Seemed like it should be displayed. Not sitting on an old trunk.”
Charity’s gaze dropped to the bed, then the chair.
Daisy had never thought it was weird until now. Why would someone have a room set up like this when there were ten bedrooms on the second floor?
Charity knelt in front of the trunk. Knees bent and hands splayed on the warm, rich wood, she gazed over her shoulder at Daisy. “This was my grandmother’s hope chest.”
Daisy plopped onto the nearby chair when Charity opened the case, its rusted hinges groaning in protest. Daisy had already scoured through everything in the room. Nothing new there.
A scent like old books and dust wafted out of the trunk. She watched Charity close her eyes and inhale deeply; obviously she wasn’t afraid of inhaling dust mites.
A folded quilt rested on one side of the trunk, the plastic box of photos on the other. “I’ve been looking for these,” Charity said.
Daisy nodded, uncertain if she should admit rifling through the possessions Charity obviously adored. She pointed at the box as Charity lifted it from the case and placed it behind her. “Lots of cool pictures in that box.”
Charity smiled. “I suppose they kept you company on a lot of long, lonely nights.”
Daisy pursed her mouth. “It’s fun to make up stories about the people in the photos. Who they are, where they’re going. The ones with a dark-haired little girl in them—that’s you, isn’t it?”
Charity nodded. “The best times of my childhood were right here on this island.” She pulled a deep breath. “Also the worst time of my life.”
“When your grandma died?” Daisy pushed off the chair and slowly dropped onto the floor beside Charity. “I kind of feel weird about having gone through all this stuff now. Like I was intruding.”
“You didn’t go through everything.” Charity sank both hands into the trunk. There was a clunking sound, then a scraping.
Daisy leaned forward and peered inside. “It has a false bottom.”
Charity had already tilted the fake bottom up, and there below it, wrapped in a plastic bag, was another set of photos. “My gramps didn’t even know about the false bottom. Gram told me on my last trip here because she’d planned to give it to me once I got older.”
“So, she showed you all this stuff?”
Charity shook her head. “No. She never even told me where it was.” She slowly opened the plastic bag. “I’ve never seen these pictures before.”
“Why had
n’t she planned to give the trunk to your mother?”
“Mom didn’t want it. Said the musty smell irritated her allergies.”
“Harsh,” Daisy mumbled. “Well, it’s yours now.” She peered at a photo because Charity was laying them out on the floor. “Is this your grandpa?”
“Yes.” Charity took the photo and pulled it closer. There in the picture, a young couple in love held hands with a Ferris wheel as their backdrop. “No. This isn’t Gramps.” Tension filled her words.
Daisy took the picture back and stared at it again. On the far wall was the wedding photo. Charity grabbed it and compared the two men while Daisy stared over her shoulder. “That’s your gramps, right?” She pointed to the wedding picture.
“Yes.”
“This guy looks the same to me.”
Charity shook her head. “No. Look, Gramps wasn’t this tall. Or thin. I’ve seen dozens of pictures of him as a young man.” Sparks of electric energy flew off Charity, causing Daisy to want to retreat.
“They have the same eyes.” Daisy pointed.
That’s when whatever the mystery was must have registered for Charity because she started grabbing up pictures from the hidden box and looking at them, then casting each one aside. After a long time, she spoke. “They have the same eyes because these pictures are of Uncle Harold.”
Daisy sucked in a breath. Without wanting them to, her eyes trailed down to the stack of maybe twenty pictures where Charity’s grandma and her uncle Harold held hands, had their arms around each other, basically looking like they were totally in love. When she could look no more, Daisy cast a glance at Charity, who seemed equally shell-shocked. Her mouth hung open, and her skin had gone pale.
“It’s impossible,” Charity said.
“Why would your grandmother keep these? I mean, she loved your grandpa, right?”
“More than life.”
“Or so you thought,” Daisy added and tossed one of the photos at Charity’s feet.
CHAPTER 11
The Hurricane
Charity gathered the photos to take downstairs. She’d tuck them in a drawer in her bedroom. There were at least a dozen photos in the bunch where Harold was hugging Gram. She forced away the questions and the trickle of impending calamity that niggled at her consciousness. There was no time to dive into the love life of her teenaged grandmother. After all, Hurricane Erika was getting ready to make landfall and right before it, Hurricane Ellen Marie Baxter was getting ready to board the water taxi.
There were definitely storms brewing. Charity just wasn’t sure which one would do the most damage.
She flew down the stairs, hoping to leave all the questions behind—at least for a while—and ticked off the things she needed to do before the storm hit. She left Daisy in the attic and asked her to close things up when she was finished. The girl had gathered a few items to take downstairs to her room. Charity wanted to keep the attic locked after today.
Dalton and Uncle Harold had put the storm shutters on the downstairs windows, making the house mausoleum-dark. They’d likely lose power, for a few hours at least, a few days at most, so she’d sent Harold to buy more candles, but he’d returned with a gas-powered generator. Daisy had filled both claw-foot bathtubs with water, and Dalton had moved potted plants from her garden into her sleeping porch studio. She’d moved the bag of the special ingredient into the house.
Dalton arrived by way of the back door, toting a sleeping bag. She’d asked him to weather the storm with her, Harold, and Daisy. Now, with her mom coming and the scandalous photos upstairs burning a hole through her bureau drawer, she wondered if any of this was a good idea.
But the smile on his face as he pointed a flashlight at her and said, “Tag, you’re it,” melted her apprehension.
“Why the sleeping bag? I told you I made up one of the beds for you.”
He brushed past her and paused at the kitchen window—the only one they hadn’t covered with storm shutters. Dalton looked out over the garden. “No sense dirtying the sheets. I can sleep in the bag and save you the trouble.”
She stopped beside him at the window. “Oh, didn’t I mention you’ll be doing the sheets?”
He chuckled. “Some hotel this is if I have to do my own sheets.”
“Not yours, everyone’s.” She blinked innocently.
He bumped his shoulder against hers, then turned a watchful eye to the garden. He’d worked so hard on it, and she hated the fact that it had to suffer through Storm Erika. “Will Erika wipe it all away?”
“Nah. I’ve anchored everything that I can. The potted plants are the most vulnerable, but those are all—”
“On my sleeping porch.” She tossed a look to the studio, where an array of brightly colored plants and flowers now gave the room a tropical feel and smell.
“Hope you weren’t planning on working.”
“How could I? I’ll be busy washing bedding, right?” She sighed. “My mom’s coming.”
His chin dropped forward. “In a hurricane?”
“Yeah, seems ironic. No stopping Ellen Marie when she gets something in her head. Also,” Charity checked the kitchen door and lowered her voice, “I found Daisy’s mother.”
“Really? That’s great.” Dalton placed the sleeping bag on the counter.
Daisy popped into the kitchen carrying a stack of old towels. “Whose sleeping bag?”
Charity had noticed Daisy’s interest in things that screamed mobility. Backpacks, gym bags, sleeping bags, flashlights. Charity had started to wonder if Daisy spent most of her time readying for Charity to send her packing. She had watched the girl tuck food away—packets of ketchup, unopened sleeves of crackers, even a jar of olives. Charity hadn’t talked to her about it because if the food items made her feel more comfortable, so be it. She also noticed the girl slept with everything she owned piled around her on the bed. There were empty drawers in her room, but she preferred her stuff to be within arm’s reach.
Charity had asked her to keep quiet about the photos they’d discovered. She figured Daisy was good at keeping secrets—a year on the street had likely taught her the value of loyalty. Charity needed her loyalty in this. If any of it came to light while her mother was there . . . well, she didn’t want to think about it.
Plus, Dalton and Harold were becoming friends, and she couldn’t help but feel that this news of romance between her grandmother and Uncle Harold might darken Dalton’s opinion of her uncle. After all, Dalton still wore his wedding ring and still seemed fiercely devoted to a woman who’d been gone for over a year. Loyalty. Dalton had it in spades. Besides, they didn’t really know what those pictures were all about. And though Charity ached to know, she’d give Harold plenty of time before hitting him with questions. He still sometimes seemed like a skittish cat. Say the wrong thing, and maybe he’d bolt. She wasn’t ready to lose him.
“Will the weeping willow live through the hurricane?” Daisy asked and stopped beside them to look out past the garden.
Concern washed over Charity. She hadn’t even considered what a hurricane could do to the weeping tree. Her gaze fell on Dalton. He placed a hand over hers. “It’ll be fine.” But just as he said it, the wind gusted, sending a wave of forceful air over the garden and the tree. The shrubs and plants tilted as if trying to lie down and take cover. The branches of the weeping tree rocked, exposing the trunk and allowing loose leaves to release their grip and fall to the ground. The tree suddenly looked like an old, old woman, worn down by life, long hair split to reveal a pink scalp, frail body fighting to stand against the approaching storm.
Dalton whispered in Charity’s ear, “Don’t worry, the tree is strong.” She never would have thought she’d be protective of the weeping tree, but here she was, wishing they could somehow anchor it.
She tried to pry her focus from the tree. Dalton picked up on it—he always seemed to—and changed the subject. “Everyone in town is gearing up for the storm.”
“Are they?” The willow’s branches s
wayed in the wind, tiny leaves releasing their grip and flying away from the tree.
He turned her to face him. “Yep. Do you mind if Mrs. Cready comes by? I saw her in town. She just returned from her sister’s up north. I’m not sure she’s ready to face a storm like this on her own. I’m fairly certain she hasn’t had time to gather provisions.”
“I don’t mind.” Charity wanted to meet her, but this probably wasn’t the best time. On the other hand, she’d never turn someone away.
“She’ll probably just wait out the worst of it—which should be around ten or eleven o’clock tonight, and then I’ll drive her home. It’s just a few blocks.”
“There are beds ready. She’s welcome to stay. I’m not going to send an old woman out in the rain at midnight.”
“She was going to stop by the Barlows, then come over. I know they’ll try to get her to stay there, but they only have one bedroom, so she’d need to sleep on the couch. But I figured if you don’t want any more company, I’d ask them to insist.”
“Dalton, she was Gramps’s friend. Even kept the house up for him. I’d never let her sleep on a couch when we have plenty of room and a perfectly good bed. You did the right thing.”
He brushed a hand through his hair. “It was weird. I just opened my mouth and heard myself saying we’d love to have her here. I don’t know what came over me, Charity. This isn’t my house. I had no right.”
It was weird if one looked at it from the outside. But inside, within the walls of the circus house, it seemed perfectly normal. Just like her constantly saying things like “we” have plenty of room. Instead of “I” have plenty of room.
Who exactly was “we?” She’d pondered that thought a couple of nights ago when she couldn’t sleep, and there were cookies and milk screaming her name in the kitchen. Was “we” her and Uncle Harold? Dalton? Gram and Gramps, who might not physically be there now, but whose essence marked rooms of the whole house? She’d decided “we” was . . . all of them. Daisy included. It was their home, not just hers. And after four cookies and a belly full of two-percent, she’d wiped the crumbs from her mouth and gone to bed, a smile on her face. “Chivalry came over you, Dalton. It isn’t a crime. And you’ve been working so hard on the garden, I’m sure you’ve taken a bit of ownership in this place. You’ve offered up enough blood to the thorn gods to have a say in what goes on here.”
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 17