“And you’re too kind.”
From behind them, “And I’m about to vomit. Could you two keep your sweet talk to a minimum while company is here? It’s kind of sickening.” Daisy spun and left the kitchen.
Dalton scratched his head. Charity shrugged. Sweet talk. Humph.
The first knock on the front door was Mrs. Cready, a woman who was both everything and nothing like what Charity had expected. She’d pictured her old and frail but more able to do the housework than Gramps had been. A stylish-looking elderly woman smiled on the other side of the front door, her hair wrapped in a plastic rain cover and her trench coat dripping.
Charity shook her hand and said hello.
“Goodness, I’d forgotten how dark the downstairs could be with the storm shutters in place. I’m Louise Cready. Your grandfather adored you.”
Charity had intended to introduce herself, but that seemed unnecessary now. “Come on in.” The wind was starting to howl, gusts becoming a constant press of electrified air. The streets littered with bits of trees and shrubs unable to withstand the forceful assault.
Daisy made tea, and the odd trio—a teen-something, a thirtysomething, and a seventy-something—sat in the parlor and sipped Earl Grey while the storm built. The men were working upstairs to make sure the windows were secured. No storm shutters up there, so they moved furniture away from the openings and placed large pieces of plywood against them. From the inside, it wouldn’t stop the window from breaking, but it would offer some protection to the contents of the house.
“So, had you known my gramps for long before he passed?”
A reflective smile appeared on Louise’s face. “For years and years.”
She was an attractive woman whose light-brown hair was dusted with silver streaks, as if she’d requested that each shimmering strand be placed in a specific spot. If everyone could look this beautiful as they aged, no one would mind going gray. The entire hair-coloring business would lose an important niche.
Louise crossed her legs and sat back on the velvet chair. “We’ve met before, Charity. You just don’t remember.”
“When I was small?”
Louise nodded. She’d left her tailored trench coat at the front door to reveal a peach-colored pantsuit beneath, the expensive kind sold in those upscale boutiques that catered to wealthy older women. Trendy enough to look modern but elegant enough to hint at money. She wore her clothes well.
Louise stared up at the chandelier. “Goodness, it must be twenty-odd years back, now. Your grandparents were close friends of mine. Losing Marilyn was like losing a sister. Hardest thing I’ve ever gone through next to losing my husband.”
Charity should remember this woman, who loved her gram like a sister.
Louise tilted forward on the seat. “Charity, you were very small. And when you came to visit, life was all about you. As it should be. Your visits were golden to Marilyn and George.”
Charity did remember a woman coming by to visit Gram on occasion. A pretty lady, with blondish hair and . . . “You had a limp.” It was coming back to her now.
Louise tilted her head and used her hand to brush the hair away from her shoulder. The light above caught the sheen of scarring along her neck. “And scars from a car accident. It happened on my way home from school my senior year. Not the greatest way to end a school year, I can tell you.”
Daisy leaned forward. “You don’t limp now.”
Louise winked. “Time heals all wounds, or so it would seem.” Her focus went to Charity. “Funny that you remember the limp but not the burns. I always thought they were so glaring.”
Charity smiled, now recalling more and more bits of this woman and who she was to her gram and gramps. “I don’t think I ever noticed them. Your eyes were so captivating. When I saw you, I couldn’t stop looking at them. I thought you must have been a descendent from royalty or perhaps a mermaid or fairies.”
Louise tilted her head back and laughed. “No. Descendent of a local fisherman.”
But there had always been an air of intrigue surrounding Louise. That, Charity remembered well. She’d likely created it in her own head, but still. Such a lovely lady, but damaged, physically damaged, and to a young girl that had seemed horrifically unfair.
If Louise had been close to Gram and Gramps that many years ago, she must know Uncle Harold. Charity hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell her that Harold was there. She opened her mouth to say so, but Dalton and Harold materialized at the top of the stairs announcing that the house was secure. All three women turned to face them.
Louise’s teacup crashed to the floor as she jolted upright from her seat.
Daisy rushed to help her and righted the cup, where it continued to dump tea onto the marble floor. It was a miracle it hadn’t broken.
Louise groped for the chair arms and clung to one as if it were the last tree in the forest, and she was the last leaf. Charity stood, too, but found herself unable to move as she took it all in. Dalton and Harold froze on the stairs, mouths agape and obviously wondering what invisible demon caused the woman to fly up out of her seat, toppling her teacup. Louise had a white-knuckled grip on the chair, whose material was beginning to pucker.
It must be Harold. From a distance he favored Gramps, and Louise looked as if she’d just seen a ghost. A delicate hand covered her mouth, but her other hand stayed in a death lock on the chair. “Harold,” she whispered, and the word was so soft, so filled with uncertainty, that Charity thought perhaps she would disappear once she’d uttered it. The fog of a word drifted around the room, finding no comfortable place to land.
But its impact was felt. In like manner, Harold placed a hand to his mouth. “Louise,” he said. Even from a distance, his eyes looked misty. He brushed his hands over pants, dusty from hours of work readying for the storm. Then his fingers combed through his hair, an effort to look his best, no doubt. Hand on the banister, he floated down the steps toward her.
Charity bubbled with her expectation of what was surely going to be a joyful reunion. Harold stepped closer to Louise, eyes scanning her face, half smile in place as if his mouth couldn’t decide on joy or wonder. He reached his hands out.
Charity’s heart thudded to an abrupt stop when Louise took a full step back, closing off her body by crossing her arms protectively.
And there, the room of onlookers hung in stilled silence as Harold’s face changed from happiness to anguish. Charity’s chest burned for him. Such a look of utter disappointment filled the space around his eyes, his mouth. Even his wrinkles seemed to deepen. They were the last flower petals standing against a harsh winter, and a final freeze squeezed their life.
Harold’s gaze dropped, his mouth pressed into a line as if he could somehow recover the moment. His posture shifted from welcoming to conversational as he tried to speak, but his voice quivered on the first word, causing him to also take a step back and clear his throat. “It’s nice to see you,” he said, his voice fighting to sound solid. “It’s been a long time.”
Charity glanced at Louise, who’d also attempted some form of recovery. An emotionless smile appeared and disappeared. But the memories that floated across her face were as palpable as sea spray—cool, instant, and quickly vanishing. She’d released the chair, and her fingertips fidgeted at her sides. “I’m . . . I didn’t expect to see you. You’re . . . here.”
“I just got back,” Harold said.
Louise’s confused eyes landed on Charity.
“This will sound strange, Louise, but Gramps sent for him before he died.”
Fury blazed on Louise’s face. “And you’re only now arriving?”
Charity moved closer to her and placed a hand on Louise’s arm. Her touch was gentle because it seemed as though Louise might crumble like the bits of ash on the end of a cigarette left burning too long. “Uncle Harold didn’t get the message until after Gramps had died. He came immediately upon receiving it.”
Louise forced a smile. “Immediately, huh? It was nice to se
e you, Harold.” She turned to Charity. “Thank you so much for the tea. I’ll be at the Barlows. Maybe we can get together after the storm. There’s a lot I’d love to tell you about your grandfather.”
They’d established that Louise would stay at Baxter House for the night, so her insistence on leaving couldn’t be addressed without causing more embarrassment to the woman. So Charity took her arm to see her to the front door. Funny how, moments ago, Louise had seemed so strong, so elegant, and now she seemed as if a puff of air would disintegrate her. As they made their way through the foyer, Charity noticed something else, too. Louise’s limp had returned.
Ellen Marie Baxter had never driven in a hurricane. The wind didn’t gust like New York storms; it simply stayed solid, forcing her to fight the steering wheel and causing her to squint into the oncoming pellets.
Hurricanes. She didn’t see the big deal. She’d gotten on the last water taxi to the island, the sky a drab and boring shade of unimaginative gray. Leonard owned a suit that color, and she’d always hated it. When gray was the new black, she’d completely balked, refusing to wear such a tragedy. She’d been right, of course. Gray quickly became gauche, and all her society friends had to toss their purchases and return to their senses.
Ellen chuckled at that. All those thousands of dollars spent, only to be given to housemaids or sent to thrift stores. The poor? Let them wear gray. She swerved to miss a felled palm tree and cursed Leonard for sending her on this errand. It was in her best interest, of course. That’s what she always told herself when he needed her to do something she thought ridiculous or unfruitful or simply an imposition. A pang of guilt pinched her brows. She quickly lifted her fingertip to scrub against the spot. Botox, she reminded herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Charity. She was her mother. But around Charity, Ellen had always felt like not quite enough.
And Ellen was sick and tired of not being enough. She’d never been enough for her parents, for her lovers, for Charity. Now she wasn’t enough for Leonard and his spoiled brat daughters, Portia and Giselle. And Ellen already knew she wouldn’t be enough for Portia’s new baby, either. Harold, her uncle, was at Charity’s house, but she didn’t think that would change anything in her plan. He’d always been nice enough, though she hadn’t seen him in decades. She flipped on the radio to drown the voice in her head, but with the wind, she could barely make out the station. All she heard was a grumbling, twangy country music horror that seemed to have not enough as the lyrics.
With the force of a woman with a new credit card, she swiped a hand across the radio, silencing it. Not enough, not enough echoed in her head.
She couldn’t deny that something had sprouted in her stomach when Leonard told her to go to see Charity. A tiny little seed had broken open, exposing roots that sought to find fertile ground. It had surprised her at first, and then it had unsettled her. Finally, she’d decided to call it precisely what it was. She missed Charity. Missed having her an hour away. Missed knowing she could hop on the train and be at her door. Ellen even knew the reason why. Of all the people who had come and gone in her life, Charity was the only one who loved her unconditionally. Though Ellen felt like not enough for Charity, Charity had always made sure she was more than enough for Ellen.
Her stomach sickened as she pulled into the drive, and she forced her thoughts away from the self-examination she’d just put herself through. She focused on the house. This would be such a beautiful estate if it wasn’t on this poor excuse for an island. If it sat in the Hamptons, she’d have fought Charity tooth and manicured nail to live in it. She and Leonard and the girls could have had lavish parties where all of the city would buzz about the place. She’d gut it, of course. Strip every ounce of that horrible circus interior. Make it glow. Make it relevant.
The wind howled overhead like a pack of ravenous shoppers zeroing in on a kill. She forced the car door open and left her suitcase in the backseat. Charity could come get it. The door slammed shut, and she barely got out of its way. Just like that, she was trapped. Cold whistled around her head as she made her way to the door, the only opening on the first floor not shrouded by metal shutters. The familiar feeling of being strangled by giant hands gripped her. Ellen took several deep breaths, only to find that when one breathed in a tropical storm, one inhaled more water than air. She coughed and stumbled up the front steps just as someone was swinging the giant door open.
A woman stepped out, her face and upper body covered by an umbrella that had no chance of surviving the onslaught of obnoxious wind—nice trench coat, though. From the safety of the front porch, Ellen watched her walk toward the house next door. She hollered after her, but the words disappeared in the rush of air. The woman hadn’t even seen her.
Ellen huffed and turned her attention to the door, where Charity stood with an audience of onlookers. “My bag is in the car.”
Charity seemed stunned for a moment but quickly recovered and ushered her in. The good-looking man behind her said, “I’ll go get the bag.” He smiled and reached a hand out for her keys.
Her heart did a little sputter and that charisma spark shot right into her gut. This must be Charity’s neighbor. She’d mentioned him on the phone. She’d left the car unlocked but made a show of tossing her hair and searching out the keys. How old was he? Thirties, probably. She could still attract thirties, if she chose. But now it was harder to get younger men to notice her. Ellen painted on her brightest smile. “It’s monstrous out there.”
His hand was still waiting, so she placed the rental cars keys in his palm, making sure there was skin-to-skin contact, her fingertips brushing that delicate spot where the webbing of his fingers lay, her wrist gently scraping against the muscle at the base of his thumb.
He didn’t seem to notice the connection, so she spun away from him and turned her gaze on Charity. They hugged, awkwardly, because Charity was all bony shoulders, hipbones, and elbows. She always had been. Ellen had told her the sweets would one day catch up, but wouldn’t you know it? Mother Nature found it infinitely pleasing to make a liar out of her. Charity hadn’t put on a pound. Wait till you hit forty, Ellen thought.
“You look great, Mom. I’ve missed you.” Charity’s heart-shaped face made her seem slightly angelic. She looked good, still young, her thirty-one years hidden somewhere behind her smile. Her eyes, filled with emotion, scanned Ellen’s face.
Ellen patted her cheek, creating some distance between them. “You look good, too, Charity. Happy.” That last word was a tad difficult to sputter because she didn’t want Charity to be happy here. She wanted her to come home to New York. Truth be told, Ellen needed her. More than she cared to admit. Still, she wouldn’t fight for that on this visit. No, that’d keep. This visit was about the family trip and the importance of Charity agreeing to go. Ellen would play nice. No ultimatums, no manipulation. They never worked on Charity, and Ellen had to learn more creative ways to convince her daughter. Charity was sweet, but she was nobody’s fool. This invitation couldn’t have been done over the phone because she needed to see Charity’s face to judge her reaction. Leonard’s girls hadn’t been nice to Charity in the past. There was always the chance Charity would turn down the invitation.
An irritating question scraped at her mind. Was she putting Charity in an impossible situation? No. Charity was strong, level. Maybe she and the girls could actually get to know one another. Or maybe Charity would reject the offer. But that wouldn’t bode well for any of them. Especially Ellen.
Charity sat in the parlor with her mother, who—in spite of the storm she’d come through—looked ready for a night out on the town. How Ellen Marie Baxter could always look so put together, Charity didn’t know.
“Where did everyone go?” Ellen asked, casting a glance up the stairs.
“They’re giving us time to catch up.” Where had Dalton gone was more what she meant, but Charity knew her mom well enough to know she wouldn’t ask that outright. Ellen Marie was always more interested in conversations when th
ere were good-looking men around who could hear her bragging about how she’d gotten carded at a club or how someone mistook her for some celebrity. Charity had always believed her far-fetched stories until one day she realized that her mother had passed the half-century age mark, and there was no way, no possible way, someone had thought she was under twenty-one. If she’d been carded in the last twenty years, it had been done out of pity or as a joke. She was still beautiful, though. A striking woman who commanded the room.
Ellen Marie sat on the corner chair. She blinked and straightened her spine when Charity bent her knees and tucked her feet beneath her on the couch. The two women couldn’t be more different. But Charity was learning to embrace who she was. She’d learned that since she’d been here, taught lovingly by the house, by the pottery. They gave her power. She was Charity Monroe Baxter and even being weighed and measured by her mother couldn’t make her ashamed of who she was. Vive la différence!
“What brings you here, Mom? You said you needed to discuss something with me.”
Ellen smiled. “I do. Leonard is taking us on a family cruise. Fourteen days in Europe. It’s an absolute dream vacation, Charity.”
“Oh, Mom. That’s great! You’ll have so much fun. We always talked about going to Europe. Seeing the Eiffel Tower, touring the Black Forest.”
“Every port is incredible. All my friends are absolutely green with envy.”
“You’ll have to take a ton of pictures. I want to see everything when you return.” She was glad that her mother was finally getting to live the life she’d always dreamed of. Even if Charity wasn’t a huge part of it. Ellen was her mother, and Charity wanted to see her happy.
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 18