In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  “You’ll see everything, Charity, because you’ll be with us.”

  The world screeched to a stop. “What?”

  Ellen folded her hands over her lap. “That’s why I came. To invite you.”

  Charity’s first thought was to pinch her own arm to ensure that she wasn’t asleep. “But . . .” But what? She couldn’t very well finish that sentence. It went something like, But you said it was a family vacation, and since when am I included on family anything? Since her mother married Leonard, they had kept the two “families” separate on all except the rarest occasions. Even though they frequently invited all of Leonard’s extended family over for holidays, there were years Charity never received an invitation. Not written, not spoken, not at all. “I didn’t think Leonard and his girls liked me very much.”

  Ellen scoffed. “That’s not true, Charity. You just don’t have much in common, and I never told them they had to be something they weren’t to make you feel comfortable.”

  Well, that’s not what she would have wanted. And true, she was desperately awkward in social situations. Still, she was Ellen’s daughter. Shouldn’t she be invited to all the family get-togethers? Well, she could ponder that question later. They wanted her to go on a European cruise with them. That was . . . well, it certainly helped make up for the times she’d felt slighted when her mother suggested the two of them get together for lunch to exchange Christmas gifts. “Just us,” her mother would say, as if that negated a family gathering. Why all these memories and old hurts were rising up now, she couldn’t say, but her eyes were welling up. Maybe this was it. She’d always known her mom was capable of more. Maybe she was finally getting to see it. “I would love to. Yes.”

  Her mother smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing Charity had ever seen.

  A thought occurred to her. “And I won’t expect you and Leonard to pay my way. I can do that myself.”

  Her mother waved a hand through the air. “The staterooms are already covered. You’ll only need spending money.”

  “Thank you.” Charity itched to hug her mother, but Ellen Marie wasn’t a hugger. Charity’d gotten her once at the door, so they’d probably reached their hug quota. “You must have been really confident that I could go if he already paid for my stateroom. That was very generous of Leonard.” And here, she’d always thought the doctor stuffy, self-absorbed, and cold.

  “We had to lock down the tickets. It was filling up fast. Plus, we’d need the stateroom whether you went or not. You’re rooming with Portia.”

  “Oh.” Charity tried to get a mental picture of herself and the princess of a girl in the same room. “I’m surprised she’d agree to that.”

  Ellen laughed. “She’d be stupid not to. She’s a complete night owl. And you prefer to go to bed early.”

  Charity still didn’t see how that helped with the fact that Portia tended to treat Charity slightly better than a plague but worse than a rodent.

  Ellen finally shrugged. “You’ll be there to stay with Portia’s baby, so she can go out at night.”

  Heat flashed from Charity’s forehead down. “You want me to babysit?” And if she was staying with the baby while Portia partied, that meant she’d have the baby the next morning while Portia slept it off.

  “This is a great opportunity for you to get to know the girls. I’d think you’d be happy, Charity. This is your family we’re talking about.”

  Charity flew up off the couch. “Your stepdaughters have wanted nothing to do with me since you married. But now, suddenly, I’m part of the family? Because I can offer my babysitting services?” She had to repeat the words to make sure they were real. Hearing them again, from her own mouth, only made her angrier.

  “Be reasonable, Charity Monroe. Think about someone else. What about me? I was looking forward to spending time with you on this trip.”

  “When, Mom? When I’m not babysitting?” She hated that it hurt so much, but it did. This was Ellen Marie Baxter 101. Why Charity always expected more from her mother, she didn’t know. She really needed to learn how to let go of things.

  Ellen brushed a hand through her hair. “Leonard will be playing golf while we’re in Germany, and I thought we could spend the day together. Just us.” It was the just us that did it. Just us—we’ll get together for Christmas lunch at the most exclusive spot in Manhattan. Just us, her token day with her mother in payment for being the hired help while Leonard was too busy to entertain Ellen. Charity never wanted opulent lunches at Christmastime; she wanted to sit at the table with her family and eat Christmas dinner. It was never going to be that way, she realized again for the hundredth time. From the outside, Leonard’s house glowed with holiday perfection, attention given to lighting every shrub in the yard, to the placement of every ornament on the tree. The perfectly spread, shimmering tablecloths and plates and glasses that sparkled like fairies in a windstorm. The few times Charity had been invited, she’d adored the feel of family—even if she was an outsider. She appreciated the work and thought that went into the entire thing.

  But then the just us years began. And Ellen always said it like it was a treat, not realizing she was also stripping away the one thing Charity really wanted—that sense of family. And with more clarity than she’d have given herself credit for, she simply smiled down at her mother and said, “Portia needs to hire a nanny.”

  Ellen muttered, “No one can work for her.”

  “I won’t be going, Mom.” Charity left the parlor and walked into the kitchen, out of the fog of Ellen. At the sink, she gazed out at the forever wind and the garden. Off to the right, the weeping tree gripped the soil, its roots probably as deep as her sorrow. In her mind’s eye, she could picture Dalton in the garden, Daisy sneaking potato chips from the pantry, her Uncle Harold grabbing her by the waist and spinning her around the dining room, humming music until her laughter took its place. Charity had family. Finally. And it had taken her mother’s visit to make her realize it. She slammed a hand on the sink and started to go back into the parlor, but at the kitchen door, she stopped. Brushing her hair over her shoulder, she cast a glance behind her. Beyond the kitchen window, the yard and the edge of the weeping tree stole her focus.

  Without a thought to what the wind would do to her, she marched through the kitchen, through the sleeping porch, and into her yard. The wind grabbed the door as she tried to close it, causing her to have to muscle her way. But some things were worth the fight.

  Blocking her eyes from the wind, she stepped to the edge of the weeping tree, ignoring the sudden gooseflesh rising on her skin. Its branches swayed, dragged by the impossible press of strong wind off the Gulf. The ground beneath her feet was a mix of sand and dirt, and her toes sank into it. The trunk seemed to groan under the pressure of the storm, but Charity stepped closer. Above her, a mud-gray sky—the remnants of a great artist’s pallet—cleared for a moment, offering a glimpse of bright-blue beyond the clouds. It was as if heaven were peering down on her, all the angels watching with bated breath in case the weeping tree sought its final revenge, releasing its grip on the soil and falling on her. A fitting end to a lifelong rivalry. After all, she’d taken an ax to its trunk as an angry eleven-year-old.

  Charity’s throat was thick. Emotions swirled like the leaves on the trees. “I shouldn’t have tried to chop you down,” she whispered. Memories rose from the basement of her heart. “But Gram and Gramps were everything to me. And in a way, they both died that day.”

  Around her, the wind stopped. And quite suddenly, she wanted—needed—to step beneath the tree. She swayed forward but caught herself. There, an invisible wall born from too much blame and too little trust kept her feet steadfast. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, step beneath the tree.

  Tears filled her eyes, making the long branches before her swim in her vision. When she blinked, the tears ran down her cheeks in straight lines. “It felt like my world ended.” The emotion was more than she could bear, so Charity dropped her head into her hands and cried. Minutes
later, she opened her eyes. The tree was still there, and her feet were still unmoving, but something had changed. She glanced down to find a long, slender branch draped over each of her shoulders. A bit of air escaped her mouth. It was as if the tree was consoling her. “Thank you,” she whispered, trailing a finger along one of the branches.

  When the wind’s short reprieve ended, she carefully replaced the branches that had been across her shoulders, lowering them to their spots where they shrouded the outside world. Charity walked back to her sleeping porch and cast a final glance to the tree before going to find her mother.

  Back in the parlor, her mother stood up from the settee, looking uncertain. She had nowhere else to go, but she likely wanted to escape.

  Ellen flinched when Charity grabbed and hugged her. “Mom, thank you for inviting me. I’m still not going, but Germany would have been a lovely day. I’m thrilled you’re here. Let me tell you about Baxter House.”

  Daisy had already decided she didn’t like Ellen, Charity’s mom. She had a way of dismissing people that set Daisy’s nerves on edge. Later that night, as the storm worsened, they all huddled in the kitchen, and Daisy kept one eye on the window where the hurricane raged and one eye on Ellen.

  Harold’s generator hadn’t been used, but it was gassed up and ready for the lights to go. To keep from thinking about Ellen, Daisy turned her thoughts to poor Mrs. Cready and how she’d looked almost frightened when she left. She’d tucked the umbrella against her upper body and fought her way to the Barlows’ house next door. Of course, they hadn’t actually seen her go inside. They’d all been distracted by Charity’s mother.

  Elbow on the table, Daisy propped her chin on her palm. “Do you think the Barlows are OK? It sounded like a tree fell by their house. Plus, it seems like we should make sure Mrs. Cready made it over there.”

  Dalton stood. “I can run next door. The wind died a bit, and the worst part of the storm won’t hit for a while yet.”

  Daisy walked to the kitchen wall. “Do we have their number? I can just call.” She picked up the phone and waited for someone to give her the number. When she realized there was no dial tone, she set it down. “Phone’s out.”

  Charity pointed to the counter. “Use my cell. Their number is in the contacts list.”

  Daisy grabbed it and pressed the phone button, but when she saw the last called number, her heart stopped. She was staring at her home phone number. A gust of breath left her mouth.

  All that talk about how Charity cared about her was just a lie. At the first opportunity, Charity had called her mom. Traitor. So she was just waiting to get rid of Daisy. She’d suspected as much. Who takes in a teenager by choice? “You called my mother.”

  Charity popped up from the bar stool, hands out in surrender. “Daisy, I didn’t talk to her.”

  Daisy was lightheaded. Somehow, she dropped the phone on the counter and held on to the edge of the sink to stabilize herself. “You want to get rid of me.”

  “No. I don’t. I just wanted her to know you’re safe.”

  “You lied to me. I told you I’d let her know when I was ready.”

  Charity shook her head. “I shouldn’t have done it, Daisy. When she answered, I hung up.” Charity was pleading now. “I just had a weak moment and thought about how worried she might be.”

  Worried? She wasn’t worried. She’d called Daisy a liar and picked a loser boyfriend over her own child. And maybe, just maybe, Charity wasn’t any better. Sure, she’d been nice, but how long could that last? People didn’t just open their doors to strangers. The newness would wear off, and before long, they’d wonder why they ever let a stranger into their house. But she’d so badly wanted to believe Charity was different. Daisy grabbed a flashlight off the counter and ran out of the room and through the front door. The rain had slowed almost to a stop, but the wind was relentless. She flipped on the flashlight and headed in the direction of the Barlows’ house.

  Wind blasted her face as she stopped on their front porch for a few moments and contemplated knocking. But she didn’t really know the Barlows, and she’d only met Louise Cready earlier that evening. Daisy dropped her weight against their front door. She should have known not to get too comfortable. When you’re comfortable, people have power over you. The power to let you down. When a curtain in the window moved, Daisy stepped back, expecting to see a friendly face gazing out at her. Instead, a fat, gray-and-mud-colored cat nosed the window.

  Without taking time to think about it, she ran off the porch and toward the beach. When you get too comfortable, you count on people. And when you count on someone, they’re going to let you down.

  CHAPTER 12

  Searching

  Charity watched Dalton shake off the sand and come back inside. She’d stood on the front porch, waiting, wringing her hands while he’d gone down the steps to see where Daisy had gone.

  “I saw her on the Barlows’ porch. She must be over there.”

  Charity retrieved her cell phone and dialed their number, but a fast busy was the response. In her gut, a gnawing, angry thought ate away the last shreds of calm. She’d crossed a line with Daisy. The girl had trusted her, and she’d ruined it.

  Dalton crossed the room and placed a hand on her arm. “I’ll run next door and make sure she’s OK.”

  Charity nodded. “Thanks, Dalton.”

  “Least I can do. This is my fault. I encouraged you to find her mother.”

  “Dalton, you had valid reasons. I just should have waited for her to want to call. No one can carry the blame for this but me.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She watched him leave and paced the kitchen floor while he was gone.

  Ellen rose from her bar stool and poured a glass of water. “Have any wine around here?”

  “No. I have caffeine-free soda.”

  Ellen sighed.

  Charity could see that her mother was getting antsy. She’d watched her sneak out of the house and onto the front porch twice to smoke. That worried Charity. Her mom had always been a social smoker, only lighting up when she was in the company of smokers. Now she seemed hooked. “Does Leonard smoke?” The question came out of Charity’s mouth before she could stop it.

  Ellen’s piercing eyes narrowed on her. “No.”

  Harold peeled an apple with a pocket knife, removing the entire red skin in one long spiral. “Bad stuff, that tobacco. George never did fully get over his addiction.”

  Ellen’s frustration was thick enough to cut.

  Dalton returned. “She’s not over there. I’m going out to look for her.”

  Harold discarded the apple in midcut. “You’re not goin’ alone. I’ll get my jacket.”

  Harold dropped into the seat of his car and headed north, since Dalton had said he’d go south. The branch- and debris-strewn road wound along the beach where a turbulent sea continued to pound the shoreline. Homes were dark, and Harold’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. Many of the colorful beach houses had been made hurricane-ready with window and door coverings. They’d also been abandoned by tenants who’d chosen to ride out the storm on the mainland. Maybe he should have suggested to Charity that their little group do the same. But it had only been hours before that the tropical storm had been upgraded to a full-blown hurricane.

  His old eyes squinted, grazing along the landscape in an attempt to spot the young girl. Surely she’d find shelter. No one would be walking in this mess. Already the water was rising, swallowing the shoreline and crowding the homes. That was the thing about hurricanes: even if you survived the winds, you might find yourself fighting the flood waters. He stopped the car in the middle of the road. Off to the left, he saw something. Harold leaned toward the window, but it was only a runaway lawn chair. They’d secured everything back at the house, and with the lawn chair flipping and dancing, tipping end over end, he was glad they had. Rain pelted the windshield of his car as if giant buckets of water were being slung at him. This was an impossible task, he realized, shaking his head, his
heart beginning to get heavy. It was a needle in a haystack, with the haystack in a giant vacuum cleaner.

  Harold put the car into “Park,” closed his eyes, and folded his hands. “Not sure if you’re inclined to hear the prayer of an old man with more regrets than victories.” His voice bounced around the empty car as if it had no purpose except to fill the moment. “Still, I’m going to ask. There’s a girl out here somewhere. I’d sure appreciate it if you’d help us find her.”

  A palm branch smacked the side of his car door so hard, Harold jumped. He’d keep up the search. All night, if that’s what it took, but he wouldn’t give up.

  It took another thirty minutes of driving up and down the beach road before he spotted something. Off to the right, out on the beach, sat a small shed. At first, he’d thought the light he’d seen from a broken window must have been a reflection from his own headlights. Still, he swung the front of the car around to get a better look, and there, the unmistakable slash of a moving light skittered about in the shed’s window.

  Daisy had left the house with a flashlight in her hands. His heart quickened. Surely this was her. His cell phone lay on the seat beside him, so he tried to call Dalton, but there was no signal. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and got out of the car. No sense calling her name, the sound would be absorbed by the roar of the wind and ocean. Before him, the sea had continued to rise, stealing the shoreline and creeping closer and closer to the row of houses and the small shed. Already, waves crested and brushed the foundation of the rickety little building. This was no safe place to weather a storm. He was thankful he’d gotten to her. With an arthritic knee screaming in protest, he ran toward the beacon of light, trying to keep the sand from slamming into his eyes.

  Once there, he dragged the wooden door open and peered inside.

  “They’ve been gone too long.” Charity paced the marble floor, her mother sitting on the settee with an unlit cigarette between her fingers. Charity headed for the front door. “I’m going out to look for them.”