In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  “Briella Bitner owns the coffee shop.” Louise pointed. “You knew her dad. Brogan Bitner.”

  Harold scratched his head. “Oh yeah, mean as a snake and crazy as a loon.”

  “They had so many kids. Eight in all. Everyone on the island felt bad for those children and his wife. But she passed away, and suddenly he was the most gentle and kind man you could ever want to meet.”

  He stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “You don’t say?”

  With the wind at her back, Louise nodded, holding the strands of her strawberry hair off her face. “On my honor as an islander.” A smile touched her lips.

  Harold swallowed. “Death changes people.” For a long time he looked into her eyes, the woman he’d shared many long nights with. Could Louise forgive him? He didn’t know. He’d hurt her all those years ago. When her gaze flittered past him, to the sea beyond, he continued to look at her. She’d aged in the years since he’d seen her, but she was still lovely. Beautiful eyes, pretty smile. But then her shoulders stiffened, back straightened, and a defiant look lifted her chin.

  “And some people will never change.” Her gaze, cold and solid, landed on him for a moment, and then she continued walking toward the coffee shop.

  If regret was water, he’d have a lifetime supply. Whatever he needed to do to repair the damage he’d caused Louise, he had to do it. She was the first bright light he’d seen in a long time. Maybe God was dealing him a second chance. Harold held the coffee shop door open. Though second chances weren’t his strong suit—in fact, he’d pretty much flubbed all of them—he was determined not to mess this one up. Maybe even an old man could have a chance at happiness.

  Louise bid Harold good-bye and then closed the door to her house and leaned her weight against it as if doing so could keep out the flood of memories from so long ago. She anchored herself by looking around the contents and furnishings of her home. She’d always admired the bright-white Victorian home on the palm-shaded corner lot. Arched windows and black-and-white tile floors, a wide front porch where two rocking chairs used to hold her and Marvin. The chairs had been dragged inside for the storm, and now they sat like unhappy house cats at the window looking out toward the road and the seaside houses across the street. Already the crew had removed her storm shutters, and her house was cool and quiet. And lonely.

  She’d known Marvin Cready most of her life but had always thought of him as a bit of a rube. Too quiet, too often walking past with an uncertain gait, his head down, once in a while muttering a “Good day, Miss” in her direction. It wasn’t until she’d taken a summer job working alongside his mother that Louise learned Marvin was intelligent. Not normal intelligent, but genius kind of intelligent. He’d worked the fishing boats with his father until his dad could no longer do the work. The older Cready retired early, having made some brilliant investments, in the form of ten residential lots a friend needed to sell quickly. Cready had purchased the bunch—more to help his friend than anything else—and ten years later, they were worth a hundred times what he’d paid. Marvin didn’t have to continue to run the fishing business. But he had. Because his father had poured his life into it, Marvin would do the same.

  Louise had fallen for Marvin over that long summer when he’d taught her about the different types of clouds in the day and the celestial night sky in the evenings. She learned only later that Marvin had fallen for her the first time he’d seen her. He made her feel special, treated her like a princess. She never knew there could be so much love in the world.

  Then he was gone. And she was alone again.

  He knew she liked to dance, so he took lessons. He was heavy on his feet, but in a lovable way that only endeared him to her more. To him, she was the most important thing in the world.

  That memory brought her thoughts to Harold. She’d been in love with him as well. But it had been years before her summer with Marvin. Harold was worldly and wild, and Louise had always felt like she was competing with the entire world for his attention. In reality, she knew she wasn’t. She’d only been competing with one person. But she came in a distant second, no matter how hard she worked to win his favor.

  In a bottom drawer of her armoire, she pulled out a small envelope of photographs. George and Marilyn, arms wrapped around each other, her and Harold, holding the same pose, but Harold’s eyes looking right past her to Marilyn beside them. It was when she’d seen that photo that she knew her imagination wasn’t the culprit in wondering about Harold’s true feelings. Some flames never died. And some people never changed.

  She was too old to suffer the pain of another broken heart. And who could ever compete with a ghost? No one. Certainly not her. There’d been a night, more than twenty years ago, when he’d left her standing on the pier waiting for him. She’d made herself a promise right then. Never again would she wait for Harold Baxter. Because never again would she allow him into her life. It was the summer just before Marilyn died.

  Louise crossed the room to the rocking chairs and sat in one. It groaned in greeting, and she set it into motion. Whether she was old or not, the days were long and the house was quiet. And she was lonely. But lonely was better than heartbroken. She’d take lonely any day.

  Charity had invited Emily over to discuss the business concerning Harold’s dance studio. Emily and Jeanna McDouglas-Rudd arrived an hour after Harold and Louise left to go to town. Emily’s power purse hung on her arm. “Mom came with. Hope that’s OK. She’s been checking on residents after the storm.”

  Charity ushered them inside and offered drinks. They settled on iced tea in the parlor. She marveled at how perfectly put together the pair were. And after a storm, no less. “I’m glad you came along, Jeanna. I actually need to talk to both of you.”

  “Intriguing,” Jeanna said.

  Charity explained Harold’s situation—how he’d lost his dance studio—to Emily who took notes and promised to contact Harold’s attorney in Birmingham. “It sounds pretty iron-clad, but I’ll do whatever I can. Are you interested in buying the studio back from the man?”

  Charity had discussed the idea with Harold, but he’d said no. “He doesn’t want that snake, Ephraim Connor, to benefit even more from this. Harold said that if Ephraim has the studio, he also has to do the work to keep it running. If we sail in and buy it, the guy gets away with robbery and gets rewarded for it.”

  “Well, your uncle is right. We need better legislation to protect the elderly. It’s a different day than when they were young, and a man’s word was his bond.” Emily placed her small notebook in her purse.

  “Thanks for looking into it, Emily.” Charity turned her attention to the mayor. “Now, Jeanna. I have a proposition for you.”

  “I’m all ears, Charity. What is it?”

  “I heard that Founders Hall suffered some damage last night in the storm.”

  “I’m afraid we’re looking at having to cancel the Founders’ Day Ball.” She leaned back into the settee and peaked a pencil-thin brow. “Unless . . .”

  “In exchange for some information, I’ll offer Baxter House for the Founders’ Day Ball. It’s still a couple of months away, so your committee will have time to arrange things.” She could have asked Emily, but since Jeanna was the one who knew everyone and kept up with everything happening on her island, Charity figured she’d go straight to her. Today, she’d get answers because she had something she knew Jeanna wanted.

  “And this information you seek?” Jeanna would make no promises until she heard the details. The perfect politician.

  “Tell me what you know about the special orders I received and the weeping tree.” The long pause had Charity’s heart drumming, but she held Jeanna’s gaze without flinching.

  Jeanna leaned forward on the settee. “Why don’t you tell me what you know and perhaps I can fill in the blanks.”

  Frustration caused her to grind her teeth for a moment. “That’s the problem. I don’t know anything. People show up and ask for the most ridiculous orders. A candy
dish, a single plate. Did you know that three weeks ago a lady asked for a mirror? When I told her I couldn’t fire a mirror in the kiln, she said that was fine, to just make a frame, and she’d have a mirror cut to fit it. I did the order and handed her an empty-looking glass with a handle, and she stared at it and then giggled and spun around like a little girl playing princess.” Charity sat back and folded her arms. “That’s what I know, Jeanna. And I’m getting sick of being the odd man out.”

  “How so?”

  Charity threw her hands into the air. “Everyone in town seems to know more about my special orders than me. I need to know what I’m dealing with. Especially now.”

  Jeanna leaned forward, concern pinching her brows. “Why now?”

  “I’m running out of the special ingredient. The bag is three-quarters empty.”

  Jeanna stood. “Oh dear. That really is a problem.”

  “Jeanna, please. Tell me.” Charity wasn’t typically one to beg, but desperate situations and all.

  Jeanna’s gaze landed for a moment on Emily, then went back to Charity. “There are a hundred different rumors about how the special ingredient works. But for the most part, people choose not to discuss it. It only comes up in hushed conversations, usually late at night. It’s as if we all know that too much discussion could ruin the magic. What we know is that a piece of pottery made with it will help create whatever it is the person most desires.”

  Charity frowned. “A placebo. I mean, Jeanna, what you’re suggesting is . . . impossible. But if people believe strongly enough in something, it can become a point of contact for their faith. They are their own magic.”

  Jeanna smiled. “Of course.”

  But Charity wasn’t convinced. Jeanna might be a solid politician, but Charity had learned to read people, and the flicker in her eye before the smooth coolness suggested more. “You don’t believe it’s a placebo.”

  “What I believe isn’t important, Charity.” Now that was a politician’s answer if she’d ever heard one.

  “If it’s unimportant, why don’t you go ahead and share your thoughts with me? If you’re truly interested in Baxter House for the ball.”

  Sharp eyes narrowed on Charity. “Have you ever thought of running for office?”

  “No.” Charity shook her head.

  “You’d make a good politician.” Jeanna drew a long breath and settled into the settee by stretching her arms across its velvet back. “To call this place magic . . . it’s almost not enough. It’s more than magic. The power of a place like this is beyond our comprehension. It’s the essence of love and life and light. It holds power and wields it at will. But really, is it any more mystical than the sun rising? Than a newborn child’s first cry? There is so much power around us. There is so much magic in the world, but some of it has simply become common.”

  Charity used to believe in magic. Back before her gram had died, and the world had gone from being a fairytale place to being a cold, unforgiving one. This was a philosophy she could have embraced back then. And a philosophy she’d like to embrace now. But . . .

  “Was the looking glass for Annabelle Williamson?” Emily asked. She’d remained quiet through most of this discussion, but when Charity’s eyes landed on her, she could plainly see Emily was as much of a believer as her mother.

  Charity nodded. “Yes, it was for Annabelle Williamson.”

  Jeanna stood. “Let’s take a drive, Charity.”

  They hopped into Jeanna’s SUV and drove to the far end of the island. Jeanna parked beside a Tuscan-style two-story house with giant windows and a terra cotta roof. The hurricane shutters had already been removed, most likely by the landscaping company that helped place them for many of the older island residents. The long metal shutters lay beside the house and as the trio walked along the front sidewalk, Charity heard big-band music. A prickly sensation spread across her neck.

  “Look,” Jeanna said, pointing into the bay window on the front of the house.

  There in the living room, Annabelle Williamson held the mirror at arm’s length. Smiling, she spun around and around the living room, moving in rhythm to the big-band sounds that seeped from the home.

  It was mesmerizing to watch. Her body swayed, and her feet floated along the hardwood floor. The woman seemed so entranced by the movement, it drew the spectators into her fantasy. Charity herself could almost picture the dance floor, the orchestra, lines of tables in a half circle around the space. She could practically hear laughter and the tinkling of glasses as people sipped champagne in the soft ambient lighting of an era past. “Wow,” was all Charity could say.

  When the music stopped, Annabelle went to the old phonograph. Just as she started the song again, she noticed the trio of ladies standing in her window. She waved, hugged the looking glass to her heart, and blew a kiss to Charity.

  Charity lifted a hand to wave back, but emotions were so thick, all she could do was stand there, one hand up, heart beating at an unnatural rate.

  Jeanna leaned closer. “Does it really matter how the magic works? The important thing is, it does.”

  Magic. Real or imagined, it didn’t matter. Charity was looking through a window and seeing the kind of magic she used to believe in. The kind she’d always known existed on the island. And she was a part of it now. “You can have the ball at Baxter House. In fact, I’d be honored.”

  Jeanna nodded and laced her arm through Charity’s. “Good. When we get back, we’ll talk about the weeping tree.”

  “So the weeping tree takes on your deepest hurt and helps you . . . what? Deal with it?” It still wasn’t clear to Charity, but she wasn’t going to let Jeanna and Emily leave until she had a grasp, slippery as it might be.

  “A tree that intercedes on our behalf.”

  Charity frowned.

  “It carries our burdens. Lifts them, helps us see the light,” Jeanna said.

  Charity shook her head. “But Gramps never recovered after my Gram died. If all he had to do was sit beneath the tree—”

  Emily cut her off. “He wouldn’t sit beneath the tree, Charity.” The words fell like bombs around her.

  “Why? If it could erase his pain?” Charity asked.

  Emily stood and came over to sit beside Charity. “Your grandfather felt responsible for your grandmother’s death. He blamed himself, and he felt like he needed to live with that blame for the rest of his life.”

  “What? You must be making a mistake, Emily.” Even as she spoke the words with certainty, a seed of apprehension took root in Charity’s stomach.

  “Charity, do you know the details of your grandmother’s death?” Emily asked.

  “It was an accident. She fell.” That’s what she’d been told as a child, and she’d never thought to question it. Now it seemed the very room around them was shrouded in mystery.

  “Charity, a lot of people believe that your grandmother committed suicide.” Emily’s voice was soft, apologetic.

  Her words ricocheted off Charity’s heart as the room went dark around her. Charity’s mind rejected the notion. Her grandmother was a sane, solid human being. Not even given to depression. There was no way she’d . . . and yet. Things had been different that last year when Charity arrived. Gram wasn’t herself. Hadn’t even come to meet Charity at the boat. Gramps had seemed worried about her but brushed it off whenever Charity asked why Gram was so quiet or why she’d slept so late. It was right after she’d gone home that summer that Gram fell and later died at the hospital. “Where was she?” Charity leaped up off the seat, suddenly needing to know details. “From where did she fall?”

  Emily shot a look to her mother who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “The third-floor attic landing. She broke through the thin wooden railing. After she passed, your grandfather kept everything in there just as she’d left it. He told me it had been her hideaway, where she’d go to rest or to think. Charity, he never told me the details of that day. Just that she was gone, and it was his fault.”

  Now Charity wante
d—needed—to know everything about it. Perhaps Harold could help her, but no. Harold and Gramps’s falling-out had been before her grandmother’s death. Harold wouldn’t know what happened. A black ocean of emotions surged, swallowing her. “Gramps never forgave himself.” The injustice of it clawed at her soul. She’d lost them both that day. Gramps was never the same. And now Charity knew that he’d carried the burden of his wife’s death all those years. “I think I need some time to process all this.”

  Emily and Jeanna made their way to the front door with Charity following them. The world was a tunnel, reduced to a pinpoint that only showed her what was just ahead, and everything else was a black wall surrounding her.

  Emily threw her weight into tugging the door open. “I’m here, Charity. If you need to talk or just need a shoulder. I’m sorry.”

  Charity nodded, but her mind was floating somewhere far away. A place where everything you thought you knew about a person could be stripped away with one small revelation.

  Jeanna reached out and took Charity’s arm. “Charity, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but does this change anything about the ball?”

  “Mother!” Emily shot her a look.

  “The ball?” It took a moment for Charity to understand.

  The woman squeezed her arm. “I hate to bring it up, but I’ll have to get the committee working on the arrangements ASAP unless you’ve changed your mind about offering Baxter House.”

  Really? Now she wanted to discuss this? Surely, it could wait. Charity thought about Gramps. Pointing a finger at her and closing one eye. “Let your word be a contract, Lil’ Bit. You’re only as good as your word.” Charity rubbed her hands over her face. “No, Jeanna. I told you the ball could be held here. I gave you my word.”

  Jeanna reached out and hugged her, though Charity’s hands were still folded protectively over her chest. “You won’t be disappointed, Charity. I know this is a painful time, but you’re doing the right thing.”