His feet scraped the wood flooring as he rose from behind her. “We have to find Daisy,” was all he said, but Charity couldn’t help but hear the sharpness in his tone. It was a sound she was used to, but not from him. From her mother. He practically shoved her off him.
“She couldn’t have gone far.” Charity’s body ached, but she ignored it. Her eyes fell on Harold. She’d ignore him, too, for now. His face was pale and washed with worry for Daisy. Right now she wouldn’t order Harold away. They’d all lost enough tonight.
Dalton went into the attic and looked around as if there might be some clue. “What time is the last ferry to the mainland?”
“Just after midnight. I heard folks talking about it at the party. The ferry is running for those who came over.” Harold’s words were tentative, as if he might be screamed at again.
“If she gets on the ferry and makes it to the mainland, we’ll never find her.” Dalton rushed out of the attic.
They raced down the stairs and piled into the car. Ellen followed them out but remained standing in the driveway. Charity paused. “You’re not going?”
She tilted a shoulder. “Why should I?”
Charity shook her head. “I don’t know why it took me so long to give up on you.” With that, she slammed the door shut and prayed they made it to the ferry before it left.
Ellen hated drama. At least, she hated the kind of drama she’d just witnessed. If Dalton hadn’t lashed out and grabbed Charity, maybe she would have gone right through that railing. Maybe Ellen would be planning her daughter’s funeral right now instead of trying to figure out how to manage life with this new sensation running rampant inside her. When Charity had fallen forward, Ellen felt like her guts were being ripped from her stomach. It was worse than childbirth because the pain had leached into her soul and was ripping that away, too. You almost lost her, her mind hissed.
Ellen forced the feeling away. It was just the moment—heightened tensions and intense circumstances. She went straight into the kitchen and found the unopened bottles of wine. She poured a glass and watched the rich red liquid dance as she lifted it to her mouth, surprised to find the drink quaking, a miniversion of the hurricane waves she’d seen two months back. Her hands were trembling, causing the crimson tempest. She drained the glass and poured another, willing herself to calm. Three more and suddenly, the warm and blurry sensation stole her focus from what she’d felt earlier. She poured the last of the bottle into an oversize glass and popped the cork on another, filling the thing nearly to the rim. She tested the steadiness of her hand by holding it out a few inches below eye level. Muuuuch better.
Ellen found her cigarette stash in the drawer and carried her companions outside. She’d tripped once, in the sleeping porch, and sloshed wine onto the floor. No matter, she sang in her head. No one would know she was the culprit.
Outside the air was cool and rich, all her senses alive and floating on a red wine yacht. She stared up at the moon. It was bright and crescent-shaped and made her think of gondolas in Italy. She’d never go to Italy now, and even if she did, what did it matter? No one would notice her. She might as well trade her designer clothes for white sneakers and pastel capris. She could wear no makeup and a hideous hat on her head. She’d keep her ChapStick in a fanny pack and squint at the sun without regard to the wrinkles such action would ultimately cause. She’d eat pasta until she puked and not bother to wipe her mouth until her plate was empty. And she’d be just like everyone else.
She lit up while balancing the wine glass. Just like everyone else—her biggest fear—just like . . . just like her mother. A rustling at her side fought for her attention, but Ellen opted to ignore it. Maybe it was the young man from earlier, returned to tell her what a mistake they’d made in considering her old. Maybe it was Leonard, hoping to draw her home with promises of trips and time and, most important, his fidelity.
The rustling sound grew, but she refused to look. Who would she find standing there? Whoever it was, she didn’t care. But knowing she had an audience for her moment caused her to stand a little straighter. She took a long drag from the cigarette—something she’d learned by watching the silver screen greats Bette Davis and Lauren Bacall. She tilted her head just enough to catch the moonlight so it cast her in a perfect pool. Whoever stood nearby would be awestruck. Her head was hot now, thoughts fuzzy little creatures drifting in and out of her brain. If she spun around, they’d all collide. But if she spun, she might spill her drink, or worse, the several glasses she’d consumed so quickly would revolt on her. There was no beautiful way to regurgitate. Not even Vivien Leigh as Scarlett could pull that one off.
The wind picked up and as it did, the sound increased. She finally cast a glance, readying for a conversation. But there was no one there. It was the willow tree making the sound. She’d had no audience. She’d been performing for an oversize bush.
The wind died, and Ellen found herself studying the tree. Long, slender branches, a leafy waterfall, spewing from the top and gently brushing the ground below. She stepped closer, draining half her glass in one long swig. The breeze kicked up again, this time pressing her closer to the tree. She moved easily, as if on a cloud, floating toward an answer. Her chest tightened. Step beneath the tree, something whispered, but the words were as vague as her thoughts and instead, she stopped dead just outside the branches. “So, you’re what all the fuss is about?” she asked and waited for the tree to comment.
She placed her hand to her ear, careful to keep the lit butt away from her hair, another trick she’d learned watching Bacall. “You don’t have anything to say? Not a word?”
In answer, the leaves rustled.
“You seem to be quite a big deal. Quite the celebrity.” A bigger celebrity than her, but she wouldn’t voice it. It sounded far too petty and desperate.
She started to turn and go back into the house but stopped. “I’m glad Charity hated you all those years. I’m glad she was scared of you. You don’t deserve the attention given to you.” With that, Ellen drew the last of her cigarette and tasted the vile, burned end. Before going back to the house, she flicked the butt into the high branches of the tree.
CHAPTER 19
Fault or Forgiveness
They found Daisy sitting alone on the dock as the last ferry made its way to the mainland. The air was chilly off the water, and Charity moved to her slowly.
Daisy glanced up at her, a sheepish look on her face. There was no run left in the girl; she simply looked small, worn out, and hopeless. Charity dropped onto the salty wooden bench beside her. Daisy drew her knees to her chest.
“You didn’t leave,” Charity whispered.
The girl turned to face her, the blue in her eyes intense. “I wanted a family. But . . . I wanted it perfect.”
Charity nodded.
She sniffed. “But family comes with problems.”
Charity reached over and tucked some strands of blonde hair behind Daisy’s ear. “Yes, it does.”
“I guess you have to make a choice. Run away or stick it out. But it’s never going to be perfect.”
Charity slipped an arm around Daisy’s shoulders. “You have to decide if it’s worth it.” Charity’s gaze went to the dark water where the last of the light from the ferry disappeared. “I’m hoping you’ve decided it is. That we’re worth it.”
Harold and Dalton made their way to the end of the pier where Daisy and Charity sat.
Dalton dropped to his knees in front of Daisy. “When you were trapped after the hurricane, do you remember what you said to me to get you out?”
Daisy nodded. “I said use your brute strength and love. Even if it’s not love for me.”
Dalton swallowed, his eyes misty, his mouth a straight line. “It was love for you, Daisy. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was terrified we’d lost you. I didn’t want to go through that a—” His voice broke, and he pulled a few deep breathes. “I didn’t want to go through that again.”
Harold stepped behind Dai
sy and placed his hands on her arms. “Come on, girlie. It’s time we go home. All of us.”
Charity stood and faced Harold. “She’s right. Family is never going to be perfect. Sometimes, the things that happened in the past need to stay there.”
The blue in his eyes dimmed. “But—”
Charity came around the bench and approached him. “It’s in the past, Harold. Seems like you’ve spent most of your life paying for your mistakes. Maybe it’s time to start fresh.”
A weathered hand covered his mouth, but he couldn’t quite contain his emotions. Charity took a firm grip on his shoulders. “Fresh start. For both of us.”
“It’s more than I deserve.” His craggy voice choked on the words.
Charity shook her head. “No. It isn’t. It’s exactly what you deserve.”
They gathered Daisy’s things and headed home. The first part of the drive was quiet, a peaceful hush in the car echoing throughout the night-dark island. But when they made the last turn onto Charity’s street, they saw it, the orange glow illuminating the sky.
First, she’d thought her mind must be playing tricks on her, but as they neared, and as the cloud of smoke she’d mistaken for low clouds became clear, her blood stopped pumping.
Daisy grabbed her hand. “It’s the garden.”
It is said that nothing lights up a landscape like a blazing fire. Golden yellow and heat that permeates land and sea, clawing from the flame and reaching its fingers in all directions. It was both beautiful and horrible. Terrifying and tender, the blaze was like uncontrolled passion, and yet the tiny droplets of gold embers fell like tears on the surrounding ground.
Charity felt herself sinking as she stared at the scene before her. Dalton slammed the car into park, and they got out and ran around the side of the house, where the weeping tree stood engulfed in flames. Ellen held a water hose in her hands, and spray from the end arched onto the blazing branches. It was instantly absorbed in giant puffs of steam.
“Mother!”
Ellen turned, her face and dress smeared with soot. Her feet were bare, and blackened toes peeked from beneath the tattered garment. “I don’t know what happened!”
Dalton grabbed her and dragged her from the tree just as a branch broke and came crashing toward her.
The golden branch landed, tossing sparks up and toward them. A wave of heat—an oven door opening—warmed Charity’s face. Gold sparks flew at her. As soon as the branch was down, her mother ran straight over it, once again grabbing the hose and spraying it onto the tree, which was virtually overwhelmed by flames that shot up, puncturing the night’s sky. One or two branches remained, but none would survive unscathed. The remaining branches throbbed, great billows of smoke rising off them, ready to burst into full flame like the rest of their siblings. Smoke also rose from the trunk and poured from the cracks in the bark.
“It’s gone,” Charity whispered. The incredible tree that interceded for people. The amazing tree that took others’ burdens and knitted their hearts. The tree she’d never sat beneath because she couldn’t. And now it was gone. In front of her, Ellen stepped closer and closer to the smoldering heap. She continued to spray the hose up at the remaining flames, but the tree would never survive the damage. Charity’s gaze dropped to her mother’s feet. She was standing on a burning limb. Charity yelled at her. But Ellen only answered by changing the arch of the water and spraying the lower section of the trunk. A spark ignited at the base of Ellen’s dress and what was one tiny glowing spark became a flame.
“Mother!” Charity dove for her, knocking her to the ground and landing atop her. She felt the fire beneath her hands and though her mind screamed to get away from it, Charity smacked the edge of her mom’s gown until the flame died. The molten material landed on her mother’s leg, and Charity tried to swipe at it but heard the searing of flesh. Beneath her, Ellen remained still, even with the melted garment fusing to her skin.
Charity rolled off her, concerned now for the sanity of a woman who could have burning material land on her leg but not react to it. Ellen’s eyes were wide, circled in soot and streaked with clear streams of sweat. “It’s my fault.” She whispered the words over and over as if confessing could somehow bring back the tree. “I did this.”
Thus far, there’d been no explanation of the tree’s sudden eruption. Ellen’s hands were trembling when Charity reached out to capture one. It seemed her mother would combust. With each breath, she grew more frantic. “I did this, Charity.”
“Mom.” She grabbed her mother’s hands, her shoulder digging into the ground around them. “You’re in shock. You have to calm down.” Her mother had run over flaming branches in her bare feet; she’d stood on one until her gown ignited at her ankles. The woman had to be in shock.
“I did this, Charity.” Ellen’s eyes were dark, bottomless pools of shame.
“Mom, listen to me. You didn’t do this. It was an accident.”
Ellen laughed without humor, a beaten-down wisp of the person she’d been before the fire. Charity saw madness in her eyes. She’d never known an insane person but thought this was the frightened look such a person would have.
Charity cast a glance to the tree that had, for generations, helped the people of the island. Those same people had kept its secret for all these years. Harold’s words echoed in her head. He’d once told her that he ruined everything he cared about. Maybe it was their family curse. Before she came to the island in hopes of starting anew, of being part of a real community, the tree had flourished. Now it was gone. Forever. She hated every evil word she’d spoken about the tree. When she’d arrived, she’d wanted to rip it out by the roots. Now she felt as though she was losing yet another family member. She’d not allow this night to take another. Still lying on the ground, she clamped her hands on her mother’s face. “Listen to me.”
But Ellen wouldn’t raise her head, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Mom.” Calming now, soothing, Charity would have to coax her.
Ellen’s eyes flew open. “I lit the fire, Charity. I tossed a cigarette butt into the tree.”
All the air left Charity’s lungs in a great whoosh. Her muscles froze in place. On purpose? Her mother had intentionally burned the tree?
Ellen’s head shook quickly from side to side, eyes scanning left, then right. Again, Charity was hit with the very real possibility that this just might be her mother’s undoing. Ellen’s sanity seemed to be hanging by one thin, precarious thread.
“It’s. Just. A. Tree.” Charity tossed a look to the trunk in apology. Its smoldering branches watched the scene unfold. “Mom. Intentional or not, I forgive you.” It was perhaps the hardest thing she’d ever said. And in choosing to stand by her mother, she knew the town would ostracize both of them. If Charity had presented herself as a victim, maybe, just maybe, they could forgive the incident. But if she aligned with her mother, there would be no forgiving, of that she was certain, because their magical tree was gone. And whether Charity’s involvement was intentional or not, she was the keeper of the tree. It was her job to protect it. But right now it was her mother, not the town and not the tree, who needed her loyalty.
Ellen’s mouth opened, her cheeks lengthening. “You can’t forgive me. I don’t deserve it.”
Charity forced a smile, the tiniest shred of hope opening the gate to her heart. “Forgiveness is rarely deserved. That’s what makes it such a gift.”
Ellen’s eyes filled with tears. She tucked her head into Charity’s shoulder, and she lay on the ground and cried.
Harold made his way to Louise’s house as soon as the fire was out. He’d left half a dozen messages on her phone, but she’d never picked up and never called back. He’d left her again. Standing on the pier just like he’d done all those years ago when he arrived at George and Marilyn’s house to find George gone for the night and Marilyn crying because she thought George was having an affair. As Harold had cradled her in his arms, she’d told him of the many months since they’d been intima
te, how she’d tried to make him interested in her, and how he’d recoiled from her again and again. Always coming up with some excuse not to touch her, always giving a reason why he didn’t feel like being close. He’d even started pulling away when she’d brush against him. He’d placed a pillow on the bed, keeping her away.
For months the silent sorrow went unanswered. She’d changed her hair, purchased new clothes, donned makeup. Still, though he’d tell her she looked nice, the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. She worked to get her aging body into better shape, joined a gym, all the while hoping something would turn his eye back to her.
And then Harold arrived. On that fateful night when he’d told Louise to meet him on the pier. But he’d gone to drop off his things at George’s house to find Marilyn alone and in ruins. He was so angry at his brother he’d have beaten him to a pulp if he had been there. Instead, Harold had turned his anger into the unrequited lust he’d carried for Marilyn all those years. That night, they lay in each other’s arms, saying all the things that had gone unspoken for so long.
In the morning, she’d told him that whether or not George was being unfaithful, she refused to walk that road. They’d had one night together, and it was the culmination of the passion they’d shared as teens.
George returned home, and before they could admit what had happened, he told Marilyn he’d been seeing a doctor for a male condition. He’d been embarrassed, ashamed, hadn’t wanted her to know because she was the most wonderful and beautiful thing that had ever happened to him. The surgery was a simple procedure. He should have been honest with her from the beginning. Could she ever forgive him?
She admitted what had happened between her and Harold. With more hurt than anger, George told his brother to leave. Never to come back.
Harold had gone to Louise’s house. He had to explain. But there were no words, so he’d stood at her front door for half an hour, his hand raised to knock, but he hadn’t the will to do it.
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 28