In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Read online

  Charity’s momma tried to get them to let her and Charity live in the Atlanta home, but in the first week, Momma had filled every room with traveling actors from the play she’d hoped to audition for. Gramps threw them all out, including Momma. He rented her and Charity a little apartment that didn’t have room for visitors. It was nice, though. And Charity had her own space and a canopy bed and gossamer curtains on the window, a perfect place for pixies and fairies to pause and catch their breath after swirling across the night street below her room.

  “Is Gram OK?”

  “Fine, Lil’ Bit. Just conserving her energy so we can walk the beach this evening.” But the lines around his eyes seemed to deepen, and his fingers flexed and then tightened on the steering wheel. His nails were dirty, most likely from a morning at the potter’s wheel. The moment of sadness—or concern, or whatever that was—passed, and Gramps was right back to his regular self, whistling as they drove with the windows down and the salty air flying into the truck. Stretches of beach with sand as white as powdered sugar rested on both sides of the long, narrow road. The sand danced across the path as if it were alive, drifting and flowing to a tune only it could hear. Seabirds appeared in the window, pacing the truck, and Gramps would point them out as if Charity had never seen one before.

  Far off the beach, a sailboat kissed the horizon, and all of Charity’s excitement lulled into a sort of satisfied restfulness. The island was the best place in the world, and Charity would love it forever. How could anyone come here and not believe in magic?

  That was the year her grandmother died.

  That was the year magic ended for Charity Monroe Baxter.

  CHAPTER 2

  Cobwebs

  Present day

  They’d had a hard time finding a good vein. George Baxter fingered the IV needle and the dark-purple skin around it. Nurses came and went, and in the last three days, he’d watched their demeanor change. A favorite patient, he’d been. Always quick with a joke, a smile, a kind word. He’d told them they could call him Gramps. Their faces lit up each time they entered his room where they’d hover over his hospital bed, fretting as if he was their own child taken sick, not an old man readying to leave this world. A few of them had bitten back their emotions—no one saying what he already knew. He’d asked pointed questions, and they’d fluff his pillow and consult charts without making eye contact, all the while telling him to not worry. All of them but one had done this. Sunshine was her name.

  He’d been frank with her on a long night when his lungs had filled with more fluid than his body could remove. Sunshine had sat with him for hours in the Intensive Care Unit, which he now called home. He’d been frank by telling her that husband of hers wasn’t going to change. George and Sunshine had an understanding about honesty, so when he asked, “How much time you reckon I’ve got?” she’d squeezed his hand and said, “None, George. Your time’s run out.” And then she’d cried silent tears that left her eyes and landed on the back of his aged hand. He’d wanted to comfort her. And thinking back on that moment less than an hour ago, he’d decided that hearing the truth about one’s mortality and wishing you could comfort another soul was . . . well, it was OK with him. The mark of the kind of life he’d want to leave. The legacy he’d choose if all the things men held in regard were splayed before him.

  Sunshine bent and kissed his cheek in the quiet, sterile room. “Would you let me call your daughter? Or your granddaughter?”

  His eyes trailed to the window, where he searched for comfort from the Florida sun, but the building next door always blocked it. “Charity would want to be here.” He shook his head, squeezed Sunshine’s hand. “But no. Just—”

  Sunshine tilted forward, ready to fulfill any request. “Yes, George?” She didn’t try to hide the hope in her voice. She’d not been the first nurse to urge him to call family. But he didn’t want Charity to see him like this. He wanted her last memories of him to be when he was healthy.

  “I’d—” His craggy voice broke. He cleared a throat filled with gravel. “I’d rather not be alone when . . . when.”

  Her other hand reached out, squeezing his thin fingers harder than she should have, a feeble attempt to hang on to a finite soul in the infinite domain of creation. “You won’t be.” Her pink, painted lips pressed into a hard line. “I swear. My shift ended an hour ago. I’m staying right here.”

  George closed his eyes. Somehow, the sun slipped between the tall buildings and found its way into his room, searching out his face and warming the skin that had begun to feel cold from the inside out. In a far corner of his mind he heard a soft, rustling sound.

  Will you come, sit with me

  He knew if he opened his eyes it would disappear, so with eyes tightly shut, he searched the darkness around him for the source.

  We’ll tell our troubles ’neath the tree

  The rustling intensified, and he recognized its soothing tone.

  The tears we shed will surely be

  Water for the weeping tree.

  It was the weeping tree. There, at the edge of his consciousness, it stood, a brilliant light shining, illuminating each leaf as if a blade of sunshine had been stolen and tacked above the swaying branches.

  And in its shade our woes will fall

  Pain and suffering, sorrow and all

  They’ll fall like glistening diamond drops

  You see, the tree, our pain, it stops.

  The weeping tree called to him, beckoning him to come. Its melodic tune was as clear as the sound of his own laughter, as pure as water from the deepest well.

  And at 11:09 a.m., George Baxter answered the call.

  One month later

  Charity Baxter loved everything about Baxter House. The European design of the ten-bedroom mansion, the glassed-in sleeping porch, the library. She loved the tall, round posts that anchored the porch and the long strip of Gulf coast beyond the grounds perfectly framed by a lush garden.

  She loved everything except the eyesore in the right corner of the backyard. Now thirty-one years old, she’d have thought that the eerie mystery surrounding the tree would no longer bother her. But just thinking about it sent a shiver down her spine. It didn’t matter that she was a grown woman. There were things in the world that defied explanation. And sometimes a lack of knowledge was as debilitating as facts.

  “Miss Baxter?”

  Charity blinked, tried to find her focus. Emily Rudd, the executor of Gramps’s estate stood at the foot of the steps leading to the large front door. Emily smiled and held her clipboard against her tailored suit jacket. She was shorter than Charity, with tall, spiky heels that seemed to make it difficult to stand without the faintest hint of a wobble with each step. Charity herself preferred flats or even tennis shoes. Sandals were good, strappy ones with—

  Ugh, she was doing it again. Tuning out. Changing her focus to reflect anything and everything except the reason she was here. Because what she was here for was the one thing she’d never wanted to face.

  Certainly not alone. Not without Gramps at her side.

  Get a grip. You’re a grown woman, not a child. She clamped a hand on the banister and gazed up up up at the towering house. Hers now. Hers alone. The air was tempered here at the foot of the wide stairs, where she stood in the shadow of the mansion. As a child, she’d sat on the porch swing with wind from the Gulf blowing right through the house as if the entire first floor was one giant wind tunnel. She’d swim in the Gulf, her feet sinking deep into the sandy, muddy ground, and then she’d lie on the porch swing and let that wind dry her skin and hair. Gramps would make sun tea, and he’d catch her tipping up the entire jug for a drink. He didn’t mind, though. Gramps had easily forgiven all her transgressions. At least those he’d known about.

  Emily Rudd stepped away from her and searched her handbag for the keys to the front door. She’d given Charity a few moments to ready for the task at hand after they’d both exited their cars.

  Charity unintentionally compare
d herself to the spotless, tailored Rudd. The spikes of Emily’s deep-red hair matched those of her red-soled shoes, letting everyone know she was both a dangerous package and one that could stab you in a courtroom and still look like a million bucks while doing it.

  Charity’s T-shirt had a stain along the belly, compliments of clay. Dark and dirty and a marking that decorated most all her day shirts. Her clothing was collateral damage of her profession.

  “Ah, here they are.” Emily rattled the keys, a wide smile on her perfectly lined lips as she approached Charity. She was nice. And Charity understood why her grandfather had chosen the spitfire attorney to be his executor. She wasn’t pushy, didn’t pry . . . at least not yet. But they’d only just arrived. There was plenty of time for a third degree.

  Emily remained beside her, and Charity was thankful that she wasn’t taking this first trek back into the house alone. The comfort of another human alongside her made her both appreciative and achy. Achy because she spent too much time alone, if the way she was sucking up the human contact was any indication.

  “We can take as long as you need.” Emily adjusted her bag on her shoulder and dropped the key into Charity’s hand.

  Charity drew a breath and with it, the strength to unlatch the front door. The key, now warming between her fingers, was the old-fashioned kind with a round loop at one end and what looked like a tiny flag on a flagpole on the other. She lifted it slowly to her nose and closed her eyes while she inhaled the scent of the key. Iron, rust, oiled perfume from human hands—Emily’s lotion or maybe even an expensive, scented hand sanitizer. As Charity breathed in the aromas, others entered her nose. Coal oil. Cinnamon. Tobacco. Her eyes flew open, and her breath caught. Those smells were as common to her nose as was the scent of her own shampoo, the toothpaste she used every morning, the expensive bags of Ethiopian coffee she purchased. Though older, the coal oil and tobacco were just as familiar; they were aromas from her childhood. And that could only mean one thing. Gramps was here. Right here with her. She wasn’t doing this alone, after all.

  “Are you all right, Miss Baxter?” Emily’s words were so soft, they barely made it to her.

  “I’m fine.” She tried a smile, but Emily was blurry in Charity’s vision until a single tear abandoned its post in her left eye. One in her right eye followed. With the hand that held the key, she swiped both cheeks, trying to remember when she’d last shed a tear.

  When she’d gotten word of her grandfather’s death, she hadn’t cried. She’d stood up from the wheel, where she’d been working on a vase, and went to her apartment window, where the lights of New York City ever flashed beneath her. There she’d stood from dusk until the sun poked her in the eyes as it bounced off the fifty-seven-story building next to her.

  Emily shifted beside her. “I’ve cleared my entire afternoon. As I said, we can take all the time you need.”

  Quite suddenly, it was important to Charity to know what Emily knew of her relationship with her gramps. “Did my grandfather confide in you a lot, Emily?”

  The professional smile disappeared, replaced by a fondness that looked too spontaneous to have been phony. “Yes, he did.”

  “Did he tell you I hadn’t been back here for years?”

  Emily moved to the porch swing and sat down where she could see the driveway, the narrow sandy road, and a few other large houses that dotted this section of coastline. She rested her fingertips on her handbag—the expensive sort—the kind Charity often found hanging off white plastic arms in tall store windows in the city. She’d never understood the attraction until now. She watched Emily’s hands rest upon it as if the dyed leather and shining buckle held all the power a woman needed to survive any and all questions. A spark of envy skated over Charity. She was going to go right out and purchase one of those shields. Maybe a sword to match. Emily spoke. “Your grandfather was—and still is—my client.”

  Embarrassment rushed over Charity’s shoulders. Didn’t she know by now to mind her own business? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

  Emily patted the seat beside her, so Charity sat down while the wind worked hard to get to them. But up there, on the safety of the long, covered porch, the wind was kept at bay. It would have to be content with rustling the brush at the edge of the porch. Later, perhaps in a day or two, Charity would open all the windows and let it have its way. But not yet.

  Emily glanced over. “Your grandfather told me you might have a lot of questions as we go along. He’s given me strict instructions to tell you anything and everything you ask.”

  Gooseflesh spread across Charity’s neck. “You speak of him as if he’s still alive.”

  Emily’s perfect, red mouth tipped into a sad shape. “He’s here.” Color-coordinated fingernails tapped her heart. “He’s right here, and I’m thankful I was the one he came to. Knowing him made me a better person.”

  As if she needed more sorrow, Charity quickly realized all she’d missed by being too busy to come visit. “I wish . . . I wish . . .” But her voice cracked, and what could she say? She wished she’d been a better granddaughter? She wished she hadn’t wasted the last years. All that was true, but what good did it do now? Off in the distance, a seagull screeched. Charity lifted her gaze and caught sight of it, tilted wings spread wide and catching the wind as it prepared to dive for food. “There’s a seagull.” She pointed it out to Emily just like her grandfather used to do for her. Charity used to watch the seagulls for hours. From the glassed doorway on the sleeping porch, she’d rest on one of Gram’s quilts while Gramps would prepare pottery for the kiln. He had a room inside the house where the potter’s wheel waited to be turned and used. She hoped it was still there. Maybe he’d given up pottery. The thought rushed her like a sudden flu, but Charity forced the intruder aside. No. No. Even when she was small, her gramps had promised to pass the wheel to her. One day.

  Her nose tingled. One day had come.

  As if recognizing the tiny thread of courage that had gently wound itself around Charity, Emily stood. “Would you like to go inside?”

  Charity brushed sweaty palms over her thighs and followed Emily, her heart lurching and then settling in her throat. After a few slow steps, she held the key out toward the door, but some invisible magnetic force stopped her cold. “Would . . . would you?”

  One of Emily’s brows rose. Moments ticked past, and Charity felt like the kid on the playground who possessed the ball, but suddenly no one wanted to play. “I mean. Could you open it?”

  Emily swallowed. Charity watched what felt like a barrage of emotion cross Emily’s face. Red-tipped fingers gently landed on Charity’s sleeve. “As I said, your grandfather left me instructions.” A tiny smile, a light squeeze, and Emily took a full step aside as if moving out of the way of a falling vase.

  Heat snaked up Charity’s cheeks. Anger scraped at her consciousness. After all, wasn’t Emily supposed to be there to help? Supposed to be the hand Charity could hold on to? Wasn’t that why her grandfather paid her?

  After a surrendering sigh—complete with key still dangling in the air—Charity gathered her sanity. Emily hadn’t been sent to be the shoulder she could lean on. Like everything, Charity had to do this on her own.

  She forced the key in the lock and gripped the door with enough force to loosen the salt-water erosion. Sea air worked on everything, chewing away at the patina and leaving sandpaper in its stead. She had to jiggle the doorknob a few times to get the right angle. WD-40 would help. She’d purchase some later in the day. After a short skirmish, the lock clicked, and the doorknob turned. Charity swung the door open, its groan of hello greeting her first.

  Windows off the back of the house filled the space with light. Sixteen-foot ceilings, cracked with age; two wide, circular banisters in half-curlicue shapes led to the second floor, making the marble entryway resemble a pool at the bottom of a mermaid’s castle.

  Charity stepped inside, surprised that the old place still looked the same. A bit more run-down, a bit mo
re faded and aged. But still, the home she’d known. There was comfort in that. On the left, beyond the arched double doorway, stood the library’s tall bookshelves. Opposite the library, the giant fireplace anchored one wall inside the parlor. The entryway alone was as big as her entire apartment in the city. Even so, it felt comforting and cozy to Charity.

  “Some updates have been made over the last several years. Your grandfather kept all the warranties and lists of workmen in a drawer in the kitchen.”

  Charity moved to the wall and rested her hand on the plaster. “I know that drawer,” she said and realized she was smiling. She’d feared she’d feel like an intruder here, an outsider, an interloper. Someone who’d once belonged but no longer did. Someone who’d turned her back on the place so in exchange, the place would turn its back on her.

  But that wasn’t how she felt. The plastered wall was cool to the touch, and her hand made a soft, scraping sound as it moved across the surface. Her index finger rested over a crack. There’d always been cracks in the plaster. Maybe this one was new. Maybe old. What did it matter? They were hers now. The cracks, the space between the walls, the floors to the ceilings. And quite suddenly, she wished she had a mop in her hands. Windex and paper towels and a bucket for the floors. Charity had a rushing need to clean and scrub and tend the house. Make it proud. Make it shine.

  She must have mumbled something to that effect because Emily answered her. “There are supplies for tidying up in the kitchen. Your grandfather—”

  Charity spun to meet her eye to eye, bold with her new objective. “What did you call him?”

  Emily blinked. Perhaps not understanding the question, perhaps surprised that the mousy woman was finally finding her voice. “Excuse me?”

  “My grandfather. Did you call him Mr. Baxter? Or—”