Garden of Secrets

by Barbara Freethy

  The running path ended at a children’s park that was just a couple of swings, a climbing structure, and a few picnic benches. She slowed her steps, giving him a smile. “Feel up to a little off-road run?”

  “We’re not done yet?” Joe asked breathlessly, beads of sweat on his forehead, his cheeks ruddy from the cold air.

  “Not quite. I want to show you something. If you’re up to it.”

  “Lead on.”

  She climbed over a waist-high wall on the other end of the playground and led Joe down a narrow dirt path that wound through a few more trees and then widened onto a flat patch of land that was barren except for a glorious cornucopia of colorful flowers in a six-by-six strip of ground along the edge of the cliff. She stopped in front of the wild garden and looked at Joe. “What do you think?” she asked. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  His breath came fast as he used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face. “It’s amazing,” he agreed, looking around. “Strange place for a garden.”

  “I found it one day when I was a little girl. No one in town admits to taking care of it, but it’s always like this, blooming with a dozen different kinds of flowers. The sea air doesn’t seem to damage it. No weeds ever overtake the blooms. It’s a little piece of heaven,” she added, sudden emotion tightening her chest. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, concern knitting his brows.

  She hugged her arms around her waist, her mind floating back to the past.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, moving to her side. “You’re shaking.”

  “Am I?” she asked in bemusement.

  He stepped in front of her and put his hands on her arms. “Charlotte, what’s going on in your head?”

  Gazing into his concerned brown eyes brought reality back. “I just remembered when I was here last. It was right after I lost the baby.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said with compassion. “Should we go?”

  She drew in a breath. “Not yet.”

  “Then talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “If I start talking, I may not stop,” she said, feeling a rush of words ready to flee the vault she’d kept them in for many years.

  “You’ll stop when you’ve said what you have to say.”

  “I’ve already told you what happened.”

  “The facts,” he agreed. He gave her an encouraging smile. “But not all of the emotions. You buried those away.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip, trying to hold back. Finally, she said, “It was so long ago. Why does it still hurt?”

  “Some pains go deep,” he said simply. “And some never heal because they don’t get sunlight or release. You couldn’t let yours out back then, could you?”

  She shook her head, her mouth tightening with the memory. “After I lost the baby, my mother told my father I had the flu and he shouldn’t come near me, because I was really contagious and he had a wedding to do that weekend. She told Jamie and Doreen the same thing. She even moved Doreen out of our room and made her sleep on the pull-out couch for two days.”

  “And she left you alone?” Joe asked, outrage in his voice.

  “She’d come in by herself. She thought bringing me ice cream and magazines would make it all go away, as if it was just the flu.”

  “What about your friends, Charlotte? Why didn’t you confide in one of them?”

  “I had strict orders from my mother, and aside from that, it was just too personal and shameful.” She paused. “After I finally got out of bed, I came here. I couldn’t cry at home, but no one could hear me out here except the wind and the sea and the flowers.” She gave him a watery smile, tears threatening to fall. “The second I started crying, I felt guilty.”

  “Why?” he asked in surprise.

  She met his questioning gaze. “Because I hadn’t wanted the baby. I was seventeen; I thought my life was over when I got pregnant. I didn’t think I’d make it to college, that I’d be a doctor. The miscarriage solved all of my problems.” Her chest tightened, her throat clogging with emotion. “How could I miss something I didn’t want? Why did it hurt so badly, when it was probably the best thing?”

  His gaze was soft. “Because it was a life, Charlotte. It was a baby you lost, not a thing, and you have a big heart. You care about people. I’m not surprised it devastated you. I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”

  “I remember thinking how strange it was that there was nothing to mark her or him as ever being alive. There was no grave, no headstone—it was like it never happened. I went back to school, and everyone was talking about prom dresses and SAT scores and college. All I could think about was that I’d lost a baby. It was surreal. Like I was living in two worlds.”

  “Your mother never should have made you keep it a secret. At the very least, your family should have known.”

  “It would only have upset my father unnecessarily,” she said, quoting her mother word for word.

  Joe’s frown deepened. “I had no idea she was so cruel.”

  “She thought she was being a good mother, being realistic, making the best of a bad situation.”

  “That’s why you don’t get along.”

  “The biggest reason but not the only one. Actually, we’re doing better now. We hadn’t talked about the baby in a very long time, but when Annie disappeared a few months ago, we bonded over her child. While my mother didn’t admit to any wrongdoing, at least we got it out in the open. I got to tell her how I feel, instead of saying it over and over again in my head.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I just wish I’d had that opportunity with my dad. I delayed coming back when he was sick. Part of me was worried that I’d spill the beans after all this time, and what good would that have done? It might have helped me, but it wouldn’t have helped him.”

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t tell him a long time ago.”

  “He would have been ashamed of me,” she said quietly.

  “Then he wouldn’t have been the man everyone claims he was,” Joe said.

  “He was a good man. And he was proud of me. At my high school graduation, he told me I was going to do amazing things. Do you think he would have said that if he’d known how close I came to screwing it all up?”

  Joe shrugged. “You’ll never know.”

  “No, I won’t. It’s done.” She drew in a breath and let it out, finally feeling free. “So, this is the garden that soaked up my tears and kept my secrets. I’m glad it’s still here. I bet it’s heard a lot of sad stories over the years.”

  “Maybe some happy ones, too,” Joe suggested. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “You’re going to be okay.”

  She smiled up at him. “You’re a good listener. I’m sorry I dumped all that on you. I can’t imagine what you must think.”

  His smile reassured her. “I’m happy that you confided in me. I want to know you, Charlotte—all of you. The good, the bad, the ugly, the whatever . . .”

  “Then maybe you should know something else.” She bit her lip, debating, then the words spilled out. “I’m not sure I want to have children. I can’t imagine going through that kind of pain again.”

  His gaze was more somber now. “Are you asking me if that’s a deal breaker?”

  “Is it?”

  “I’d like to have a child,” he said slowly. “And I think that you’d be an incredible mother.”

  Her heart swelled with his words. “Really?”

  “Of course. But you’re the one who has to believe that.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “Did you go into obstetrics because of the baby you lost?”

  “I always knew I wanted to be in medicine, but that did influence my choice of specialty.”

  “And since you became a doctor, you’ve delivered hundreds of healthy babies. A lot of good came from your loss, Charlotte. Do you ever think of it that way?”

  “I try to. Especially when I’m in church, and my father’s
voice rings through my head, telling me that God has a plan for me. But when I lost that child, I lost a lot of faith.” Something flashed in Joe’s eyes. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Fiona mentioned to me yesterday that people come to Angel’s Bay to find their faith, not just in God but in themselves or in the people around them, and that the angels help.”

  “I came back because my father died, and my mother needed me.”

  “And I came here because my uncle died and left me his house.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, knowing there were a lot of emotional underpinnings to both of those choices.

  “You don’t believe in angels,” she said.

  “Neither do you,” he reminded her.

  “I used to. I used to have an imaginary friend. We came here to play.”

  “A lot of kids have imaginary friends.”

  “But I think mine might have been an angel.”

  “Of course,” he said with a wry smile. “We are in Angel’s Bay, after all.”

  “Yes, we are.” She walked around the border of the garden, the colorful flowers making her feel alive, happy, complete—as if by coming here, she’d truly come home. She’d faced her past and her pain was fading. Looking at the garden now, she could see past the tears and anguish of her last visit. Instead, she remembered all the times before when she’d come with friends. Even when she’d come by herself, she’d never really been alone. Mary Katherine had always seemed to show up, laughing and smiling, encouraging her to put flowers in her hair and twirl around, dancing to the sounds of the waves crashing on the rocks below. She’d been so young and carefree then, looking toward a life with infinite possibilities, and suddenly the girl she’d once been didn’t seem so hard to reach. She’d locked her away along with all the other bad stuff, but today she’d let her out.

  As she glanced across the garden, her gaze met Joe’s, and she smiled. He was partly responsible for her newfound sense of freedom. He’d given her the strength to look back, and he’d listened without judgment.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For letting me talk it out.”

  “Anytime.”

  “One of these days, I hope I can return the favor.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a smile.

  Whatever secrets Joe had were buried deep. She drew in a breath of fresh sea air, feeling better than she had in a long time. Things could change now. She was ready to move on.

  “You know, Charlotte, you’re like this garden,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You bloom beautifully all by yourself, without anyone taking care of you. Lovely and resilient, just like these flowers.”

  She was moved by his words, by the way he saw her. “You seem to get me like no one else. Or maybe I’m just very easy to read.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said dryly. “Come here.”

  His smile took the edge off his command, and she walked back to him.

  He pulled her against his chest. “I missed you last night.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “I had to go to the quilting party.”

  “You should have come by afterward.”

  “I was trying to stay away from you.” Here in his arms, that idea seemed ludicrous now. “That doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I’ve been trying to stay away from you for months, Charlotte, and I don’t want to do it anymore. I like being with you. I like holding you. I like . . .”

  His gaze settled on her mouth, and her nerve endings tingled with anticipation. “What else?” she whispered.

  “This . . .” His kiss was warm and tender, filled with something that felt a lot like love.

  Her heart sped up. Her defenses screamed at her to stop, that kissing him was dangerous. But how could she when she wanted him so much, when every touch made her want more?

  She jerked away, her survival instincts overriding her desire.

  Joe stared at her, his breath coming hard and fast, his eyes dilated to dark pools of disappointment and frustration, the things she was feeling. She wasn’t being fair to him. She knew that.

  “You need to stop being scared,” he told her forcefully.

  “I don’t know how,” she said.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of us. Of what could happen. Of what might not happen,” she added in confusion. “We’re good friends, and we could ruin that. We could end up hating each other.”

  “Or we could be great together,” he countered.

  “It’s a huge risk. I’m not like you. I don’t race down steep hills and fly into the wind.”

  “It’s a hell of a ride.”

  “Or a hell of a crash. You should know that, after what happened with Rachel.”

  His jaw clenched, and the air between them crackled with tension and conflicting desires. Loving him could hurt, but not being with him was painful, too. They’d gone too far, yet not far enough.

  “We should go,” she said finally.

  “Yeah,” he bit out. He took off on a sprint, as if he didn’t trust himself to stay with her one second longer.

  She’d hurt him with the Rachel reference, but it was a fact. His marriage had ended, just like all of her relationships. It wasn’t easy to believe in happy-ever-after.

  She glanced at the garden one last time and then jogged back up the path.

  As they ran through the playground, she saw a wispy figure sitting on the swing. The girl smiled, her voice carrying on the wind. “I’m so glad you’re back, Charlie, that you can see me again. I’ve missed you. Come back, and we’ll swing the way we used to.”

  She stumbled as she stopped in front of the swings. “You’re not real,” she whispered.

  “I am if you believe in me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You want to—because then you can believe in him.”

  Charlotte blinked rapidly as a gust of wind blew sand in her eyes. When it was gone, so was the girl.

  THIRTEEN

  Just past one, Charlotte headed to Dina’s Café to meet Fiona. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about angels, but she’d promised to meet the older woman, and no one stood up Fiona. Maybe it was a good thing. She might learn enough about Mary Katherine to convince herself that she wasn’t having conversations with an angel.

  Fiona was seated at a booth in the busy café, sipping a cup of tea. Charlotte’s muscles protested as she slid onto the bench seat. She’d pushed her run way too hard that morning; now she was paying for it.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” she told Fiona.

  “It’s not a problem. I know how busy you are. I ordered you the chef’s salad with some iced tea. Kara told me that’s what you always order.”

  “I guess I’m pretty predictable,” she said with a smile.

  “That’s the last thing I would call you, Charlotte.”

  Fiona’s sharp tone made Charlotte wonder if that was a compliment. She’d always found Kara’s grandmother intimidating, and the woman often treated her like an errant schoolgirl. But Fiona was on a mission, and for some reason, Charlotte had been selected to join in.

  “I’ve been thinking about your angel,” Fiona said. “They usually show themselves for a reason. When did you last see her?”

  Charlotte wanted to look away from Fiona’s inquisitive gaze, but she couldn’t. “This morning,” she admitted.

  Fiona gave her a knowing look. “I suspected as much. What did she say?”

  “That she was glad I could finally see her again. Whatever that means.”

  “It means that she has something to teach you. Angels are messengers. They bring love, hope, faith—all of the intangibles that make life worth living.” Fiona opened an envelope that was on the table next to her and pulled out a very old photograph. There were four people in the black-and-white picture, a man, a woman, a boy about ten, and a girl about twelve.

  Charlotte caught her breath as
her gaze came to rest on the little girl’s face. She was surprised and yet not. “Is this the Worthington family?”

  “Yes. It was taken just before they boarded the ship.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “After George Worthington and his son settled here, some of their other relatives came to live in Angel’s Bay. They brought family items with them, and one of them was this picture. It was donated to the Historical Society a very long time ago. I borrowed it so I could show it to you.”

  “If it’s part of the Angel’s Bay collection, I might have seen it at the museum on one of our school field trips. Maybe that’s why I imagined this girl’s face, why I knew her name.” She felt better, having come up with a logical solution.

  Disappointment filled Fiona’s eyes. “Sometimes you have to believe with your heart, not with your mind.”

  “My heart has gotten me into trouble.”

  “Your heart is who you are, Charlotte. It always has been. Stop fighting your instincts. They’re better than you think.”

  Charlotte sat back as the waitress brought over their order, thinking about Fiona’s words. When they were alone again, she said, “While we’re on the subject of the Worthingtons, I was wondering what you can tell me about Constance Garcia, the housekeeper at Sandstone Manor.”

  “She’s come into the shop a few times to pick up some material. I don’t know her well.”

  “Did you ever speak to her about the legend of missing gold?”

  “No, until recently, Edward Worthington was alive and, as far as I knew, in full possession of whatever treasure the family owned. Mr. Worthington refused to participate in any of our Founders Day functions. And the few attempts I made to have a conversation with him about family were quite unsuccessful. He was not an outgoing man, even before his wife died.”

  “But Mrs. Garcia must have known him pretty well.”

  “I believe she did.”

  “And someone in this town must know her.” Charlotte leaned forward. “I need to find that someone. I believe Constance knows more than she’s saying about the robbery, but she wasn’t willing to talk to me. I need some insight into her life—who she is, who her friends are, what motivates her, who she might be trying to protect at my expense.”