In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  When they reached the green awning–covered sidewalk, a white brochure was shoved into Charity’s hand. She read the words, Save the Hall, then glanced up to see who’d given her the page. It took a moment to realize who the woman was. If it hadn’t been for the tangerine lips, Charity wouldn’t have known her. “Mrs. Parker?” It was the taupe plate lady. Her first special order.

  “Charity, dear. Goodness, I was so busy with my task, I didn’t realize it was you.”

  Charity oomphed when the woman grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her into a bone-crushing hug. Papers were mashed between the two.

  The gray threads were gone from Mrs. Parker’s hair, and the strands had been cut into a stylish bob that accentuated her small eyes. Mrs. Parker touched her locks. “You like the new ’do? Nancy down at Studio Gaslamp did it. She’s a marvel.”

  Charity shoved the paper at Dalton. “You’re a marvel, Mrs. Parker.” The woman looked forty pounds lighter and fifteen years younger. How was that possible?

  Mrs. Parker placed a hand on her hip and wiggled back and forth. “Thank you, dear. I feel great. Sassy and sexy enough to keep the fishermen on their toes.” Her gaze trailed to Dalton. She thrust out a hand.

  Dalton extended his as well, but once they’d made contact, Mrs. Parker drew him into the same type of lung-squeezing hug. “You must be Dalton Reynolds. We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Gloria Parker, but these days folks call me Glorious.” As she released him, she laughed. He joined her.

  Charity remained stunned.

  Glorious Parker—seeming satisfied with her dramatic introduction—frowned as she turned her attention back to the crumpled papers in her hand. “We have a problem. A serious, disastrous problem.” Her brows tilted into a frown, but her smile and general joyfulness couldn’t quite be contained. Though she was undoubtedly giving it her best. “It’s the hall.”

  Dalton and Charity remained silent as Glorious Gloria’s hand fell like a block of concrete onto Charity’s shoulder. “There are structural issues, and if we can’t raise the money quickly, we’ll have to find a new venue for the Founders’ Day Ball. It’s in September, you know.” The frown disappeared at the mention of the party.

  Dalton withdrew his wallet and pulled out some cash. He held it out to Gloria, who took it and tucked it inside the V in her shirt. “Good job, young man.”

  But he’d looked away, lest his gaze unwillingly trail to the open throat where money rested between a bra strap and flesh.

  When Gloria was called away, Charity turned to Dalton. A high-pink hue brightened his cheekbones. “Are you blushing?”

  “Aren’t you? She took that money and tucked it in her bra.”

  Charity giggled. “I saw that. You know there’s a store out on the beach, and they have a sign saying they no longer accept sock or bra money.”

  He winced. “So what was with the look of shock on your face when you first saw her?”

  Charity gazed down the street where Gloria Parker had already found new victims. “She looks completely different. She’s lost a ton of weight. I’d wonder if maybe she was sick if she didn’t seem so—”

  “Vibrant?”

  Charity nodded. “Yes. Vibrant. And thinner.”

  “Well, it’s been a few weeks since you’ve seen her, right?”

  “Not long enough to lose that much weight.”

  Dalton thrust his hands in his jeans pockets. “I don’t know about that. I heard about a woman who lost two hundred pounds in just a few hours.”

  Charity rolled her eyes. “OK, I’ll bite. How she’d do that?”

  “She divorced her husband.”

  Charity laughed as a fresh breeze grabbed her hair and tossed it in multiple directions.

  “Now, where to, first?” Dalton asked.

  Her brow furrowed in concentration as she took in the area.

  “Not a hard question, you know?”

  It’s not that Charity didn’t know her mind; on the contrary, she knew exactly what she wanted to do. It was just that when anyone else was involved, she always let them choose. “What do you think? Lunch or shop or farmer’s market?”

  His gaze was flat on her. “I think I told you to pick.”

  And why not? She could pick. She always chose things when she was alone. But she wasn’t alone. “Farmer’s market, then down to the marina and the pier, then lunch.” Without asking what he thought of the idea, she turned on her heel and headed to the end of the street, where the farmer’s market was set up, anchored by white tents and homemade signs.

  They passed Aldo’s General Store—which was mostly an old timey convenience store with a few rows of groceries. It was a bustle of business today as Aldo held packages for locals who shopped the farmer’s market. A woman with a box struggled with the front door to the store, and Dalton slipped around Charity to help her.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

  Charity looked beyond her. Inside the store, lined up against the wall were multiple boxes, each marked with a name written in marine-blue Sharpie. “We better hurry, or everything will be gone from the farmer’s market. It’s nice that Aldo keeps people’s purchases here.”

  Dalton rubbed his chin. “Yes. From what I hear, it came from the days when everyone gathered downtown on Saturdays.”

  Charity glanced around her at the steady stream of locals and tourists—easily distinguished by their attire—milling about the town. No one in a hurry. No one rushing to leave. “Not much has changed, I’d say.”

  Dalton nodded. “True. It was a different time, then. Folks dressed up to go to town. It was an occasion.”

  She eyed him. “You know a lot about it.”

  He nodded. “Read a couple books about the island’s history. I read a lot.”

  “So that’s how you spend your time when you’re not stealing flowers from my garden and sitting on the rock ledge looking at the water.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. “I only stole flowers once, and that doesn’t count because they were for you. But what do you mean about sitting on the ledge?”

  She tilted her head to look at him. “The ledge out near the willow. I’ve seen you out there. Late at night. At least three times.”

  Dalton placed a hand on her elbow. “Charity, I’ve never sat out there.”

  Her mind drifted back to the last time—only a few nights ago—when she’d been working late out on the sleeping porch, and she looked up to see Dalton’s silhouette—she’d thought it was Dalton, walking from the opposite side of the willow and sitting down on the rock ledge to look out at the water.

  His hand squeezed a little tighter. “Charity, are you locking your doors at night?”

  “Yes. I am.” And with the edge in his voice, it seemed important to be doing just that.

  “What about your ghost? Any more noises?”

  “Footfalls, but they seem so far away. Like I’m imagining it. And music, still the music, but it’s soft, faint . . .” She shook her head.

  “Noises carry on the water, but unless you’re leaving your windows open, I doubt that could be the source. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

  She didn’t mind the sounds. They weren’t intrusive; they were far off and almost comforting. It was as if her gramps was in an upstairs room and just as Charity lifted her head, he’d come down the stairs and kiss her cheek.

  “I’ll be more diligent about knowing what’s going on around the house at night,” he said.

  She could argue, but what she knew of Dalton was, he was stubborn. So why put forth the effort to disagree? He’d do it whether she wanted him to or not. “Oh! Mangos,” she said and grabbed him by the hand to lead him to the first booth at the farmer’s market.

  Dalton had to admit he enjoyed watching Charity rummage through items at the farmer’s market. First, they’d only needed a small bag, then a grocery sack, then a full-on reinforced box that would wait for them at Aldo’s while they watched commercial fishing boats and ate a late lunch
. When she was at home, she seemed to sometimes forget about the tropical paradise around them, her head down, coaxing a hunk of clay into a beautiful vase or pot or bowl.

  “Hey, I thought that guy was going to offer to give me his entire mango supply in exchange,” Dalton said, baiting her. Charity was curious by nature, and she’d undoubtedly nibble on the proverbial carrot he’d just dangled in front of her. She was having a good day. He was giving it to her. That was the problem. Dalton had become a bit too preoccupied with Charity. And though he knew it was good to branch out from the small hole he was wallowing in, he needed to be cautious. He wasn’t match material. He wasn’t date material. He was—and would for the foreseeable future remain—emotionally unavailable. Best scenario? Find a match for Charity so they could remain uncomplicated friends. That opportunity presented itself when he’d returned to the mango booth while Charity looked at sunglasses and handmade jewelry. “Charity, did you hear me?”

  She was inspecting a shark’s tooth necklace at one of the last booths by practically holding it to her nose. “These are amazing. And what guy? The mango guy? In exchange for what?” Carrot successfully delivered.

  “For you. Did you not notice he was flirting?”

  She scrunched her nose and studied Dalton for a few seconds over the shark’s tooth. “He wasn’t flirting.” She returned to inspecting the shark’s tooth again.

  “I bet you money he was.”

  “You can’t bet. All your money is being saturated with sweat inside Gloria’s blouse.”

  He winced but quickly shook off the memory of Glorious Gloria and her blouse. “Would it be so horrible if he was?”

  She eyed him again. “Was what?” She’d already moved on from the conversation.

  He cast a glance heavenward. “Flirting. I’ll bet you a snapper dinner he wants to go out with you.”

  She placed the shark’s tooth on the counter where she’d found it and faced Dalton. “You’re hard to get a read on, Reynolds. First, you’re all worried about me going out with the wrong kind of man.” She poked him in the chest. “Not that I need a babysitter. Now you’re hooking me up with a produce guy so you can get a few extra mangos and a free snapper dinner?”

  He chuckled. “His name’s Red. He’s a good guy. I’ve known him since I’ve been here, and he likes to help out at the Barlows’. And he likes you.”

  Charity cast a suspicious glance behind her to the mango man on the first row. He looked down when she made eye contact. “He’s watching us.”

  Dalton shrugged. “I told him I’d do what I could.”

  This time when she poked Dalton in the chest, it was hard enough to hurt. “Who made you Cupid? And what kind of big brother tries to set up his little sister on a date? Sick!”

  A full out laugh came from Dalton’s mouth. Across the lot, Red perked up. “You’re like the little sister I never wanted.” He mock-frowned. “Did I say that wrong? I meant always. Like the little sister I always wanted.”

  Something in the air changed. Charity’s look became serious. “What about you, Dalton?”

  His laughter stopped. Throat went dry.

  The breeze caught Charity’s hair. “You think you’ll ever let me set you up on a date?” Her gaze dropped to his wedding band.

  He’d speak if his throat wasn’t filled with cotton. With her, was what she meant. In another world, they’d have been a good match. But not in this world. Not now. That kind of love had died with Melinda. “No, Charity, I don’t think so.”

  Her chin quivered only slightly, and he knew she was regretting the words, unspecific as they’d been—the flash of hurt was evident.

  Just move on. Charity shouldn’t have said anything, but it seemed like an opportunity she didn’t want to miss. Dalton was a grieving widower; she got that. But he was also a man with many years ahead of him and a lot to offer. To someone. Obviously not to her. She’d meant for the suggestion to sound like a general one, even if her heart knew differently. Unfortunately, Dalton had seen through her as soon as the words left her mouth. Aggravation tickled her scalp, so she sank her hands into her hairline and scrubbed the irritation away.

  She cast a look behind her, this time considering Red as a potential date. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Nice blue eyes, hair cut short, he’d made a couple of jokes while they’d been standing there, and though Charity couldn’t remember them, she’d been entertained. She’d seen Dalton go back over after they’d purchased mangos, but it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder why.

  Dalton had become more of a friend than she’d ever imagined having, though working at socializing had been on her priority list when she came to the island. She also had Emily Rudd, but the sharp attorney hadn’t been in contact much since the epic-fail date. At the same time, being set up by Dalton just felt weird, even though he was her friend. Her best friend. How had that happened? Well, since her list of close friends was small—microscopic, even—it had happened pretty easily. “Why such an interest in my love life?”

  His face split into a smile. “You’re too young and pretty to spend all your nights home alone.”

  She tipped a shoulder. “I’m not alone. I have my ghost. And what was that first part? Something about pretty?”

  The sun caught the green in his eyes, making that kaleidoscope of colors she so enjoyed. “You’re pretty. Pretty strange, pretty obnoxious. Shall I go on?”

  “Nope. All I heard was pretty.” She chewed her lip. “He’s a good guy, you say?”

  Dalton nodded.

  “I guess I could meet him for coffee.”

  “Coffee? No wine so you can get slobbering drunk and—”

  She placed her entire hand over his mouth. “Coffee.”

  “Great, you owe me one snapper dinner,” he said around her fingers.

  “What? How do you figure that?”

  He gave a thumbs up to Red. “We made a bet.”

  She shook her head. “No, you made a bet; I’m making a date. Now, take me to the Ice House for lunch, or suffer my wrath.”

  They walked the distance from downtown to the Ice House. Back in the day when Gaslamp Island had been more of a working island, the Ice House provided ice for the fisherman. Resting on stilts, its two-story wooden structure overlooked the town on one side and the gulf on the other. Charity hadn’t eaten there, but as they climbed the outside staircase to the hostess desk, she already knew she was going to love it. The breeze on the stairs was powerful—much stronger than in town where the buildings and cars created a buffer.

  They chose a spot outside after crossing through the clapboard-walled restaurant decorated with what looked like a hundred years of fishing gear and memorabilia. “Look,” Dalton said, drawing her attention to the line of fishing boats crossing the gulf and angling to come into the marina where WAKE ZONE signs slowed the traffic. “Some of the commercial fisherman are coming in.”

  She angled her plastic patio chair to see the gulf. They ordered crab cakes because the server assured them they were the best in the state and pointed out a local award on the wall as proof. But Charity was fairly certain she’d eaten at three restaurants touting the best crab cakes in Florida while she’d driven three quarters of the length of the state on the way to the island.

  They were just getting ready to order dessert when Gloria came bursting through the patio door. The commotion drew the attention of half the guests seated on the wooden patio; the others continued on with their meals unfazed. Behind Gloria stood a short pixie of a woman, and if Charity didn’t know better, she’d swear it was Emily Rudd aged by thirty years.

  “Charity, Dalton, this is Jeanna McDouglas-Rudd.” Gloria leaned all the way to Charity’s ear and whispered, “She’s one of those feminist ladies who uses her maiden name and married name. Hyphenated. She’s Emily’s mama.”

  Charity bit back a smile. Jeanna McDouglas-Rudd was every bit the professional Emily was. Same short hair—hers was a bit longer and flattering to her pretty but aging face. Her skin was porcela
in, and Charity could only wonder what magic kept it that way in the harsh Florida sun.

  The two women shook hands. “Charity, I don’t mean to interrupt your lunch date, but I have a favor to ask.”

  Dalton leaned back and grinned. “Oh, this isn’t a date. She’s drinking iced tea. On dates she drinks coffee.” Under his breath, he uttered, “Or wine.” It was only for Charity’s ears, but the little quiet announcement made her cheeks burn as if the whole restaurant had heard him.

  She shot daggers at him and when she felt satisfied that he was pin-cushioned, she gave her full attention to Jeanna and Gloria. “What can I do for you?”

  Jeanna dragged a chair over, and Gloria followed her lead and dragged one, too. They both sat down. “First, let me say that I am so thrilled you’re continuing George’s work. He was . . .” Sharp silvery eyes narrowed and, like a politician, she was choosing her words carefully. Charity could only imagine why. Was this the buttering-up treatment before sliding the turkey into the oven? Had she done something wrong already? The words coming from Jeanna’s mouth were heavy with something. Good, bad, or otherwise.

  “What I’m trying to say, Charity, is your grandfather was an important part of our community. We’re all very sad he’s gone.”

  In the reflection of those steely gray eyes, Charity saw honesty.

  Jeanna swallowed hard. “We miss him.”

  For reasons unknown, the kind words about her gramps made Charity a little choked up. “Thank you,” she said.

  Jeanna flicked her hair and patted Charity’s hand, chin rising and warring against the emotions she’d just shared. Back to business. “I’d like to ask you to consider hosting the Founders’ Day Ball.”

  First, Charity’s mind completely rejected the words. But as they settled in, tiny black spots of fear appeared before Charity’s eyes. She couldn’t host a ball. Cannonballs didn’t float, sparrows didn’t lift cement blocks, and Charity Baxter didn’t host formal events.