Jeanna continued, unshaken. “I’d love to have it at Baxter House.”
Charity’s mouth turned to cotton. Sure, she’d heard of the ball, but it was never held in the summer, so all she’d gotten was pictures and a thousand stories from Gram and Gramps. It was a September event, and sadly, she had always returned to her mother at the end of August.
“You know William Baxter was the founder of the ball. He used it as an excuse to get high-powered friends with deep pockets to come this far south. We owe this island’s entire community to him—the fact that we have a library, a medical center, a town square. All thanks to Baxter. The man who also built your house.” She’d added that last line for good measure—to remind Charity of her connection to their founder.
Charity needed to say something because all eyes were on her. “Um, Mrs. McDouglas-Rudd—”
A crimson manicure waved in the air. “Please. Call me Jeanna.”
“Jeanna, I know that my grandparents were incredible hosts. They loved parties and dancing, but I’m . . .” Awkward, socially backward, so many choices. Which one to fill in the blank?
“We wouldn’t expect much from you, Charity. Just a willingness to open your home. The ladies of the league will do all the work.” Jeanna folded her hands and placed them over her knee. And waited, a perfect smile set against her porcelain skin.
Charity was going to faint. Die, then vomit, then faint. She couldn’t host a ball. She could barely host a blind date, and only then when Dalton scrubbed her fingernails for her. Dalton. She glanced across the table to find him focused on her. No suggestion in his eyes, no nod of approval, just listening, just being there. Still, it helped.
Her greatest dream had been to come here and assimilate into the community, to really feel a part, but if she ruined the ball—which could easily happen—she’d be a pariah.
Jeanna split her glances between Charity and Dalton. “Just think about it. There’s a chance we can raise the funds and get workmen on the hall so that it’s complete in time. Please, keep the idea in the back of your mind.”
The hall. That was her way out. They were raising money, and Charity had money. She still didn’t know exactly how much, but she could plan to meet Emily right away to discuss a sizable contribution . . . sizable enough, in fact, to guarantee the work’s completion. If, of course, Charity could afford that. “I’ll think about it.”
Jeanna and Gloria rose and disappeared through the patio door.
Far below, the water lapped hungrily at the beach. Movement of the boats in the harbor caused a scurry of troubled waves that sent layers of seaweed onto the shore and left them in zigzag patterns to bake in the sun, scattered over the sand. Far out, the water was silent. Solid. Never wavering, only rising and falling with the tides, flexing and releasing with the boats and wind. Symbiotic. An entity that was part of a greater whole, able to cooperate, to reciprocate with its peers. She needed to learn the art of synergy. Her whole existence had been swallowed up by first trying to please the few people around her—her mother, mainly—then by trying to fill the void left when one realizes that no amount of good intention can change another person’s heart. People are people. Sometimes, they let you down. In fact, they often did.
Dalton shooed at a seabird that had landed on the weathered railing near their table. It was illegal to feed the seabirds. They became horrible nuisances, even biting fingers when unsuspecting tourists thought it fun to feed them. The feathered intruder landed again, this time hopping a bit closer. Dalton glanced at the tables around him, then pulled a tiny corner of bread from his plate and dropped it on the floor. He used his foot to scoot it through the railing and the bird dove when it saw it fall.
Charity had to smile. And then there were people like Dalton. Those who surprised you in the most glorious ways. He could coax a smile, fix a beam, and refurbish a garden. He did it all with no expectation of payback. Those kinds of people were builders; they built friendships and relationships and built people up in the process. She needed more people like that. Even more important, she was determined to be one.
Just as she made that assessment, the wind changed. Napkins and placemats tumbled off tables, their corners caught in the swirling breeze. A few littered the porch floor beneath; some dove right off the side of the railing. The new wind hit Charity square in the face and, had she been on the ground, she’d be scrubbing sand out of her eyes, but up here, above the sand and sea and above the noise of downtown and the eternal drone of boat motors, the wind was a lullaby. She closed her eyes, her thoughts becoming whispers on the breeze. Mrs. Parker came to mind, then Mrs. Gorben and her oversize candy dish. And for the briefest of seconds, it felt to Charity as if the breeze had been sent just for her. To caress her, to thank her, to tell her that she was doing the right thing.
For the first time in her life, Charity didn’t care what her mother thought of her. She didn’t care that she was a thirtysomething with a failed business and that she was only a mediocre potter. Charity had somehow pleased the pixies and the magic that made Gaslamp Island a mystical place, and those powers were sending her a message. She was Charity Monroe Baxter. And that was enough.
Charity sat in Emily Rudd’s office wringing her hands because that’s what people did who hadn’t been trained how to let go of their stress. She’d already told Emily she wanted to do her part to fund the repairs on Founders Hall.
Emily said that would be no problem and brought her a bottle of water. Emily smiled too brightly and walked around the office too softly for Charity’s comfort. So instead of focusing on the attorney with the killer high heels, she turned her focus to the chandelier above them. You’ve got cobs. Charity blanched but recovered when she realized she hadn’t said the words aloud, just in her mind.
There on a swinging vine from one tear-shaped crystal to another, she could practically see the cobs working to overtake the delicate chandelier.
Emily excused herself for a moment when her phone rang, then pressed a button on the dark, square phone on her dark, square desk and informed her receptionist not to interrupt their meeting again.
Charity chewed her index fingernail. When she noticed the thick layer of clay under her nails, she tucked her hands under her thighs—much like a small child would if she knew she couldn’t keep her hand out of the nearby cookie dish.
“First,” Emily said as she rolled a pencil between her finger and thumb, “I want to apologize about the blind date and all that. This is a small island, Charity, and we all know one another. Employers socialize with their employees, attorneys with their clients, but I feel as though I put you in a terrible situation, and I’m hoping you can forgive me.”
Oh. That wasn’t what Charity had expected.
Emily smiled, red-lined lips tilting. “And right or wrong, I hope we can still be friends.”
“I’d like that.”
Emily lifted her hands in surrender. “No more blind dates. I swear.” She shook her head. “That guy was a jerk. I should have known not to trust my date to be a decent judge of character. He’s a Steelers fan, after all.”
Charity took in a quick gasp of air. She liked the Steelers.
“On to business?” Emily opened a folder but didn’t move her gaze from Charity. “Are we ready to talk money?”
Charity nodded, but it was tentative at best.
Emily launched into a description of assets and bank accounts that had Charity’s mind aching. Maybe some of those cobs could climb into her ear and insulate her brain. When Emily said the word million, Charity completely zoned out. There had been a number and the word million after it. What had that number been? Three? Five? What did it matter? It was more than she’d ever dreamed her grandfather’s estate was worth. She’d been hoping for a few hundred thousand so she could maintain the house and keep the lights on and replace that expensive roof if it ever needed replacing—after all, hurricane season was quickly approaching. She’d figured two to three hundred thousand could pay the taxes and all o
ther expenses for a good fifteen years.
“Are you all right, Charity? Do we need to take a break?”
Am I going to faint or have a heart attack right here in your office? I don’t know. Maybe. “I’m OK,” she whispered.
“Better than OK, you’re a freaking multimillionaire.”
And that’s when the lights went out.
The world came back into view, and Charity found herself hunkered forward, chest pressed against her thighs, and she was staring at her feet. The laces of her Sauconys were threadbare, and the side of her foot pressed against the trim in an effort to free itself from its sneaker captor. She needed a new pair. But they cost $130, and she had to work herself up to spending that amount of money, though they typically lasted her two and a half years. Well, two years. Then six months of debating.
She pulled a breath and realized Emily’s hand was flat on her back. Good thing that office chair had arms or she might have tumbled right off onto the floor.
She’d never have to fret over buying sneakers again. Her morning coffee roiled in her stomach, and though she didn’t feel ready, she righted herself, Emily’s office coming back into view. “That much money is . . . a little scary.”
Emily took her seat on the other side of the desk after taking the lid from the water bottle and handing the drink to Charity. “It is. And you’re right to be concerned. It’s a lot of money.”
Charity flew out of the chair, surprised by the rush that sent her practically airborne. “No, Emily. Three hundred thousand is a lot of money. Half a million is a lot of money, this is . . .” But she couldn’t remember the exact amount.
“Five million, give or take. That’s a collection of all of George’s assets, minus, of course, your mother’s trust and the Atlanta home he left to her and the house here on the island. It’s in the two to three million range on its own.”
Charity’s butt was quickly reintroduced to the chair again. She’d dropped hard enough to force the air from her lungs. Almost apologetically, she said, “I knew the house was worth something, I mean, a lot, but—”
Emily cut her off. “Don’t apologize for being wealthy, Charity. It’s a responsibility, yes. But this is what George wanted for you. All of it.”
She nodded because she didn’t know what else to do.
“Do you have any plans to sell Baxter House? Or do you foresee that in the near future?”
A dark cloud passed over Charity. “Sell it? No. I already told you I’m staying here.”
“The amount of money we’re talking about would make it possible for you to live wherever you choose. Your dream life. New York, Paris.”
Her heartbeat quickened. That was the problem with money. It changed everything but had no power to make any lasting difference. “This is my dream life. I don’t want to live anywhere else.”
Emily smiled. “Great. I just wanted you to realize you have options. You’re not locked down to anything. George hoped you’d want to stay here, but ultimately, it’s your dream that counts, not his—his words, not mine,” she added.
The weight of her new responsibility sat heavily on Charity’s shoulders. “What do I do now?”
Emily placed her folded hands on her desk. “The estate runs with little interference. George’s investments are solid, and unless you choose to make changes, everything can continue on as it has. You’ve already got access to a couple of bank accounts. Use those for whatever you need and know that if you want to move some money around, you can.” She leaned forward. “It’s your money, Charity.”
Charity should breathe. “But what do I do?”
“I think George would like for you to not be stressed out about this. Take a great vacation, buy a giant, blingy piece of jewelry you’ve always admired, have some fun. You’re a smart woman. You’ll likely purchase a few higher-ticket items; then life will go back to normal . . . just with great vacation photos and better jewelry.”
Charity was pretty sure there was a joke in that statement somewhere, but her cloudy mind couldn’t find it.
Two hours later and one banana split down, she returned home. It was evening now, and she went straight through the house and out the back door. Passing through her colorful garden usually coaxed a smile, a pause, a fresh appreciation of Dalton’s work, but not today. She fully understood the word shell-shocked. She’d heard of a soldier once who’d lost his hearing for hours after a mortar round went off too close. The world must have been a frightfully quiet place for him in those hours. Knowing he had ears and knowing how important they were but being helpless to use them.
Charity also knew that if anyone in his right mind could see her fretting over being a millionaire, he’d laugh in her face and tell her to get a grip and stop whining. But she’d spent her entire childhood watching her mother chase wealth and worth. The two were different. So different. But in her mother’s world, they were the same. How much of Ellen Marie Baxter was in Charity Monroe Baxter? Her mother had failed at finding that validation she’d desperately searched for. Now she was bitter—still beautiful but living off her husband’s money instead of fulfilling her dream to make her own and rule the world.
Before Charity, the sea continued to breathe as the stars lit up the night sky. Above her head, the moon dropped broken glass on the water, creating beautiful, shimmering images. That’s where the fairies dance, she used to think, atop those moon-white shards.
When she heard a noise behind her, Charity spun.
Off to her left, the willow tree inhaled the breeze as if it would release its hold from the ground and come to her. They’d find her buried beneath its branches and deem it an act of God. But Charity knew God didn’t kill people. Evil killed people, and the tree was evil. It took. It stole. Just as she turned to head into the house, she saw a figure running across her yard. The scene unfolded in slow motion—first one person, then two. The second—taller, more ominous—gaining on the first.
“Oh, no you don’t . . .” Charity heard as the second figure tackled the first. Dalton’s voice. Scuffling. Another voice, this one higher, feminine. Young.
Charity closed the distance to the shadowed pile of arms and struggling legs. “Dalton! It’s just a young girl.”
He stood and dragged the teen to her feet. Once upright, Charity could see her face, eyes wide with fear but also determination. She was ready to bolt or fight, but Dalton kept his hold on her, making it impossible to do either.
“Can someone explain?” Charity was surprised by the authority in her voice.
The girl tried to jerk free, her long hair flying in an arc, but Dalton had her in a grip so solid, she’d have to remove her arm to get away. “This dude is assaulting me. Call the cops.”
CHAPTER 8
Discovering Daisy
Daisy Voss knew better. But her swimsuit was cold, and she’d actually gotten burned at the beach—rarely happened—it had been a good day to work the crowd, and the hours had stretched. Her reward, a full stomach and an invite to sit with one of the families tomorrow. Tourists with their bags and coolers, always welcoming to the sweet local who showed their kids how to make sand castles. She’d become great at what she did.
With a full belly, she’d gone inside the house. But then she’d remembered leaving her jacket—her only jacket—at the pier, and she snuck back out. Big mistake.
She’d gotten too comfortable in the last few months with her living situation. At first, she’d counted every night a treasure because she’d gotten to sleep in a bed. But the days dragged into weeks, and when the lady moved in—of course she’d known someone would move in—she became lazy. She’d have to be more careful from now on.
Daisy squirmed again to get the guy to let go. He tightened his grip in answer. Daisy focused on the woman, the weaker link in the chain. Charity Baxter crossed her arms over her chest. Oh, Daisy knew her name. Knew who she was. She was the idiot woman who’d ruined a really good thing by letting the stupid neighbor into her business. Now here Daisy was, caught.
Stay tough. You got this. She’d been on the run for over a year. A scrawny woman and a hulk weren’t going to shake her up. “My parents are expecting me at home. If you let me go, I won’t tell them you tried to attack me.”
The guy’s eyes burned, and the lady, Charity, stepped between Daisy and her captor. She touched Daisy. Daisy jerked away. “Dalton, she’s freezing.”
“Yeah? She’s also a thief. I watched her sneak up the back stairs to the door on the third floor. I was just getting ready to call the cops when she came back down.”
The woman seemed shocked. The set of external stairs were perfectly hidden from the front and back of the house, tucked into a little alcove opposite the nosy neighbor side.
“What were you doing up there?” Charity asked.
The dude gave her a little shake when she didn’t answer.
Daisy mocked a smile. “Got lost. Thought it was my house.”
The wind kicked up, and Daisy hated that her flesh shook with the cold. She felt bone-cold. From the inside out, the only kind of cold you got if you were sleeping in a ditch on the ground or if you spent too long in the Florida sun.
“Dalton, this is ridiculous. Look at her. Let’s get her inside so we can sort this out,” Charity said.
Oh. Inside. That gave Daisy time to plan. Good. Dalton looked incensed. Even better. Daisy grinned. “Yeah, thanks for the help, Dalt. You can toddle on home, now. We’ll take it from here.”
He answered Daisy by tugging her toward the back door.
Charity didn’t know why, but her heart went out to the tough teen. Sure, she’d acted like she could handle herself, eyes spitting fire, mouth lashing insults. But there was something else there in her gaze. A hopelessness that could only be born of suffering. No matter how strong she acted, the girl was fragile in ways maybe few could understand. Charity was one of those few.
In the Light of the Garden: A Novel Page 13
