Chapter 6 #2
Dahlia’s hands trembled as she inhaled the notes of peppermint still lingering in his damp hair. It had been an eternity since she was this close to a guy, let alone an attractive one. “There,” she said, pulling the last bit of white from his dark, messy hair.
His eyes met hers in a long, tender pause. “Thanks.”
Her body flooded with warmth. “No problem. It’s the least I could do.” She shrugged, looking over his rugged but chiseled face. Tiny freckles peppered the side of his nose, and his eyelashes curled on the ends. How was he even cuter this close up?
“Anyway.” Noah smiled. “Got a stronger vacuum by chance? I can clean up the coils back here. It might help.”
“Sure.”
Just then, her phone buzzed on the counter, and he grabbed it as if by instinct. “Here, sorry.”
It was Spence. The papers are in. I signed. They need your Hancock.
Dahlia swallowed hard. He’d done it; he’d signed the papers.
She leaned against the counter, stunned.
As soon as she signed the papers, she would be free.
Free of the lonely charade, free of the lies and control, and the guilt of wanting more.
She hadn’t thought this day would ever come—for many reasons.
The main one being he had hid Lil’s deed after she died.
His last-ditch attempt at keeping her beholden to him.
He had to know she would eventually find it in one of three places: his personal safe (with Daisy’s birthday as the code), his false-bottom sock drawer she wasn’t supposed to know about, or behind the Cezanne painting he inherited from his grandmother.
The irony that he’d taped it to the back of a floral still life that Lil had gazed at for hours in her final days was bewildering but somehow fitting.
Still, to this day, Dahlia didn’t know exactly why he’d done it; he clearly didn’t want her.
But she guessed he didn’t want anyone else to either.
An insecure man needs control to survive, and Spence had it in spades. She shifted her position.
“I’ve got it from here if you need a minute.”
She should take care of this. “Are you sure?” He nodded. “Oh, let me grab that vacuum; I almost forgot.” Dahlia ran into the hallway and opened the linen closet, feeling hopeful for the first time in over a decade. She smiled wistfully. Good things were on the way, she could feel it.
“Here you go. I’ll be outside working in the garden if you need me.” Dahlia walked toward the back door and paused, turning on her toes. “Oh, and feel free to help yourself to coffee. It’s on the counter, and milk is in the cooler.”
“Sounds good.”
Dahlia grabbed her coffee and old sneakers, then popped a squat on the stoop and laced them up.
It was here she’d learned to shuck corn, peel potatoes, and split beans from Gran’s vegetable garden many moons ago.
She heard Gran’s words echo through her ears as she leaned her face into the sun: “Don’t rush, Dahlia.
Be sure to get all those hairs. Haste makes waste, you know. ”
Dahlia blew out a cleansing breath. No more pretending. The life she’d committed to for Daisy was done. Finished, finito. Her shoulders dropped as she watched a white butterfly frolic above the lavender. No more doing what was best for everyone else. This was her time.
Dahlia made long strides across the yard.
For the first time in forever, she was grounded to the earth beneath her feet.
She walked the path in between the plant beds, feeling the maple leaves dance overhead.
The last thing she wanted to do was to see Spence or drag this out, especially after every other horrible thing he’d said and done over the years.
She found a shady spot and finally texted back Spence.
That’s good news. Can you email them to me?
Once he did that, she could have them printed so she could look them over with a fine-tooth comb.
Being a visual person, she needed a physical copy in hand.
Perhaps it would feel more real that way too.
Also, to be certain that it was everything they agreed to.
If there was one thing she learned over the last fifteen years, it was that Spence couldn’t be trusted.
Often, she’d thought about leaving sooner, especially when he got mean.
Oddly enough, it was never when Daisy or anyone else was around.
At times, Dahlia thought she was going crazy.
To everyone else, Spence was this great guy.
But she knew better. She also knew Spence would have managed to get sole custody somehow, if Daisy had still been underage when Dahlia left.
She paced, waiting for the three bubbles, only there weren’t any. “Shit,” she whispered, knowing full well how easily distracted he could get and that it could now be hours before she heard from him again.
The screen door snapped closed. “I’m heading into town. Need anything else? I won’t be long,” Noah said, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Light bulbs and wood spackle?” Dahlia called back. “I can grab some cash from inside or Venmo you.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He waved and kept walking.
A few hours later, Dahlia was still in the garden.
She’d gotten through most of the raised flower beds.
Now she just needed to split some of the perennials, including the violets she’d never gotten back to the day before, and trim back some of the stalky bushes.
The scents weaved together like a symphony, creating a sweet, intoxicating aroma, one that reminded her of the childhood before her parents died.
She leaned her face back and inhaled the new beginning like it was the very first time.
The cosmos looked wild, growing between the slats of the wooden bench.
Her smile grew, and she felt her nose prickle.
She laid her soiled gloves on the bench and took a load off, feeling her tacky skin stick to the weathered wood.
She should power wash this bench too. Lil would like that.
She looked up at the vibrant cloudless sky, then landed on the house’s weathered cedar shake siding that once upon a time looked bright and new.
Her list was getting longer by the hour, but all she wanted to do was sit and smell the roses.
She used to spend hours in this garden as a kid, daydreaming and even taking naps now and then on Gran’s old quilt.
Dahlia never found tranquility like this anywhere else and could never explain how or why this small slice of heaven could make her feel so weightless, like anything was possible.
And now that she remembered, she would never again forget how it felt to be home.
Dahlia closed her eyes and floated away with the breeze. She was taking root in the present when a cold, wet something grazed her thigh. Without opening her eyes, she said, “Harry, is that you?”
He nudged her, dropping a tennis ball at her feet. Dahlia had missed their morning stroll on the beach with Noah’s impromptu visit and felt guilty. She leaned forward and felt for the ball to play fetch, but it rolled away.
Harry reached his paw under the bench too.
Dahlia laughed. “I got it, bud.” With that, she knelt and reached far under the bush, hitting her head as she pulled back up.
She noticed an etching on the wood border of the garden bed.
It read RIO inside a heart shape and looked like someone had carved it with a Swiss Army knife.
It was weird; Dahlia knew Lil had never traveled abroad.
What did it mean? And who could have carved it?
It didn’t seem like something her aunt would do.
But then again, what did she know about what Lil would do?
“I’m back with the goods,” Noah said, strolling toward her, holding a brown bag. “Sorry, I ran into a few friends in town.”
“No worries,” she said, getting up from the ground, still clutching the ball. “Harry, go get it, boy.” She hurled the ball toward the bay.
“Wow, you’ve got a great arm,” Noah said, stepping back.
“Thanks, I was the pitcher of my high school softball team.” She could feel her face flush. Dahlia wasn’t one to talk about herself. But something about Noah made it all too easy. When you’ve been in a relationship where you have to stay small to survive, you get used to being invisible.
“You’ve got dimples.” He slowly walked closer with a wide, toothy grin.
Dahlia could feel his energy even though he was still a few feet away. Butterflies danced in her belly. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was flirting. “Yup. Just like my mom,” she said softly, feeling a tug at her heart.
“So what else do you have to do out here? Want some help?” he asked, setting the bag on the bench.
“Don’t you have things to do?” Dahlia asked, eyeing his eagerness that felt youthful. Why was he being so nice?
“Nah. I have to finish a piece I’m bringing to Shelter Island tomorrow and fix your fridge. But I can help here.”
“And look at the oven?” Dahlia playfully smiled.
He grinned back. “Of course. Happy to.”
Dahlia sensed he wanted company too. “Okay then. You can help dig. Can you grab the pointed shovel in the shed?”
“Your wish is my command,” he said, bowing to her. He was funny too—bonus points.
Dahlia explained how much to dig up and how to split the roots. “I couldn’t get these up the other day. I kept hitting something.” She pointed to the half-wilted violets.
“Got it.” He met her hazel eyes.
He had to stop looking at her like that; otherwise, she might have to have a hot girl summer after all. “I’ll work on the Montauk daisies over here.” She walked to the other raised bed, hearing the pebbles crunch under her sneakers.
“So, want to come by later for a burger? I mean, it is the Fourth,” he said, flinging dirt.
She could feel her pulse quicken as she watched him step onto the shovel in his old Timberlands and take command of the earth. Biting her lip, she considered her options. If she went, what would it mean? If she didn’t, she could keep going with the list.
“Maybe,” she blurted, covering her eyes from the sun.
He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. “Okay, I can live with maybe.” Noah stabbed the ground again, and this time, she heard a sharp, hollow sound.
“That’s it. That’s what I hit yesterday.” She dropped her shovel and headed over to him. “What is it?”
Just as she got there, he pulled it up. It was an old, rusted coffee can.
Could this be where Lil’s key was hidden? “Is there anything inside?”
“Nah, it’s empty. Whatever was in there is gone.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, flipping the can around. “Wait, there’s something written on the bottom.”
“May I look?” Before he could answer, she pulled it from his grip. Dahlia wiped the remaining soil from the base. It read “18” in worn black paint. “That’s strange. Why would Lil bury an empty coffee can with a random number painted on the bottom?”
Did the number eighteen mean anything to Lil? Dahlia held the rusty, dirty vessel in her hands, memories unfolding like a flower in bloom with no clear answers or resolution in sight. What was Lil trying to tell her?