Chapter 3 - In the Garden
"The first night alone in an old house is a quiet surrender—a moment where you give something of yourself, meeting its shadows and silences with open arms. Let the walls feel your warmth, let the floorboards sense your steps. In the stillness, it will begin to yield its secrets, drawing you into its embrace until you are no longer a guest, but part of its pulse, its breath, its quiet heartbeat."
— The Way of the Weathered Home: Practical Wisdom for Old Souls and Older Houses
Tilly awoke to the sound of Ocean Rain still playing softly through her mother’s old stereo. “My ship’s a sail... hear its tender frame,” the singer’s voice murmured, and in the dimness, the words seemed to echo, slipping through the quiet room. She felt out of place here, in her mother’s room from decades ago, surrounded by faded Echo and the Bunnymen posters on the walls.
The faint hiss of the cassette tape drifted under the music, a static undercurrent as Tilly sat up. Her eyes caught on the silhouettes of old band memorabilia in the shadows, relics of another life. The cool wooden floorboards met her bare feet as she rose, padding to the window to gaze out at the garden.
In the moonlight, the garden stretched out in shadowed layers, overgrown paths and tangled plants lying in stillness. Tilly leaned against the window frame, her mind wandering back to her first day at college. She could picture herself sitting in that crowded auditorium, both eager and uncertain, hoping to avoid drawing any attention.
Tilly’s long white T-shirt hung loosely over her, catching the moonlight as she moved through the house. She stretched, working out a kink in her neck from the pillow, then gave one last glance at the window before heading downstairs.
She stepped onto the back porch, letting the night air settle around her as she eased into an Adirondack chair. A soft breeze stirred the tall grasses at the garden’s edge, and her thoughts drifted back to that first day in the auditorium. Just as she’d settled in, the stranger beside her—Opal, she would later learn—had leaned close, her voice a barely audible whisper.
“Think he’ll end the lecture with his phone number?” Opal had murmured. “Or are we supposed to ask if we want the private seminar?”
Tilly had burst into laughter, louder than she intended, catching the attention of a dozen nearby students. Her cheeks flushed as heads turned, their blank stares prickling at her from all sides, as if she’d shouted in the silent room.
Before she could shrink into her seat, Opal reached over and took her hand in a quick, steadying grip. “None of these people matter,” Opal had whispered, her voice brushing Tilly’s ear, grounding her with a small, warm touch. And just like that, Tilly’s embarrassment had melted away.
After a moment, feeling the gentle pull of the garden, Tilly rose and walked toward the winding path.
The stone path led her through beds of scarlet monkeyflowers with tiny bursts of red, clusters of Pacific bleeding hearts with their bowed heads, and coast lilies standing tall, their white blossoms catching the moonlight. The stones, smooth and cold underfoot, held the day’s fading warmth, the scent of damp earth rising faintly from the ground.
Tilly slipped off her cotton T-shirt and left it draped over a low bush. The night air brushed coolly over her skin, a quiet reminder of her solitude within the grounds of August House. Her fingers drifted over the foliage around her, tracing the edges of leaves, the slender stems, and soft petals. In the dim light, the plants seemed to tilt slightly toward her—just a shift, so faint she wondered if she’d imagined it. She drew her hand back, watching as they returned to stillness.
Her mind slipped back to that first day in the auditorium, to the way Opal had held her hand as the speaker droned on. Opal’s grip had been warm, her fingers confidently laced around Tilly’s as though they’d known each other for years. When the talk ended, Opal had lingered, waiting until they were alone. “Want to find the next place together?” she’d asked, her thumb still lightly grazing Tilly’s hand before she let go.
A sudden motion caught Tilly’s eye—a brief flash of white in the shadows. She froze, her breath catching for a moment. Then, she saw the rabbit as it darted forward, pausing to watch her, its large eyes unblinking.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m like you,” Tilly murmured softly. The rabbit stared for a moment longer, then turned and hopped away into the darkness.
Her gaze fell on a white rose in full bloom, its petals pale in the moonlight. “Roses don’t bloom at night,” Tilly whispered to herself, bending to smell the flower. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
I am like you.
The words seemed to hover in the air, and Tilly glanced around, wondering if she’d truly heard them. A faint glow, like the ghost of a light, pulsed briefly in the heart of the rose before fading. The garden held its silence, and she shook her head, feeling the coolness around her.
Tilly yawned, stretching fully, her limbs unsteady for a moment. Deciding it was time to go back, she glanced around for her shirt, the memory of setting it aside slipping into the shadows. After a moment’s search, she gave up. The cool air surrounded her as she turned back to the house.
Inside, August House greeted her with its familiar creaks and groans, each sound softened by the quiet hour. She made her way to the kitchen, where the moonlight trickled through the windows, casting a dim glow across the countertops. She reached for the bread, pulled out jars of peanut butter and jelly, and spread each layer in a rhythm that felt calming, grounding her in the simplicity of the task.
With the sandwich in hand, Tilly returned to the porch and leaned against the railing, gazing back into the darkened garden. She remembered the warmth of Opal’s hand on hers, the way her thumb had traced small, absent-minded circles over Tilly’s knuckles as though anchoring her in the crowded room. Opal had been so certain, so effortlessly calming, and she’d stayed close by Tilly’s side long after the talk ended. Even now, Tilly could almost feel that soft pressure, warm and grounding.
As she brushed crumbs from her skin, they fell against her fingers, disappearing into the dark below.
After a few more moments, Tilly stepped back inside and wandered toward the bathroom. In the mirror, she caught her reflection—hair tousled, cheeks faintly flushed from the cool air. A smattering of freckles dusted her face and bare shoulders, giving her a youthful look that didn’t quite match the night’s quiet. She paused, running a finger along her cheek, then practiced a small smile, the way she might look greeting friends. Cute, she thought—a word she’d been given before and, if she were honest, a comforting contrast to Aphid’s poised good looks. It wasn’t the same, but it was hers.
Turning on the shower, Tilly stepped under the icy stream, feeling her breath hitch at the sudden cold before the water warmed, washing away the chill of the garden. She lingered as the warmth surrounded her, leaving behind the night entirely.
Finally, Tilly padded back to her room, slipping under the covers as the house’s steady hum settled around her. She closed her eyes and thought of
Tilly arrived early at The Salt Grotto, parking at the edge of the gravel lot, letting the last chords of Perfect Day play out as she watched the waves from the comfort of her car. When she saw her mother’s silver Mercedes pull in, she paused, hands gripping the steering wheel, knowing that this was going to be more than a casual lunch. Her mother’s confidence was striking as she stepped out of her car, a few extra inches added by the subtle heels that perfectly matched her tailored floral blouse and linen pants.
Tilly slipped out of her car and gave a small, polite hug before they walked into the restaurant together, Anne’s taller frame and polished appearance making Tilly feel, as usual, a little plain in her sweater and jeans. They were shown to a table by the window, and Anne ordered the chef’s sushi special, with Tilly following suit, picking the salmon.
They began with small talk, an appetizer of weather and local happenings. But after a few minutes, Anne’s expression grew serious. She folded her hands on the table, looking across at her daughter. “So, Tilly,” she began, her tone warm but edged. “We should talk about August House.”
Tilly braced herself, straightening in her seat. “We should,” she replied, her voice calm. “I want to keep it, Mom. I know I can make it work.”
Anne tilted her head, the smile on her lips holding a gentle but fixed edge. “I understand that’s what you want, honey. But have you thought about what managing that place will actually take? August House is more than just a house. It’s a constant responsibility—financial, physical—and you’re only eighteen.” Her hand reached out, resting on Tilly’s with a softness that felt like weight.
Tilly met her mother’s gaze, pulling her hand back to grip her water glass. “I know it’s a lot. But I have roommates now, friends who want to help restore it. They’re willing to pitch in and pay rent.”
Anne raised an eyebrow, considering this for a moment before offering a slight, skeptical smile. “Oh, honey. That sounds nice, in theory. But do you really think college friends will make it any easier? They have their own lives. And think about the wear and tear—a place like August House isn’t meant to be treated like a student rental.”
Tilly’s hand tightened on her napkin, her voice less certain. “It’s not like that, Mom. They’re interested in keeping it the way it is, not damaging it.”
Anne gave a small, dismissive chuckle. “You’re still so young, Tilly. I know you want this, but wanting and managing are two different things. I’m only trying to save you from the heartache of putting everything into something that won’t work out.”
Tilly’s eyes dropped to her plate, her fingers running along the napkin in a faint pattern. “But I… I think I could make it work.”
Anne sighed, a small smile at the corner of her lips as she leaned forward slightly, her height giving her presence an almost unyielding weight across the table. “Fred loved you very much, Tilly, but he didn’t understand what it would take to maintain that property in today’s world. He left it to you out of love, not because it’s something you need in your life.”
Tilly’s mouth opened slightly, as if to respond, but she closed it again, twisting the napkin in her lap as she watched the light reflect off her mother’s bracelet, the stones gleaming in the restaurant’s soft lighting. Her grip tightened around the napkin, her hands still except for the occasional brush against the fabric.
Anne continued, her voice gentle but firm. “This isn’t just about keeping a house, Tilly. This is about your future. Why tie yourself to an old family burden when you could use the sale to start fresh? Do what you truly want, with freedom instead of all this weight on your shoulders.”
Tilly’s hand was trembling slightly as she lifted her water glass, her words more subdued. “But it’s… it’s our history, Mom. I can’t just sell it off.”
Anne’s expression softened, but the firmness in her eyes didn’t change. “The past is beautiful to remember, Tilly, but it’s not a foundation for your future. If you let this house hold you back, you’ll look back one day and wonder why you spent years trying to keep something that was never meant to be yours.” She paused, her gaze steady. “I found a buyer—a respectful, reputable man. Ted Carson, a developer. He’s interested in turning the property into luxury apartments. He understands the value of the land.”
Tilly’s fingers twitched, her grip around the glass so tight she almost worried it would slip. She managed a nod, her eyes focused somewhere near the edge of the table as if it might give her strength. “And what happens to the house? He tears it all down?”
Anne shook her head, her voice calm and controlled. “He’s a professional. He’ll preserve what he can. He understands Santa Creda, and he respects its history. And if you sell now, you’ll have enough to fund whatever dreams you want—travel, school, anything that’s truly for you, Tilly, not just some old house.”
Tilly lifted her napkin, brushing her cheek with a shaky hand, catching the tear that had slipped down unnoticed. She tried to keep her voice steady. “But I thought I… I think I could make it work.”
Anne reached across the table, her hand resting firmly on Tilly’s, the small smile on her face somehow feeling like a closing door. “I know you did, honey. And there’s no shame in wanting to hold on. But you don’t have to tie yourself to it. This can be your chance to build something that’s really yours.”
Tilly looked down at her lap, her hand brushing at another tear, hating the tremor in her fingers. She blinked hard, her eyes still stinging, and took the tissue her mother handed her, nodding without meeting her gaze.
“Just a meeting,” Anne continued, her voice low, steady. “Ted can explain his plans, and you can hear him out. That’s all I’m asking.”
Tilly nodded, her voice a quiet whisper. “Fine. I’ll meet him. But I’m just listening.”
Anne gave her hand a final squeeze, her smile soft and satisfied. “Thank you, sweetheart. I think you’ll find it’s the best choice.”