Free Darkling by R.B. Chesterton

see the gardens. I was always told that Belle Fleur was the original pattern for Bellingrath Gardens.”
    She referred to a local home that had been turned into a tourist attraction offering a vibrant show of flowers year-round. The sixty-five-acre gardens and “Southern Renaissance” home had opened for public tours in 1934, long after Belle Fleur had fallen into disrepair. Bellingrath drew tourists from all over the world. But once, Belle Fleur and the Paradise Inn had been the queen attraction on the upper Gulf rim.
    â€œWe went to Bellingrath last spring,” Berta said. “Beautiful. I loved the butterfly garden.”
    â€œYou could do a similar garden here,” Cora reminded her. “The plants are in the ground—far more than sixty-five acres. There must be at least three hundred acres of formal gardens here at Belle Fleur. They’re just overgrown.”
    â€œIt would take hundreds of workers to reclaim.…” Berta looked out the window. “Is that Margo?”
    I almost dreaded looking. I walked to the kitchen sink where I had a good view of the backyard swing. Margo leaned back and Andrew Cargill stood behind her and held her in his arms. He kissed her with a raw, wild passion that made me dry-swallow.
    â€œI’ll go get her.” I started toward the back door, but Berta grabbed my arm.
    â€œI’ll take care of this.”
    I almost reminded her of Cora’s words of wisdom. Pushing Margo right now might not be smart. On the other hand, Margo was pushing Berta, which I knew for a fact was not intelligent.
    â€œMargo! Get in the house!” Berta slammed the back door as she strode across the lawn. Annie, Erin, and Donald joined me at the window. “Andrew! Leave this property now and you are not invited back. If you come here again, I’ll have you arrested.”
    â€œI told you to find her,” I said to Erin.
    She shrugged. “I did. I told her to come inside. She told me to kiss off. Mama is gonna make her sorry for being so ugly.”
    No doubt about that. But in the end, Margo’s rebellion was the least of our worries.

9
    The excitement of Andrew Cargill and Margo’s defiance led to a supper fraught with tension between Margo and Berta. After I’d cleared the table and put the dishes away, I found the defaced book and put it on the hall table to take back to the library the next day. The other members of the family had gone to their respective rooms, and I had no interest in television. The conflict in the family was distressing.
    That night as I played guitar on the balcony, it was Annie who came to my room. She slipped down the exterior stairs like a wraith. Surprised, I started to put the guitar down, but she stopped me.
    â€œWe like the same music,” she said. “I want to write songs.”
    I strummed a few minor key chords. She’d just stepped on my secret ambition, one that I’d never voiced. In my most private fantasies, I was a famous songwriter. “Do you play the guitar?”
    â€œNo. It wasn’t allowed.”
    â€œAllowed?” I put the guitar on the bed. “So you remember something.”
    Annie turned to look out the window. “I remember there were rules. Lots of rules. No music, no dancing, no laughing.” She faced me and shrugged. “Is that a real memory or just the lack of memory? I can’t distinguish.”
    â€œWhy is your past such a secret, Annie? Did you do something wrong?”
    If the question irritated her, she hid it well. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so. If I was punished, it’s gone from my brain. I just know the place I lived wasn’t like this house.” She looked around my room, taking in the books and a few stuffed animals I’d brought from Cora’s. “This is the best place in the world.”
    I knew then she wasn’t leaving. Not ever. She’d come to stay, seeking the love that I also