The Lost Hours (17 page)

Lillian picked up a piece of ham on her fork and considered it briefly before returning it to her plate. “My father introduced us. Charlie was an up-and-comer at the bank and Father thought we would be suitable for each other.”

“And you fell in love?” Helen asked.

I glanced over at Helen to see if she’d meant it to sound so hopeful.

“Charles was the most beautiful dancer. He could do all the old dances and the new dances equally well. He’d take me to parties and we’d dance all night until I’d worn a hole in my dancing shoes.”

Helen’s empty gaze was focused on her plate and I wondered if she’d also realized that Lillian hadn’t answered her question.

I cleared my throat. “Helen and I went to the family cemetery yesterday. His monument is very striking.” I waited for her eyes to find me so I could gauge how much I could press on. Her eyes were filmy and unfocused, although her expression had lost none of its haughtiness. I continued. “In the back corner, near the large oak tree, is a small gravestone, marked only by an angel. Near the moonflower vine. I’m curious as to who might be buried there and wondered if you might know.”

Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes as her gaze settled on me. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve always assumed it was one of my little brothers. He could have been stillborn and never named.” Carefully, she placed her wineglass on the table and picked up her fork, her hand shaking almost imperceptibly. “It was a long time ago, you understand. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.” She speared a bite of roasted potato and lifted it to her mouth.

“What about any friends, Malily? Did you have any close girlhood friends?” Helen asked, her face turned toward her grandmother.

I stared at Helen, wondering how she’d known which question to ask. I turned to Lillian, and waited for her to answer.

She lifted a bite of food to her mouth and forced herself to swallow. Then she dropped her fork on the plate, the metal hitting the china and echoing in the still room as we all watched her. Slowly, her hand moved to her neck, where she wore her angel charm, identical to the one I’d remembered to remove before I came, and her ruined fingers grasped it.

“No,” she said softly, and I watched as Helen stilled. “A few, perhaps. But no one in particular.” Her thin chest rose and fell as if with heavy exertion, the angel charm winking at me in the candlelight.

I watched as Helen reached for her bread roll and Tucker slid the butter dish over to her, tapping it against her plate. She took the butter knife and I watched as she cut a perfect square of butter and placed it on her plate. Her voice was studiously nonchalant, as if she’d known Lillian’s answer for the lie it was. “Are you still in contact with any of them?”

Helen faced me, her eyes meeting mine, and I had the uncanny feeling again that she could actually see me, could know why I held my breath as I waited for Lillian to speak again.

A sigh rolled out of Lillian’s bony chest, a sigh that carried with it past years, and the lost hours gone without remark, but missed in retrospect. “They are all dead now. There’s no one left who remembers . . . who remembers . . .” Her voice trailed off as her hand reached for her wineglass, then stilled when she realized it was empty.

“Who remembers what, Malily?” Tucker asked, his own utensils held aloft, suspended as we all waited for her to speak. A clock in the hallway chimed the hour. I counted eight chimes and considered how quickly the time had passed.

She stared into her empty glass, a soft smile on her face. “Him.”

“Grandpa Charlie?” Tucker asked, his silverware now resting on the edge of his plate.

Lillian straightened in her chair and looked around as if realizing where she was. She shook her head as if trying to clear it. “No,” she said. “I’m the only one who remembers. . . .”

I watched as Lillian focused her gaze on Sara, reached over, and stroked the soft skin on the back of her hand, the way a mother touches her baby’s face. A cold chill crept up my spine, needles of apprehension teasing at my nape.

“Who remembers what?” Helen leaned toward her grandmother, her gaze turned toward the window, where the feeble light of the closing day glowed beyond the closed shutters.

Lillian’s last words were barely audible, so quiet that I could almost believe that I hadn’t heard them at all.

Lillian’s face paled and Tucker stood, his chair skidding behind him. He rang a small bell that sat at the edge of her plate and took her hand. “I think this heat is getting to you, Malily. Odella’s going to come take you to your room so you can lie down, all right?”

Odella appeared carrying a tray with coffee for the adults and ice cream for the children. She looked at me. “If you wouldn’t mind taking care of this, I’ll get Miss Lillian up to her room.”

I nodded, watching with concern as Tucker helped Lillian stand, her hands shaking so badly that they couldn’t hold her cane. Tucker watched as Odella took hold of Lillian’s shoulders and gently guided her from the room.

All eyes were focused on me as I turned to the dessert tray and began pouring coffee, Lillian’s words swimming in and out of my head like the tide, settling and disturbing sediment at the same time.
The truth,
she had said. And I remembered the way she’d touched Sara’s hand, and the blue baby’s sweater and blanket I’d found in my grandmother’s house, how Lillian had lied about not having any particular childhood friends. But I’d heard her say
The truth
. And I wondered if Lillian’s truth could be the spray of light I needed to shine into the darkest corners of my own grandmother’s past.

“Aren’t you having anything?” Helen asked, turning her face to Earlene. “I can’t hear your cup against its saucer. Aren’t you having any coffee?”

“No. I . . . I have trouble sleeping. I try not to drink caffeine too late in the day. Can I get you any sugar or cream?”

Helen shook her head. “No, thank you. I take a teaspoon of sugar but Tucker’s already taken care of that for me.” She reached over and patted his arm, not sure if she was reassuring herself or him.

“Will she be all right?”

Helen didn’t have to ask who Earlene was talking about. “Malily’s a tough old bird—and I don’t mean that disrespectfully. She’d probably even agree. I think it would take a strong wind to blow her off her feet. Did she say anything that you might find useful for your research?”

There was a brief pause before Earlene answered. “I’m not sure. I’ll go home and make notes and then when I’m doing research something might come up that will reference something she said. Then I’ll know, but not before.”

Helen stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “Will you keep me posted on anything you find? I’ve always wanted to do what you’re doing, digging into the past. There’s something about not knowing your own history that’s a bit bewildering.”

Earlene’s hands rubbed against the tablecloth, as if they were suddenly nervous at finding themselves with nothing else to do. “It’s a bit like drifting in a boat on the ocean without an anchor.” Her words were spoken quietly, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone else to hear them.

Helen sat back in her chair, feeling her brother watching her as she listened to the girls scraping the ice cream from their bowls. She felt an odd connection with this quiet, sad woman. Maybe it was because they were both essentially motherless, set adrift without their stories to guide them. Or maybe it was because Helen sensed that they were both traveling in a world that had been darkened by events they’d had no control over.

Helen leaned toward Earlene. “Before you leave, I have something to give you that might help you with your research.”

“Helen.” Tucker’s voice held a note of warning.

“Just some papers and family letters,Tuck. Everything else I gave to Malily when I cleaned up the cottage.”

“I just don’t want . . .” His voice faded, and she pictured him indicating Earlene.

“I know,” she reassured him. “It’ll be fine.”

She felt her brother relax back into his chair, his breathing slowed. When he spoke again, his words were directed at their guest. “So you ride?”

“I used to.” Earlene’s voice held a note of wariness and Helen wondered if Tucker could hear it, too.

“She told us she fell off of her horse, remember, Daddy? That’s why she doesn’t ride anymore.” Sara’s voice was raised, but they’d all grown used to her conversations that sounded a lot like shouting contests. Helen supposed that was what happened when you were the youngest and had to fight to be heard. The little girl continued. “Malily always says that the best thing to do when you fall off is to get right back up again. ’Else you forget the reason you used to get up on the horse in the first place.” Sara spoke with a mouth full of ice cream, but Helen didn’t correct her. She was too interested in hearing what Earlene would say.

She could sense Earlene forcing a smile. “Yes, I suppose your grandmother is right.” Glass clinked and Helen pictured Earlene taking a drink from her water glass. “But I . . . well, I guess I just figured I’d ridden long enough and that it was time to try something else.”

“Like genealogy.” Tucker’s voice was devoid of recrimination, and held only surprise. Since his grandmother had put him in a saddle at the age of two, horses and riding had been constant themes in his life. Even through medical school, marriage and children, they remained as a sort of anchor to the man he strived to be regardless of where life tugged him.

“Like genealogy,” Earlene answered, her words tight.

Lucy spoke, her clear, high-pitched voice belying the maturity of her words. “I think the scars on her knee are from falling off her horse, which means it was probably worse than just falling off. Maybe she had a good reason for quitting.”

The quiet was deafening for a moment, Lucy’s words silencing even her little sister.

Tucker finally spoke. “Or maybe it’s a good reason for getting on a horse again.”

Helen heard Earlene’s chair slide back on the rug. “I need to get going. Thank you so much for dinner. I can walk back to the cottage . . .”

“Don’t be silly,” Helen said as she pushed her own chair back. “The mosquitoes will have picked you up and spirited you away before you make it down the oak alley. Odella will most likely be with Malily for a while but I’m sure Tucker would be happy to drive you back.” Without waiting for anyone to argue, she stood. “Tucker, since your nanny’s off tonight and the girls are staying here, why don’t you get the girls ready for bed while I take Earlene upstairs to give her those papers I talked about? Then you can drive Earlene home.”

Neither one of them answered right away, and Helen couldn’t decide who was more reluctant: Earlene, who couldn’t wait to escape from having anybody scrutinize her life, or Tucker, who’d spent more time with his horses than his children since his wife’s death.

Helen held out her arm. “Earlene, if you’ll grab my elbow, I’ll lead the way. I don’t want to trip and hurt myself on the stairs.” She hated using her blindness to extract sympathy, but she figured Earlene needed her help as much as Tucker needed to spend time with his daughters so she did what she thought necessary.

She felt Earlene’s cold fingers touch the bare skin on her arm before Helen led the way back to the grand staircase that curved up and around the foyer, hiding a rueful grin as she considered which one of them was more profoundly blind.

I hurried my pace to catch up with Helen, who didn’t really seem to need my help. I was glad to be out of the dining room and eager to see what papers she had for me. As I’d been reading my grandmother’s scrapbook pages, the whereabouts of Lily’s and Josie’s pages hovered in the back of my mind. From Helen’s conversation with Tucker, I doubted Lillian’s would be in there, but I was still hopeful that I’d find a reference to the scrapbook or necklace—anything that would give me something concrete so that I could finally approach Lillian.