The Lost Hours (20 page)

“Nonsense. Go plant a tree or adopt a puppy if you want atonement. But regret is just another way of saying ‘I quit.’ ”

Earlene turned to Lillian, her brows drawn together and perspiration dotting her nose. “Then you must have led a very boring life with little to regret.”

Her earnestness and fire surprised Lillian; she’d been wondering if what she thought was glimpses of personality hiding behind the wounded victim persona was just in her imagination, and it was almost gratifying to see that it really did exist. But her words brought memories back to her—memories of Annabelle, and Josie, and Charlie. And Freddie. The grief that always seemed to float around the periphery of her vision shimmered for a moment, tightening around her heart until she thought she couldn’t breathe. She pressed her fingers around the angel charm and let it work its soothing magic.

“No,” she said softly, facing Earlene to look her in the eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually. I just choose to live my life in the present.”

Earlene’s mouth formed a perfect “o” of indignation. They stared at each other for a long time before Earlene stood. “I’ve intruded on your morning long enough and I need to get to work.”

“Oh, don’t leave in a huff. Why don’t you sit back down so we can agree to disagree for now, and we can talk about my beautiful flowers? Maybe you can tell me more about why you like the moonflowers. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a reason to like them.”

“I doubt it,” Earlene said, almost out of hearing. But she sat down anyway, her chin jutting out with a mixture of stubbornness and indignation.

Lillian ducked her head, hiding her face under the brim of her hat so Earlene couldn’t see her smile.

I sat on the bench next to Lillian in the garden for a long time as we talked about the merits of each of the flowering blooms, all placed according to their scent and color scheme to create a feast for all the senses. Lillian appeared to enjoy argument, always playing devil’s advocate when I’d question her as to why she didn’t use a particular plant and chose another one instead.

“Because I learned from a gardening master. The friend I was telling you about before. When I was about thirteen I got very sick and couldn’t leave my house for a long time. As I was slowly getting better, she dragged me out of my bed and warm blankets and brought me out here to where the gardeners had a boring English boxwood garden. She helped me recuperate by refocusing my attention on getting things to grow, and showing me how to plan and choose. I don’t know if it was the distraction or fresh air that made me better, but my friend had taught me an important lesson.”

I knew who she was talking about, of course, and it was almost like sharing a memory. The first day I’d come to live with my grandparents after my parents died, my grandmother took me out to her garden. I’d wanted hugs and sympathy, but my grandmother instead gave me lessons about the life-giving properties of the soil and how to coax living things to erupt from the dark earth, sprouting life and color and scent where nothing had been before.

Most of the time we’d spent together in those first fragile months had been spent in her garden. I’d resented it at first, wanting to be allowed to retreat into my grief. It had taken me a long time to realize that by placing a beloved rose clipping in my hand and telling me to plant it, my grandmother had given me the deepest part of her heart. But then my grandfather put me on the back of a horse and I quickly forgot my grandmother’s gentle teachings as I began my pursuit of invincibility.

I found myself searching Lillian’s face, wanting to be recognized. “What was the lesson your friend taught you?”

Lillian looked at me with familiarity and for a moment I thought she did know who I was. But then I realized that she was seeing her childhood friend again, and maybe even recognizing a part of me that reminded her of Annabelle.

“That there are no troubles in life that can’t be sorted through or solved by spending time in your garden. And, for the most part, I’ve come to believe she was right.”

I thought back to the barrenness of my grandmother’s garden at the Savannah house and felt a wave of shame and ingratitude overcome me. I couldn’t blame its neglect on my grandfather;Annabelle had chosen me to spend time with in her garden, after all.

I focused on the sun flare roses that bordered the outer edges of the garden’s brick paths, like yellow lights marking a stage. I looked down at my once-capable hands—hands that had done nothing recently but flip through old books and tap on computer keyboards. Maybe if I’d turned to my grandmother’s garden instead, I would have found the answers I was still looking for.

“I just might have to agree with you on that one, Miss Lillian, if only because I was once told the same thing.”

I felt her staring at me, but I refused to meet her gaze, afraid to give too much away. “My aunt had a garden in her Savannah house—the house I grew up in. I’ve allowed it to go to weed. But being here, it reminds me of how much I used to enjoy it.” I looked up at her, blinking into the sun. “I was thinking, maybe, if you didn’t mind, that I might be able to help out in your garden. It seems a lot for just one person. I won’t change anything, unless you want me to. Just tend it.”

A soft smile lit the old woman’s face. “I’d like that, Earlene. I’d like that very much. I can’t do much garden tending anymore because of my arthritis and I was just sitting here wondering if I should hire somebody or let it go to weed. But here you are, and it looks like you could use some dirt under your fingernails.”

Opening my hands, I saw the clean fingernails and the fading calluses that wouldn’t go away fast enough. “I’m way out of practice. I’ll probably have lots of questions.”

Lillian waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. It’s like riding a bicycle. But I’m here every morning at seven o’clock if you think you need instruction.”

I smiled to myself, remembering the imperious younger Lillian in my grandmother’s scrapbook and wondered if there had ever been a time when she hadn’t been able to get her own way. “Fine. I’m an early riser, too, so it shouldn’t be too hard to manage.”

“And if there’s nothing to do in the garden, you can just sit here next to me and we can argue some more about the moonflowers or why I chose Confederate jasmine over honeysuckle for the back wall trellis.”

My response was interrupted by the shutting of the garden gate. Odella, wearing a man’s camouflage fishing cap to block the sun from her face, marched down the path carrying what appeared to be an envelope.

“Sorry to bother you two, but when I poked my nose out the kitchen window to shake out a dust rag, I saw that you were out here and wanted to save me a trip to the cottage.” She held out the envelope to me. “It’s a letter addressed to you. I would have given it to you last night but it was stuck between my Precious Moments and Williams-Sonoma catalogs, so I didn’t see it until this morning.”

I hesitated a moment before reaching out my hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I glanced down at the return address: Morton, Morton & Baker, Savannah. I flipped it over in my lap so Lillian couldn’t see it.

Odella turned to Lillian. “And you, Miss Lillian, have been out in this sun far too long. I’m going to bring you inside and set you next to an air conditioner so you can cool off.”

I noticed with alarm Lillian’s flushed cheeks and felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry—I should have known better. Let me help you get her in the house.”

Lillian waved a hand. “I’m not an invalid yet. I can manage on my own, I assure you. And I’m only going inside because I’m thirsty and would like some lemonade with a little touch of something stronger to wake me up. Not because I’m too old and delicate to be in this heat. In my day, I used to ride horses and jump fences without a helmet. If that didn’t kill me, then I doubt the sun will.”

She faced me. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then, using her cane to stand, she allowed Odella to lead her from the garden.

I waited until the gate shut behind them before opening the letter. As I’d suspected, it was from George. Although initially disapproving of me being at Asphodel Meadows at all, he seemed to have embraced the covertness of my presence by putting the name Earlene Smith in block letters on the outside of the envelope as well as in the address inside the letter. When I’d told him about the torn scrapbook pages and the newspaper clipping, he’d seemed almost eager to help me with my research. I hadn’t really expected anything from him so it was with curiosity that I opened the letter and began to read.

I lifted my gaze from the letter for a moment, picturing George in his seersucker suit dictating this letter to his secretary without even pausing to think about how ludicrous he sounded, as if suicide were a communicable disease. I thought about writing him back to mention the borderline alcoholic doyenne of the estate, the blind daughter with a penchant for colors, the two little girls who were wise beyond their years, or their father whose odd mixture of aloofness and caring I found more attractive than I wanted to admit. Instead, I bent my head back to the letter and continued to read.

I shook the letter in frustration and hastily skimmed the rest of the paragraph dealing with George’s brilliance and skipped to the next sentence.

I folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope. Regardless of how interesting George’s discoveries were, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Margaret Louise was born in 1898, eighteen years before my grandmother had been born. And she’d been a girl. I realized that the blue blanket I’d found in the secret room could have swaddled a baby of either sex, but my discovery of the blue sweater in my grandmother’s trunk had me convinced that I should be looking for a baby boy. And, even though I hadn’t found any evidence to show that they could be related, there was still the newspaper article about the discovery of a male infant found in the Savannah River.