The Lost Hours (48 page)

Sara ran up to us and tugged on Tucker’s shirt. “Can we go eat now? Odella made lemon bars today and she said we can’t have them till after supper.”

Lucy walked toward Sara as if getting ready to leave. I put my hand out and touched her shoulder. “Wait a minute. I thought we had a deal.”

She slid a wary glance over to Captain Wentworth. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“No. You need to get back on now.”

She swallowed. “I don’t want to.”

“Lucy . . . ,” Tucker began, but I put a hand up and he stopped.

“Why not, Lucy? Why don’t you want to get back on?”

She shrugged. “No reason. I’m tired, I guess.”

I went over to Captain Wentworth and adjusted the stirrups one more time before returning to stand in front of Lucy. “Why not?” I asked as I squatted down to eye level.

She looked down at her feet.

“Why not, Lucy?” I asked again, leaning toward her. “Because you’re afraid?”

Her eyes rose to meet mine. “I’m not scared.”

“Then get back on the horse and ride him.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Or else you forget the reason you used to get up on the horse in the first place, remember? I hadn’t ridden a horse in more than six years because I forgot. Do you want to wait that long to ride again?”

Her eyes skittered over to Captain Wentworth, then traveled back to me. “Were you scared?”

I thought of how I had felt perched up in the saddle, how the barely restrained power of the horse had made me feel powerful and in control again, and the frisson of fear I’d felt before I’d lifted myself onto the horse’s back when I thought that maybe I might be wrong, that maybe getting in the saddle again wouldn’t be enough to take the pain away.

“Yeah, I was,” I said. I stood and held out my hand. “Come on. Captain Wentworth is tired and wants a good rubdown and a carrot. Let’s not make him wait, okay?”

She looked at Tucker for intervention, but he gave a quick shake of his head. “Listen to Miss Piper, Lucy. She knows what she’s talking about.”

“But I fell off,” she said, and her voice held such surprise, as if she’d managed the impossible. She turned to Tucker, looking for sympathy. “I was riding Captain Wentworth, and I fell off.”

Tucker’s eyes slid to mine and I gave a little nod, and was relieved when he didn’t say anything, acknowledging that this was between Lucy and me. Although I had no doubt that he’d grill me about it later, and it made me want to smile.

“Yes, you did,” I said. “And it was a nasty fall. You’re lucky—you could have really been hurt. But you need to understand that it was your actions that caused it and not the horse’s. You were doing something you weren’t ready for, which is why you fell off. And to convince yourself that you can get back on a horse, you need to do it right now or you might not ever. That would be the real tragedy, wouldn’t it?”

Her brow furrowed again, and I realized I’d used a harsher tone than I wanted to.

“Come on,” I said gently. “You only have to walk and I’ll walk right beside you if you want.”

With a deep breath, she slid her boots back on, then took my hand and allowed me to lead her over to the mounting block. “I’m not afraid,” she said again as she jutted out her chin and stared at the large horse. Without assistance, she climbed into the saddle in one quick movement, as if she were afraid that if she moved slower she’d change her mind.

“Do you want me to walk with you?”

She shook her head, grabbed the reins, and dug her heels into the sides of the horse. They ambled around the ring three times, Lucy’s face regaining color and the stiffness in her shoulders and legs relaxing into the comfortable rhythm I’d been used to seeing with her.

“You ready to stop?” I asked.

She shook her head again and did one more lap.

“Good job,” I said, helping her out of the saddle.

She surprised me by hugging me. I hugged her back and held her for a moment. Then she cupped her hands around my ear and leaned forward to whisper. “It doesn’t matter to me if you never ride a horse again, Miss Piper. Because to me, you’ll always be the one who made me get back on my horse the first time I fell off. I think that makes you pretty special.”

I gave a half sob, half laugh and hugged her tighter. Then we headed together toward the barn to untack Captain Wentworth and rub him down. I stopped outside the barn for a moment while everyone else moved ahead of me and took a deep breath of air that smelled of fresh-mown grass. I looked over to the alley of oaks, where only the towering tips were visible, imagining that they looked different to me. The limbs bent softly in the breeze instead of rigidly defying it, the knobs at the base of each limb looked rounder. I smiled into the growing night, understanding casting a gentle glow over the house and fields of Asphodel. It seemed as if in defining the end of my own grief, the old trees had also discovered the end of theirs. With a soft sigh, I headed into the bright lights inside the barn, leaving the darkness behind me.

Lillian’s head swam as she pulled herself out of the bed, not knowing whether to blame the dizziness on the sherry or just the number of years she’d spent on this earth. She felt the ghosts in the room, too. Though she could no longer see them, she felt their recriminating gazes, heard the house breathe with expectation as if it, too, was waiting for the truth.

She dragged herself to each window, throwing open all of the shutters to let in the dying light of day, afraid suddenly of the encroaching darkness. She stared out at the alley of oaks, watching as the uppermost branches caught in the early evening breeze. But their movements were stiff and unyielding, as if they also waited for Lillian to acknowledge her ghosts.

Lola still hung around her neck and she lifted it off. She knew each charm by touch, had memorized the feel of each one along with their meanings and which of the three women had added it. Her fingers danced clumsily along each charm: the musical note, the heart, the rope. The baby carriage. She pressed it against her heart, willing the tears to come, but still, after all these years, they stayed in the place around her heart where she dared not visit, the place where regret lived. The place that, if examined too closely, would destroy her, as it had Annabelle.

There was a soft tapping on the door and she turned to see Helen enter the room.

“Malily? Are you awake?”

“Yes. I’m by the chair between the windows.” She watched as Helen moved gracefully toward her, her face beautiful even with her drawn expression and reddened eyes.

She stopped a foot away from Lillian, her hand brushing Lillian’s nightgown sleeve, and turned her face to the window as if sensing the light. “Have the trees changed at all?”

Lillian smiled softly. It had been an old joke between them. When Helen had first lost her sight, Lillian had been her eyes, describing everything around her. But Helen, who’d always been fascinated by the legend of the oak trees, had continued to hope that they’d get over their grieving and return to normal. On a nearly weekly basis, she’d asked Lillian if they’d changed back yet. It had been a while since she’d last asked. Maybe Helen had given up on getting a new answer. Or maybe she’d just got tired of asking. “No, not yet.”

Helen handed her something and when Lillian took it she saw that it was a light blue hand-knit baby’s blanket. Lillian’s hand tightened around it, feeling instead Samuel’s soft baby skin, and the thick hair that had covered his tiny head. She closed her eyes, trying to see her son and instead saw Annabelle holding Samuel in the room where he’d been born and where he’d died.
Annabelle’s nephew. Samuel had been related to Annabelle by blood.
But Annabelle had never told her. As if the knowledge would have added to Lillian’s grief somehow, and her friend had chosen to spare her. Even if it meant Annabelle would have to grieve in solitude, believing she’d killed her own nephew.

Lillian brought the blanket up to her face, trying to smell any trace of the little boy she’d known and loved for such a short time, but smelled only dust and old wool. And something else that she refused to recognize.

Helen reached out her hand and touched the glass of the window, her face registering surprise that the shutters had been opened before dropping it to her side. “Why did you want me to leave the room when you spoke with Piper? Did you think I’d be ashamed of you because you married a black man and had his baby? Or that you couldn’t forgive a close friend? Do you know me so little that you think that any of that would make me forget what you mean to me?”

Lillian looked at her, not comprehending at first. It didn’t surprise her that Helen had eavesdropped. It only surprised her that Helen hadn’t guessed the truth.

“No.” Lillian returned her gaze to the window and the darkening sky, the fading light reminding her of sand through an hourglass.

Helen didn’t say anything for a while. “You didn’t want me here because there’s more to the story and you were going to tell Piper.”

Lillian remained silent.

With a soft sigh, Helen leaned over and kissed Lillian’s cheek. “ ‘Be patient and strong. Someday this pain will be useful to you.’ ” She pulled away. “Whatever it is can only make us stronger, right? So trust me that I’m strong enough to handle it, and that I love you enough now for it not to matter.”

Helen turned and walked carefully to the door.

“How did you learn to be so brave?”

Helen didn’t even turn around or pause when she answered. “From you, of course.”

Lillian stared at the closed door, listening to Helen’s retreat down the long hallway accompanied by Mardi’s paws clicking on the wood floors. Lillian turned from the window and blinked, her vision fading in and out. She moved slowly to her desk with leaden feet. She’d never been this tired before, not even after childbirth. Each breath rattled in her chest; each movement was stiff and deliberate. Even her heart had to be reminded to beat.

She leaned on the desk with both hands, ignoring the pain, trying to catch her breath. The desk had once belonged to her mother, and when her father had given it to Lillian on her sixteenth birthday, she’d hoped that the secret compartments and multiple drawers would contain something from her mother: a note, a letter, a story. But the desk had been completely empty, and Lillian had spent a lifetime trying to fill it.

Mustering all the energy she had left, Lillian pulled open the middle drawer and gingerly slid her hand inside until she felt the release button, and pressed, wincing at the jolt of pain in her hand. She was rewarded with a slight clicking sound and when she reached farther, she felt the false side of the drawer bowing out, leaving just enough room for a piece of paper. Or an envelope.

She pulled out the envelope with her neat and much younger handwriting sprawled across the front, recognizing the address on Monterey Square by heart, even after all these years. The stamp in the top right corner remained uncanceled, but the seal had been torn open, allowing access to the letter inside.

The letter and its envelope had been in the desk almost since the time it was written, until Susan began her research into the Harrington family, and found instead the letter and Lillian’s past. Holding the letter close, Lillian pressed her hands against her chest, feeling each breath as she summoned the strength to make it back to her bed. With faltering steps, she moved toward it, feeling as if hands were helping her onto the high mattress, settling the bedclothes around her.

She’d made her decision. The story belonged to a younger generation now, caretakers of the words left behind by three friends whose lives would always be intertwined. Helen and Piper were strong, independent women; they would understand. They would know how to forgive, and how to move on in a world that didn’t always offer second chances. Curling onto her side, she cradled the letter like a baby. She would read it to Helen tomorrow, knowing now that it was part of the story she was meant to share, and that she’d raised a courageous woman who loved unconditionally, and who could face a darkened world without hesitation.

With a jagged breath she lifted her hand to the radio and turned it on, preset to the jazz station. Her hand fell to the mattress, the skin pale and bloodless. The volume on the radio was set low, and she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard Josie singing again.
Time is a river, and it ain’t got no banks; I can’t go nowhere but down, down to the place the heart breaks. But then I see your face, and the angels sing, and my soul finds rest again in your embrace.

Lillian smiled, her tiredness overwhelming her, welcoming it as a traveler welcomes sleep after a long journey. She allowed her eyes to close just for a moment, then forced them open again, listening to Josie sing, imagining she could hear Annabelle, too. Although night had fallen outside, the window she’d stood at shone with bright light, and Annabelle’s voice was calling to her. Lillian rose from the bed, her stiffness and tiredness gone, and went to the window to find her old friend. The scent of the moonflowers hovered near as they opened into the night, sharing their secrets with anyone who braved the darkness to see.