The Lost Hours

by Karen White

  There was something else, too, that shimmered in the air here along with the humidity and the foreboding trees at my back. It wasn’t neglect, exactly, or even the darkness that seemed to emanate from the oak alley despite the bright summer sun. It had more to do with the absence of light. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I did believe that this house could be haunted by its own past, its sorrows weeping shadows down the sandstone bricks and columns.

  The saving grace was the front garden. I recognized the smilax and the lantana, and the fragrant tea olives that had once, long ago, decorated my grandmother’s Savannah house. But whereas this garden oasis was neatly laid out with pristine edges and formed shapes, I recalled how the lantana in my grandmother’s back garden had been allowed to grow unchecked until it started poking through the window screens. I couldn’t imagine anything in this garden being allowed to grow beyond its boundaries. I pressed my hand to my face, the sweet, verdant smell now seeming more cloying than fragrant in the heat of the still summer afternoon.

  “Hello, there.”

  The voice came from the top of the steps and I had to exit the car to be able to get a better view. I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand and looked up. A beautiful woman with long, wavy dark hair who appeared to be in her midthirties stood with graceful hands folded on the sandstone balustrade. She was looking over my head toward the oaks as she spoke, and for a moment I thought the woman was addressing another visitor.

  “Hello. I’m . . . Earlene Smith. I’m renting the caretaker’s cottage for a few months. I was told to come to the main house to get the key from Helen Gibbons.”

  The woman smiled, illuminating her face. “I’m Helen—I spoke with you on the phone. Did you find us all right? Why don’t you come on up for some sweet tea and we can sit for a while and get acquainted before I get the key for you?”

  Feeling as if the oaks were watching me from behind, I began to climb the steps toward Helen, trying not to wince at the stiffness in my knee and back, and noticing the yellow silk chiffon dress Helen wore that seemed more appropriate at a morning wedding than spending an afternoon at home.

  When I reached the top, I extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Helen. And thank you for being able to accommodate me on such short notice.”

  Helen’s hand remained at her side, but she continued smiling, her eyes focused on my forehead. “Did you notice our trees? They spook people the first time they see them. I suppose that’s one of the reasons Malily hasn’t opened Asphodel Meadows to the public.”

  I let my hand drop, scrutinizing the other woman closely, wondering what it was that seemed to be missing. Reluctantly, I followed Helen’s gaze toward the trees. “I’ve never seen live oaks like that.”

  “They are unique, aren’t they?” she said, not quite smiling. “There used to be forty-eight of them. My great-great-grandfather and his generation called them the ‘old gentlemen.’They had quite the reputation as being the longest and most beautiful oak alley in the South.”

  I tried to imagine it, but couldn’t. “What happened?”

  Her eyes reflected the sky and the trees as she spoke. “When they dammed the river a few decades back they changed its course and Asphodel lost quite a bit of property—and thirty-two trees. Men came and chopped those old trees down, then hauled them down the river on barges. My mama has a desk that was made from the wood from one of those trees, but it gives her bad dreams after she’s spent any time working on it. We were compensated for it, of course, but the remaining oaks didn’t take too kindly to the assault. Overnight they changed to how you see them now—like old men.”

  I shuddered and faced Helen again. “Do they know what caused it?”

  Helen shrugged, her gaze focused again on my forehead. “They said the trauma of the earth-moving equipment and superficial damage to the roots caused by the removal of the other trees somehow disturbed the roots of the remaining ones.” She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. “Of course, there are those who don’t believe that version of the story at all.”

  I was about to ask her what she meant when Helen extended her hand in the direction of the open front door. “You’re limping, so you must be wanting to sit down. Why don’t we go on inside?”

  I had a sharp retort on my tongue when I noticed the long, slim metal cane Helen held in her left hand. My gaze jerked quickly up to Helen’s eyes and I saw then what I’d been looking for earlier. Eyes the color of the marsh stared out at the world without focus or light, as if a curtain had been drawn across them. But there was something in the way Helen’s gaze flitted about her surroundings, as if she saw something entirely different from everyone else and that what she saw might even be better.

  I cleared my throat and nodded, then added hastily, “Sure. Thank you,” and followed Helen into the house.

  The foyer soared over two stories, with a curving staircase climbing along the outer wall, decorated by the frowning stares of painted ancestors. I wondered if they’d all been smiling at one time until the oaks had been removed and like the remaining “old gentlemen” had turned to grieving for eternity.

  As I followed Helen toward the back of the house, I was vaguely aware of marble floors and dark paneling, crystal chandeliers and oil paintings of horses and jockeys. Tall windows marched across the top and bottom floors of the house, yet heavy shadows sat like furniture against the walls as we passed darkened rooms, heavy draperies covering up all light.

  Helen led me into a formal parlor of high ceilings and intricate moldings with an antique piano in one corner and an ornate armoire in the other. Two sofas faced each other, flanking an empty fireplace, a mottled antique mirror hanging above the mantle. Dark wood plantation shutters were closed, allowing little sunlight to creep around the edges to chase away the shadows. Despite the elegance of the room and its furnishings, I felt the same uneasiness I’d felt outside, like a strong wind would bring with it the scent of rain.

  After leaning her cane against the armoire, Helen asked,“What can I get you? We have sweet tea and homemade lemonade. Or I can fix you something stronger, if you prefer. As my brother,Tucker, is fond of saying, it’s always five o’clock somewhere.”

  “Sweet tea would be fine. Thank you.”

  I watched as Helen deftly handled the decanters and glasses, neatly replacing the lid on the ice bucket after dropping several cubes into two tall crystal goblets. Then she unstoppered a ship’s decanter filled with red liquid and poured it into a small glass until it was almost up to the top. She picked up my glass and held it up for me to take before picking up her own.

  “Why don’t you have a seat and rest a bit? My grandmother—I call her Malily but her real name is Lillian—will probably join us in a moment. She can smell her sherry like a shark can scent blood in the water.”

  I accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks, trying to disguise the sudden rush of adrenaline I’d felt with the mention of Lillian’s name. I sat down in an overstuffed wing chair by the piano and immediately felt something soft bump my hand. Startled, I looked down at the large yellow Lab, whose nap I had apparently disturbed. He bumped my hand again and I obliged by scratching him behind his ear.

  “That’s Mardi,” said Helen, elegantly folding herself into an identical chair opposite. “He likes to think he’s my Seeing Eye dog, so we just humor him. He’s a real marshmallow. He’s also, as you can see, a real watchdog, always alerting us to the presence of strangers.” She took a sip of her tea, then raised her brows. “And you both have something in common—he’s afraid of horses, too.”

  I stared hard at her, but Helen’s face was open and her expression without malice. “Well, then,” I said carefully,“we should get along just fine.”

  “Full use of the stables is included in your rental agreement, you know. That’s why most people who rent it choose to come here in the summer instead of the beach. I don’t suppose you’ll be utilizing the stables, though.”

  “No,” I said, feeling the mix of e
xhilaration and terror push through me again, “I won’t be.”

  My attention was drawn to a movement in the doorway and I realized that Helen had already turned her head. The older woman whose picture I’d seen in the newspaper stood with her hand gripping the doorframe, the fingers bending in the wrong directions. She wore a striped silk blouse and matching skirt, her blond hair and makeup elegant yet understated. I knew Lillian Harrington-Ross was ninety years old but she looked at least twenty years younger. A fleeting memory of my own grandmother with her weary face and long, uncut hair made me wince.

  “Are you pouring drinks, Helen?”

  “Yes, Malily. Yours is waiting on the shelf.” Helen gave me a wink and for a moment I forgot that Helen was blind.

  I stood to greet the newcomer and realized my hand was shaking. Lillian approached with her glass, appraising me with eyes the color of emeralds.

  “Malily, this is Earlene Smith. She’s renting the caretaker’s cottage for a few months while she does genealogy research. Earlene, this is my grandmother and owner of Asphodel Meadows, Lillian Harrington-Ross.”

  Lillian slowly took a sip of her sherry. “Yes,” she said, pausing for a moment, “I remember you mentioning her.” Her gaze took in my scuffed sandals, wrinkled linen pants, and pink button-down blouse with the coffee stain on the front courtesy of the idiot driver in front of me that morning on Abercorn Street. Lillian’s eyes returned to my face and stopped for a moment while I held my breath. “Have we met before?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  The old woman stared at me for a moment longer. “You must remind me of someone else, then.” She moved to the sofa and then added as an afterthought, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smith.”

  “Likewise,” I said, my voice cracking as I resumed my seat. I glanced over at Helen and found the blind woman’s empty gaze fixed on me. Mardi nuzzled my hand and I focused on scratching his large head. “And please call me Earlene.”

  Lillian sat up with a straight back and elegantly sipped her sherry. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon but I wished that I’d asked for something stronger than tea.

  “Helen tells me your parents are from Savannah but that you were raised in Atlanta.”

  I bartered for time by taking a long drink of my iced tea, completely blindsided by my own shortsightedness. In all of my hasty preparations to come here, it had never once occurred to me that I would need an alternate background for Earlene Smith. There had once been a time in my life when acting before I could think of the consequences had served me well, but those days were long over and I needed to learn to stop thinking like the competitive jumper I no longer was.

  I put my glass down on the table, missing the coaster and feeling Lillian’s eyes staring at me coldly. I quickly stood, nearly tripping on the dog, and retrieved a cocktail napkin from the armoire to wipe up the drops of condensation.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to think calmly so I could remember whatever story was going to come out of my mouth. “I was raised in Atlanta. My father was a doctor there.”

  “In what hospital?” Lillian took another sip of her sherry but her eyes never left my face. “My grandson received his medical degree at Emory and was at Piedmont Hospital for his residency in general medicine.”

  I focused on the wadded cocktail napkin in my hands. “I . . . I don’t really remember. He—well, both of my parents died when I was six. I moved to Savannah to live with relatives after that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone flat, as if at her age the news of death was no longer news. “With whom did you live in Savannah?”

  I looked over at Helen for some sort of reassurance but she seemed to be inwardly focusing on her iced tea. “My father’s aunt and uncle. He worked for one of the banks on Bull Street and my aunt was a homemaker.” I took another drink from my glass, trying to wash down the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. I’d never done this much lying in my entire life. “Harold and Betty Smith. They were originally from Augusta, I think.”

  An imperial brow lifted. “Augusta? I don’t believe I know anybody in Augusta.”

  Nor ever saw any need to, I wanted to add. I’d taken an instant dislike to the old woman, my dislike having nothing to do with Lillian’s aristocratic attitude. It had more to do with the words in the letter her grandson had sent. On your behalf I did ask her about your grandmother and it took several moments for her to even recollect that she had once known her.

  “Yes, well, they’re gone now, too.” I lifted my glass to my dry lips only to realize that I’d already drained the last of the iced tea.

  Helen stood. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to go rummage through my desk in the library and get the keys to the cottage for you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, trying to restrain myself from begging her to stay so I wouldn’t be left alone in the same room with her grandmother. Even Mardi deserted me, moving as fast as the heat of the day would allow him.

  “I understand you’re one of those people who likes to dig into other people’s business.”

  I stared at Lillian for a moment, not yet comprehending. “Oh, you mean a genealogist? Yes, I guess. In part you’re right. But I really only dig as far as my clients want me to.”

  “And who are your clients now?”

  I desperately wanted another glass of iced tea if only as a prop to give me time to formulate answers. I glanced over at the armoire and then over at Lillian and decided against it. “I’m afraid that my clients are confidential. It’s part of my contract with them whether or not they want confidentiality.”

  “I see,” said Lillian, although it was clear that she didn’t. She considered me with steady, unblinking eyes and I was suddenly very aware that this woman missed very little. Despite being only three years younger than my grandmother, Lillian Harrington-Ross shared little else with Annabelle Mercer. A sharp stab of loss pricked at the place around my heart and I turned away from those eyes that seemed to see everything.

  To change the subject, I blurted, “I was admiring your garden out front. What were those tall, yellow flowers?”

  The old woman took a long sip of her sherry. “Those are asphodels—the flower this plantation was named for, which is why I cultivate them here.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

  “It’s doubtful that you would have. They’re generally found in Greece, where they grow wild. They’re mostly associated with the dead.” She took another sip of her sherry, her eyes shifting from me to the shuttered window. “Do you know Greek mythology, Earlene?”

  I swallowed, my throat tight and dry. “No. I’m afraid that I don’t.” I shifted uneasily in my seat, watching the shadows as they seemed to unfold and stretch themselves into the room. This old woman and her house made me feel as if I were pushing on the screen of a second-floor window, not sure when it would give way and send me tumbling to the ground below.

  I shouldn’t have come. I watched the dust motes float across the window and thought of the scrapbook pages waiting in the car. On one of my brief perusals through the pages, I had paused long enough at yet another mention of the names Josie and Lily and a new one, Lola. And there, in my grandmother’s girlhood writing, Best friends forever. But there was no connection now to the cold elderly woman sitting in front of me and the petite blond girl sitting next to my grandmother and another girl on a pasture fence in a faded picture with curling edges. I shouldn’t have come, I thought again.

  Lillian continued. “According to Greek mythology, Asphodel Meadows is where the souls of people who lived lives of near equal good and evil rest. It’s a ghostly place and a less-perfect vision of life on earth.” Her lips turned up with what resembled a smile. “Not quite hell, but not exactly heaven, either.”

  “The flowers are beautiful,” I said, afraid I’d blurt out the truth if I didn’t say something else. I glanced at the doorway, hoping Helen would return wit
h the key so I could leave.

  “My ancestors had a sense of humor,” Lillian continued as if I hadn’t spoken. Her words were slightly slurred and I wondered if the old woman was almost drunk. “Or maybe they thought that living in purgatory here on earth would shoot them directly to heaven when they died.”

  My knee hurt and my head was beginning to. I shouldn’t have come. I wondered why I hadn’t let George talk me out of it or why I’d felt the need to come in the first place. I’d told him everything, even showed him the scrapbook and newspaper clipping, but he’d still come up with a dozen reasons why my coming to Asphodel was a bad idea. Even I’d had my doubts. Knowing my grandmother’s past wouldn’t bring her back or give me another chance. And maybe the attic room with the empty bassinet and blue baby blanket had nothing to do with her. Or maybe they were never meant to be found.

  I opened my mouth to excuse myself, to apologize for taking up their afternoon and to thank them for the tea before leaving as quickly as I could, when my gaze caught a flash of gold appearing in the neck fold of Lillian’s silk blouse.

  It was a small gold angel with outstretched wings and holding a book, pierced by two holes to allow a chain to pass through the charm. It was unremarkable, really, except that it was identical to the one I now wore around my own neck, safely tucked inside my shirt.

  Helen finally appeared and I stood abruptly, finding it suddenly hard to breathe in the dark, stuffy room. “I’m sorry, but I really must leave now. If you’ll just tell me where the cottage is, I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding it.”

  Without moving, Helen held out a key ring with a single key dangling from it. “That’s fine. I’ll call or have somebody stop by later on to see if you need anything.”

  I took the key, trying not to snatch it from Helen’s grasp in my haste. After listening to Helen’s directions, I said a quick word of thanks and my good-byes to both women, then left, ignoring the pain in my knee and quickly forgetting my doubts about why I was there. It wasn’t the fact that Lillian Harrington-Ross had an angel charm identical to the one my grandmother had left for me; instead it had everything to do with the reason why an old woman who claimed not to even remember my grandmother would be wearing it around her neck.