The Lost Hours

by Karen White

  Earlene sat back down on the ledge. Softly, she said,“That’s not true.” After a brief pause, she added, “Annabelle was my grandmother.”

  Ah. “Well, that certainly explains a lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Odella and I found scrapbook pages and a necklace in a box on your kitchen table along with pictures of Malily. We figured there had to be a connection.”

  Earlene jerked herself up to a standing position, blocking the sun that filtered through the pine trees on Helen’s face. “You were snooping?”

  “Only a little. They were left out in plain view. But apparently I’m not the only one with a little secret, Earlene. And that’s not your real name, is it?”

  Earlene let out a puff of air that could have been a laugh or just relief. “Actually, it is. But I’ve always gone by my nickname, Piper. But my last name is Mills.”

  “It suits you better. And I recognize the name, of course. You’re pretty famous in equestrian circles.”

  “Yes, well, not anymore.” There was a short pause. “As good as it feels to have finally confessed to someone, I know how stupid I must appear to you right now. My only defense is that I needed to talk to your grandmother to find out about mine. And when I sent letters here, your brother answered that she was too ill and didn’t remember my grandmother at all. And I knew that wasn’t true.”

  Helen tried to find the personal affront and anger she probably should be feeling at being deceived. Instead she had the oddest compulsion to clap Piper on the back for her creativity, and felt vindication that she’d known all along that there was more to Earlene Smith than family trees and dusty libraries. “So you decided to come here under false pretenses to find out what you could.”

  “That sounds awful, I know, but I didn’t do it to deceive. I did it because I didn’t stop long enough to think of another way.”

  Mardi brought the stick back but Helen patted him on the head, letting him know the game was over. She remembered how she’d felt sitting in her grandmother’s room while Malily read from her scrapbook—of the way her heart ached at the bridge of words that connected her grandmother’s life with her own. “Why is digging up your grandmother’s past so important to you now?”

  Piper’s voice was muffled, and Helen pictured her with her hands over her face, like a person bent in prayer. “My grandmother and I never had a close relationship. She seemed content to hide in her garden while I seemed hell-bent on seeing how close I could come to killing myself on the back of a horse. It was different when I was small, when I first went to live with my grandparents. She taught me about her garden, how to make things grow. But then I discovered horses and I couldn’t reconcile myself to the fact that my grandmother was content to remain in the background, never once tempted to risk the heat to touch the sun, as my trainer used to tell me. It seemed her life was pointless and I wanted nothing to do with her.”

  Helen could hear the wedge in Piper’s throat, the dam that was holding back the tears long enough so she could make her case. Gently, Helen asked, “So what changed?”

  “After both of my grandparents died, I discovered a box my grandfather had asked me to help him bury years ago when my grandmother was put in a nursing home for Alzheimer’s. It contained portions of a scrapbook, a necklace with a lot of charms dangling from it and . . . and a newspaper clipping. About the discovery of a black infant boy in the Savannah River.”

  A sticky breeze stirred the leaves on the ground, sending a chill down Helen’s spine. “Any idea who the child was, or why the article would be with your grandmother’s things?”

  “None. And there’s more. I discovered a secret room in the attic of my grandparents’ Savannah house. In it was a baby’s bassinet with a blue hand-knit blanket.”

  Again, Helen felt a chill, the kind that Malily used to tell her meant somebody was walking over her grave. “And all of that proved to you that your grandmother had a life before you met her—maybe even a bigger life than your own. And that you wasted all of those hours while she was in your life.”

  “Yes. It made me angry—at myself. Since my accident, I’d been living exactly as I thought my grandmother had—wandering around that big house, waiting for something to happen to me. I think that’s why I chose such a drastic plan. It was almost refreshing to discover that the competitive rider in me hadn’t completely disappeared. The risk taker was still there and I was so relieved I didn’t stop to think how stupid the idea was. Or of the long-range implications.”

  “Like what would happen when we found out you’d lied to us—as you undoubtedly were aware would happen.” When Piper didn’t respond, Helen continued. “So how did you end up here?”

  “After my grandfather died, his lawyer brought me unopened letters that my grandmother had written to Lillian. They were all returned, unopened. In it, she asked for Lillian’s forgiveness for something she’d done”

  Helen rubbed her hands over her arms, feeling cold despite the afternoon heat. “And you have no idea what.”

  “No. And I’m not completely convinced that I want to know. I think that’s why I haven’t finished going through her scrapbook. I’m not sure I’m not going to wish I’d never found it. Like I’m about to open Pandora’s box.”

  Helen stiffened. Pandora’s box. “That’s what my mother said when she caught Tucker and me digging up graves. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Helen felt Piper watching her, measuring her words like sifting flour for a cake. “What are you going to do now? Are you going to tell your grandmother? And Tucker?”

  Helen stood, her hand resting on the obelisk. “It’s not for me to tell them. If you’re going to salvage any of this, and solicit Malily’s help, you’re going to need to tell her—and soon. She’s very bright and it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s close to figuring it out on her own. As for Tucker.” Helen shook her head. “He’s going to be pretty pissed. But I think he’ll come around—as soon as he realizes who he’s got teaching his daughters how to ride.

  “But I would like to see your grandmother’s scrapbook. And that newspaper article. But not before you’ve resolved everything and managed to talk Malily into letting you stay. Then we can compare notes.”

  She felt Piper’s hand on her arm. “Thank you. You’ve been a lot more understanding than I deserve. I’ll tell them—just as soon as I can figure out the best way to do it.”

  “Don’t wait too long. That’ll only make it worse.”

  “I won’t. Promise.” Piper squeezed Helen’s hand gently. “I’ve got the girls’ riding lesson now. Can I walk you back to the house?”

  “No, but thanks. I’m almost done here and Tucker’s waiting for me to call him so he can come get me.”

  “Great. Then I’ll see you at supper again. Your grandmother invited me.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow. “Again? It’s surprising. She usually doesn’t take to strangers. Unless you don’t feel like a stranger to her.”

  “I almost think it would be easier if she came right out and said something, but don’t worry. I won’t wait for it.”

  They said their good-byes, and as soon as Piper’s footsteps disappeared into the woods, Helen returned to her canvas, finally knowing what she needed to finish it. She picked up her brush and counted over to where she knew red was on her palette and began to paint. She didn’t once consider painting Piper in an equestrian setting, with horses and a stable or simply green pasture. Instead she filled the background with flowers from Malily’s garden, in a tribute to all of those who could see but insisted on being blind.

  CHAPTER 15

  I’m dreaming the same dream again, everything even more vivid than before. This time I hear the announcement of my name and event, but the voice is long and slow, as if speaking underwater. Fitz shifts his feet, a tremble of anticipation lifting his head. Silently, I visualize the course I was allowed to walk earlier, feeling Fitz move beneath me as if he can see it, too. The air hum
s around us with hope and possibilities and I smile to myself in the dream, feeling Fitz’s power and confidence flowing into me.

  But then my view shifts and I’m standing next to my grandmother behind the spectator ropes, and everyone else seems to fade away around us as I turn to her. She isn’t looking at me but down at her hands. I follow her gaze and recognize the scrapbook, but it’s still intact, without torn or missing pages, and spread open as if she’s in the middle of looking at it.

  I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I didn’t know that you loved horses. Or that you wanted to be a doctor. You never told me.”

  She looks up at me and I see that her eyes are brown like mine, and it makes me want to cry because I hadn’t remembered that either. She smiles at me with the same smile she used after I’d dug up the back corner of her garden when I was seven and planted moonflower seeds because she’d told me that they were her favorites. “You never asked,” she says, her mouth not moving. I feel her cold hand on my arm; then she slowly leans forward and I shiver, frozen in place and unable to pull back. Her breath is icy on my cheek as she whispers, “But I’m glad you’re asking now.” And then she presses something into the palm of my hand, the gold wings of the angel pricking my skin and I know what it is before I look down and see my lost angel charm.

  And then I’m back on Fitz and we’re approaching the flower basket, but this time I’m pulling him up, trying to get him to go around the enormous basket, because I know what is going to happen. But I’m crying because I can’t stop him from taking that jump any more than I can bring my grandmother back to life and ask for a second chance.

  “Earlene? Earlene, are you okay?” A warm hand touched my bare arm.

  I struck out, disoriented, still feeling the weight of disappointment pinning me to the dusty ground. And for some reason I thought George Baker was there because he was calling me by that ridiculous name. “Don’t call me that—it’s not my name!” I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself leaning against the outside of the garden wall at Asphodel Meadows, shaded by the old limbs of the magnolia, and facing the stables and the riding ring.

  “Excuse me?”

  I blinked and looked up into a pair of dark green eyes that looked vaguely familiar. I quickly slid up the wall to a standing position, light-headed from the sudden movement. Holding on to the wall with one hand, I shook my head to clear it. “God, sorry—I must have been dreaming.”

  Tucker nodded slowly. “Do you need to sit down again? You’re looking a little unsteady.”

  Without answering, I let myself slide back down the wall, my legs stretched out in front of me. “I was just sitting here in the shade, resting for a moment while I waited for the girls. I guess I fell asleep.”

  He sat down on the grass beside me, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “I was looking for you to tell you that the girls are going to be a little late. We were swimming in the pond and lost track of the time.”

  I noticed his hair was still dry, and I looked away trying to hide my disappointment, the shadow of my dream still hanging over me. “One of these days you’re going to have to step off the sidelines and into their lives, you know.”

  Glancing up at the magnolia leaves, he grimaced. “So what makes you such the expert on little girls?”

  “Because I used to be one. Barbies, bows, horses, and more horses.”

  His smile was genuine, his face relaxed. “Sounds like my girls—although Lucy in particular. Sara loves to ride, but she loves the horse primarily. For Lucy, she loves the horse, but it’s the challenge of communicating with the horse that she really loves. She says she’s ready for trot poles.”

  I sat up straighter. “She’s only been riding a month, Tucker. I agree that she’s good and confident, but we shouldn’t push her.”

  “I’m not pushing her. I think she’s ready and she wants to try. I’ve already made a few phone calls to find a nice, gentle mare for her. Give her a taste of what it’s like to ride a real horse.”

  “But what about Sara? How will she feel if Lucy gets the new horse and she still has her pony?”

  “Sara’s told me that she never wants another horse, no matter how big she gets. She loves Oreo.”

  I bit my lip, knowing that was exactly what Sara would have said. “Still, I think it’s too early for Lucy.”

  Tucker leaned toward me, his eyes searching. “Don’t you remember what it’s like? That one passion that overshadows everything else in your life? The kind that makes you want to jump out of bed in the morning. Has it been so long that you don’t remember?”

  I felt my chest rise and fall, as if someone else had blown air into me, forcing me to breathe. Yes, I wanted to shout. Yes, I remember. Instead, I said,“We all have limitations. Her age and size are two of them. Her inexperience is a third. She shouldn’t be pushed to do more than she’s capable of.”

  “Were you pushed too hard, Earlene? Is that how you hurt yourself and made you never want to ride again? Is that why you’re so adamant that I keep Lucy on a pony?”

  I turned to him with anger, not registering that I saw no belligerence in his eyes, only a need to understand. “I was pushed—but only because I wanted to be. Because I wanted to be the best there was, and the only way to do that was to get pushed hard enough until I learned how to push myself.”

  “And did that make you the best?”

  I was shaking, remembering it all. I could taste the sweat and the anticipation of victory. But I couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet. “I wanted to be. I tried to be. In the house I grew up in, in Savannah, my uncle left an entire wall blank so that he’d have a place to hang my Olympic gold medals when I won them.” I flushed at the memory, remembering my grandfather’s look of pride and the way my grandmother had looked away, then left the room. I’d heard the back door close shortly after that, and I’d known she’d retreated to her garden.

  “You need to get back on a horse again, Earlene. You’re not afraid of horses, I see that now. And you and Captain Wentworth have a mutual fan club. He’s definitely ready to ride again, but needs an experienced rider. I think he’s just been waiting for you.”

  I struggled with warring emotions, remembering what Helen had told me, about how Tucker had once dug up a grave looking for pirate treasure, and I thought I saw a glimmer of that boy now. He was a doctor by profession, in search of healing others, yet unable or unwilling to see that his own wounds remained unbandaged.

  I shook my head, not even sure if I understood my reluctance enough to explain it to someone else. Or maybe I was just too ashamed of the real reason I suspected I couldn’t do it. I felt my anger at myself and quickly turned it on him. “Stop pressuring me. I’m in a lot of pain with my back and my knee, which precludes my riding. I have pins holding my knee and leg together, if that draws a clearer picture for you.”

  He didn’t look away, and his eyes reminded me of Helen’s and her ability to see behind the words, and I knew I hadn’t fooled him at all. “I’m a doctor. I know about these things. I also know that there are exercises you can do to strengthen muscles to lessen the pain and increase your flexibility. Emily can probably help you, if you just ask.”

  I stood, wondering if there was a mass conspiracy going on. “I’ve heard, thank you. I tried exercises in the beginning and they didn’t help. But if it will get everybody off of my back, then I will, okay? But I’m never getting back on a horse. Not ever, so you can stop asking.”

  He stood, too, and smiled a brilliant smile, surprising me. “We’ll see. In the meantime, I’ll tell Lucy that she’ll have to wait to ride Captain Wentworth until after you’ve broken him in. That was her idea, by the way, and not mine.”

  The image of Lucy negotiating to ride Captain Wentworth made me want to laugh, but I managed an inelegant snort instead.

  “My Lucy has a sense of humor.”

  My Lucy. I wondered if he was aware he’d said that. “She comes by it honestly at least,” I said.

  “What do you mea
n?”

  “Your name’s William Tecumseh Gibbons. Obviously, somebody in your family would have to have a sense of humor to name you after the Yankee general most Savannah residents still refer to as Satan. It’s sort of like naming the British heir apparent ‘Napoleon’ or something.”

  He pulled out a few tall blades of grass and pressed them between his fingers. “My mother named me. I don’t know if it was because she had a sense of humor or because she wanted to piss off my grandmother. Not that it mattered. My grandmother called me Tucker the first time she saw me and that’s what it’s been ever since.”

  He turned his gaze to me again. “My wife—Susan—called me William. She thought that using a nickname was a sort of deception. As if it gave me license to pretend to be someone else.”

  I tasted the roof of my mouth, my tongue suddenly too thick to speak. I wanted to tell him then who I was, but I thought about how I’d told him about my Olympic dreams and how he hadn’t laughed, and how he’d stayed with his daughters the night under the oaks when I’d told him he should be with them. I liked William Tecumseh Gibbons, and I liked that his nickname was Tucker and I knew that whatever relationship we’d forged over the last month would be over the minute he learned that I was Piper Mills and that I’d been lying to him from the first moment we met.

  I knew I should probably steer the conversation in another direction, but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t forget the grave that rested in unconsecrated ground outside of the family cemetery, or not be curious about the mother who’d abandoned Lucy and Sara. “How did you introduce yourself to her when you first met?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “I didn’t, actually. She was a . . . patient of my medical school mentor, a psychiatrist. He’s actually my partner now. But I met her in his office.”