Page 40 of The Lost Hours
I made a great show out of wiping dirt from my hands as I weighed my answer. Finally, I looked up at him, unable to resist parting with a piece of truth. “I was pretty good, I guess.”
His eyes narrowed. “You must not have spent a lot of time on the circuit or I’d recognize your name.”
I swallowed hard, forcing down my pride. “It was just a hobby for me. Never really expected anything to come out of it, so I just did it for fun.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes not giving anything away. Finally, he broke his gaze and turned toward where the girls had gone with Emily. “I’d like you to keep me posted on their progress.”
Surprised, I asked, “Won’t you be here? I’ve worked it out with Emily that their lesson will be every day at ten o’clock. I was hoping that with a regular schedule you might be able to be here.”
He looked down at his dust-covered boots, and shook his head. “No. I think it’s better if I don’t.”
I pictured Lucy’s face and her expression of pure joy when she’d first mounted the horse. A small fissure of anger erupted inside of me. “Because you don’t think they’ll be good enough? Or because their small attempts now aren’t big enough to warrant your attention?”
His jaw ticked as he turned to me, his anger matching my own. “You have no idea . . .” He stopped, shook his head, then looked away toward the house. It didn’t occur to me until later that beyond the house lay the cemetery, and his wife, buried outside the consecrated ground.
Ignoring his cues to stop, I continued. “Sara was so happy and confident with herself as she sat on top of her pony. Surely you saw that. And Lucy—she’s really got it. The confidence, the seat, the ease in the saddle. It will take a great trainer to make sure she walks before she runs—but look out world when she’s ready to run. Didn’t you see that? Don’t you care? Because more than their own abilities, they need somebody who loves them to tell them how wonderful they are. Without that, nothing they do will seem to matter as much.”
I realized I was almost crying, and that the words I was saying were words I’d rehearsed for years. Words I’d always intended to tell my grandfather, whose love for me seemed to be hinged on how well I performed. It had driven me to succeed, but when I’d failed that final time, I’d found I’d had nothing to fall back on. And the woman who could have convinced me to get back in the saddle had long since been gone from my life, her role in my success unnoticed and forgotten until it was too late.
His eyes softened as he looked back at me. “Don’t you think I know that? They’re my children, and I want only the best for them—whatever they decide that’s going to be. But Susan . . . she made me promise that they wouldn’t ride if for no other reason than that she couldn’t and she saw it as something that would take them away from her. And now that she’s gone . . .”
I swallowed back my anger, remembering the huge loss this man had suffered and felt ashamed. “You must have loved her very much.”
He looked startled as he stared at me for a moment. Then he laughed, a bitter, choking sound that made me take a step back. “No. I never loved her enough. She killed herself because I couldn’t love her enough.” His voice diminished to an almost whisper as he finished speaking.
A stricken look crossed his face as if he was just realizing who he was talking to and that he’d said too much. He took a step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He wiped his hands over his face. “I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks again.” He began to walk away, his long strides covering ground quickly. He’d made it out of the ring before he turned back around. “Malily asked me to tell you that she expects you for dinner again tonight. Seven o’clock as usual. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, I can make it,” I said, although I realized it hadn’t been a question.
He nodded and continued his walk back to the stables. I remained where I was, mulling over our conversation, his words haunting me.I never loved her enough.
I limped out of the ring, closing the gate behind me with a solid click before finding my way back to the alley of oaks, their moss-covered limbs and leaves silent in the bright light of day as if in mourning for a woman whose husband hadn’t loved her enough.
CHAPTER 13
Odella stood behind Lillian at her dressing table, squinting at the hook clasp on the back of Lillian’s blouse. “I swear I’m blind as a bat when it comes to seeing small things anymore. Are you sure this hook matters?”
Lillian raised an eyebrow. “It’s all in the details, Odella. That’s the problem with society these days. Nobody cares about the details anymore. Women going about wearing less than what I used to wear at the beach, without hats or gloves or anything that marks them as ladies. It wasn’t like that in my day. A lady dressed like a lady and was treated as such.”
Odella snorted, putting a hand on her hip. “So you want me to keep trying with this hook, then?”
Lillian didn’t answer, but continued to look pointedly at her with the raised eyebrow. After more struggling, Odella eventually announced success and helped Lillian stand. As she straightened, something slid off of her lap, landing with a small thud on the Aubusson rug.
“What’s this?” Odella bent to retrieve the picture frame that had landed facedown.
Lillian reached for it. “I forgot I was looking at that. It’s been in my drawer for so long that I forgot it was there. But I was sharing my scrapbook with Helen earlier and that reminded me.”
Odella placed the frame in Lillian’s hand and she looked down at it, the image fuzzy even with her glasses, not that it mattered. She’d long since memorized every detail of the old photograph, could even recall the conversations and the perfume she’d worn. It had been taken the night of her come-out party, using Josie’s Brownie camera that Dr. O’Hare had given her for her seventeenth birthday. It had been right after Annabelle had finished with the flowers and was getting ready to leave. Lillian remembered feeling guilty that Annabelle hadn’t been invited, and insisted on including her in the photograph.
Odella looked down at the picture. “I recognize you in the middle, but who are the other two?”
Lillian smiled, remembering, and pointed to the woman on her left. “That’s Josephine Montet. She was a good friend of mine.”
“Holy heck—TheJosephine Montet? The world-famous jazz singer whose records I still own even though I no longer own a record player? You know her?”
“Knew her,” Lillian corrected, moving a gnarled finger over the image of the beautiful young woman with the coffee skin and heavenly voice. “She sang at my come-out party.”
Lillian pulled the frame closer to see it better, noticing that Josie wore the charm necklace, even though it had been Lillian’s turn. Not wanting her father to see it, she’d given it to Josie to wear so that Lola could share in the festivities. Lillian smiled, recalling the small musical note she’d added to Lola to remember how Josie’s voice had filled the ballroom, and made the night sparkle.
