Page 74 of The Lost Hours
“Hello. May I speak with Piper Mills?”
I knew then, and I might have forgotten to breathe. “This is she. Is this Alicia?”
There was a brief pause. “It is. I’d like to sit down and talk with you, if you’re still interested.”
I leaned back in my chair, listening to the honeyed tones of Alicia Jones’ voice as she gave me directions to her house, smiling to myself as I realized that I might have a chance to beat Lillian at her own game.
I’d been up for hours, having returned the golf cart and done my morning exercise by walking back to the cottage. I’d called Tucker and Helen both, reading my grandmother’s last pages out loud, and telling them about Alicia’s call, and made plans to drive into Savannah with Helen.
She was waiting for me by the sundial wearing a yellow silk knit dress with a wide tapestry belt, making me feel frumpy in my cotton skirt and cotton knit pullover despite the collapsible cane she carried. It even had a yellow tip to match her outfit. It had stopped striking me as odd that the first person I’d ever ask for fashion advice was a blind woman.
“You look beautiful, Helen,” I called from the open window. “You’ll have to take me shopping sometime.”
Helen laughed as she waited for me to stop the car and help her in. “George has invited me to lunch, if that’s all right with you. He invited you, too, but said he’d understand if you were too busy to join us. He’d be happy to drive me home.”
Helen kept her face averted but I could see the blush blooming in her cheeks. “Yeah, I’ll need to get back, so if he doesn’t mind driving you, that would be fine.”
“Please don’t think that I’m rushing into anything. I’m not. I like George and it’s been a long time since anybody who isn’t related to me has paid me any attention. I like to enjoy myself, and to have a reason for wearing pretty clothes.” Helen shrugged. “I like that he’s related to Mr. Morton. He was a real friend to our grandmothers, it seems. And I think we should sit down with him and ask all of our questions. He’s bound to know a lot more than he’s told you.”
I flipped off the radio. “He’s on an extended vacation right now with his wife, but I’ve been sending e-mails on the odd chance he’ll think to check it when they’re in port. He communicated with me once through George, something mundane like where to find the circuit breakers. And then he sent me an e-mail last night answering one I’d sent to him, although it wasn’t really a response.”
“What do you mean? What did it say?”
“Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.”
“Be patient and strong; someday this pain will be useful to you.” Helen thought for a moment. “What do you think he’s trying to tell you?”
“The same thing my grandmother was trying to tell me when she left the charm for me. And I haven’t quite figured that one out yet.”
“Maybe Mr. Morton feels that you need to figure it out yourself without his help. Hearing it from someone else sort of loses its power. Kind of like Malily telling Tucker and me all these years that our parents loved us; it’s just not as effective as it would have been if they’d told us themselves.”
I reached for Helen’s hand, and felt her squeeze back, accepting that I would understand more than most the missing part of the human heart rendered by the absence of a mother and father.
“Does Lillian know where you’re going this morning?”
Helen shook her head. “Mardi and I went down to breakfast really early to get there before Malily did so I wouldn’t have to lie. But I needn’t have bothered; Odella told me that Malily wasn’t feeling well and was having a breakfast tray sent up.” Helen rested her head against the side window and for a moment I was fooled into thinking she was watching the traffic.
Helen continued. “I was relieved at first, and then I began to worry. Malily isn’t one to admit to weakness and is always at breakfast, dressed with full war paint—Tucker’s words not mine—and ready to go before any of us. I’ll just make a point to stop by when I get back, and bring the last of Annabelle’s pages for her to read if that’s all right.”
“Absolutely. And I’m going with you. We’ll finish reading her pages tonight, too. This has got to end. I can’t stand the not knowing any longer. Besides, I’ve got projects waiting for me at home for a few of my genealogy clients. I need to get back.”
Helen faced me. “I guess it’s inevitable, but I somehow can’t imagine this place without you. And the girls—it will be hard saying good-bye.”
“I’ll be back. Promise. I’ll need to check on how the girls’ riding is going, and on Captain Wentworth’s progress, of course.”
“Of course.” Helen elbowed me in the ribs but I didn’t say anything else as we continued our drive downtown.
Alicia Jones’ house was located in a part of Savannah known as the Pulaski Ward. The street itself was brick paved and tree lined with wide neutral areas between the sidewalks and the street. Centuries-old row houses, paired houses, and five-bay center-hall houses, all beautifully restored, lined each side of the street, where a number of brick walled gardens hinted at what might lie behind.
Alicia’s house was a tidy row house with a brick walkway bursting with late-summer pink crepe myrtles and boasting an historic plaque by the front door. She opened the door before I had a chance to knock, greeting us with a cautious smile and the sound of jazz music playing on a stereo inside the house.
She noticed my angel charm first, then reached up to touch her own. The wariness in her eyes lifted as she ushered us in. I made introductions before being led into a cozy living room with bright floral chintzes and framed posters lining the walls featuring jazz greats Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Cab Calloway, and a host of others I didn’t recognize. A baby grand piano dominated the corner, the closed lid covered with photo frames. Over the fireplace was a framed record album, the edges of the cover frayed from use. I read the title out loud.“Hunting Angels.”Below the title, in a large bold font were the words “Including the hit single title track and the number-one singles ‘Time Is a River’ and ‘Moving On.’”
Alicia came to stand next to me. “That was my mama’s first album. Almost went gold. Not that it mattered to her. It was always about the music. But this album”—she tapped the glass—“was her favorite. Always told me that she said good-bye to a lot of ghosts while she was writing the lyrics.” She motioned to one of the sofas. “Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”
I showed Helen to one of the sofas and then sat down next to her. She frowned. “That’s an odd name for an album. What year did it come out?”
“Nineteen forty-eight. I only know this because I spent some time on the Internet after Alicia called last night. The album came out nine years after Josie left Savannah.”
