Page 32 of The Lost Hours
Opening my hands, I saw the clean fingernails and the fading calluses that wouldn’t go away fast enough. “I’m way out of practice. I’ll probably have lots of questions.”
Lillian waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. It’s like riding a bicycle. But I’m here every morning at seven o’clock if you think you need instruction.”
I smiled to myself, remembering the imperious younger Lillian in my grandmother’s scrapbook and wondered if there had ever been a time when she hadn’t been able to get her own way. “Fine. I’m an early riser, too, so it shouldn’t be too hard to manage.”
“And if there’s nothing to do in the garden, you can just sit here next to me and we can argue some more about the moonflowers or why I chose Confederate jasmine over honeysuckle for the back wall trellis.”
My response was interrupted by the shutting of the garden gate. Odella, wearing a man’s camouflage fishing cap to block the sun from her face, marched down the path carrying what appeared to be an envelope.
“Sorry to bother you two, but when I poked my nose out the kitchen window to shake out a dust rag, I saw that you were out here and wanted to save me a trip to the cottage.” She held out the envelope to me. “It’s a letter addressed to you. I would have given it to you last night but it was stuck between my Precious Moments and Williams-Sonoma catalogs, so I didn’t see it until this morning.”
I hesitated a moment before reaching out my hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I glanced down at the return address: Morton, Morton & Baker, Savannah. I flipped it over in my lap so Lillian couldn’t see it.
Odella turned to Lillian. “And you, Miss Lillian, have been out in this sun far too long. I’m going to bring you inside and set you next to an air conditioner so you can cool off.”
I noticed with alarm Lillian’s flushed cheeks and felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry—I should have known better. Let me help you get her in the house.”
Lillian waved a hand. “I’m not an invalid yet. I can manage on my own, I assure you. And I’m only going inside because I’m thirsty and would like some lemonade with a little touch of something stronger to wake me up. Not because I’m too old and delicate to be in this heat. In my day, I used to ride horses and jump fences without a helmet. If that didn’t kill me, then I doubt the sun will.”
She faced me. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then, using her cane to stand, she allowed Odella to lead her from the garden.
I waited until the gate shut behind them before opening the letter. As I’d suspected, it was from George. Although initially disapproving of me being at Asphodel Meadows at all, he seemed to have embraced the covertness of my presence by putting the name Earlene Smith in block letters on the outside of the envelope as well as in the address inside the letter. When I’d told him about the torn scrapbook pages and the newspaper clipping, he’d seemed almost eager to help me with my research. I hadn’t really expected anything from him so it was with curiosity that I opened the letter and began to read.
Dear Earlene,
I hope you are doing well and have found at least some of the information you were seeking. I’m still not exactly clear why you need to be there as you can see from the rest of this letter that there is plenty to research right here in Savannah. As I’m sure you are already aware, there was a suicide a little over a year ago at Asphodel Meadows. I’m not implying that you’re in any kind of danger, but thought you should be aware that that sort of thing goes on there.
I lifted my gaze from the letter for a moment, picturing George in his seersucker suit dictating this letter to his secretary without even pausing to think about how ludicrous he sounded, as if suicide were a communicable disease. I thought about writing him back to mention the borderline alcoholic doyenne of the estate, the blind daughter with a penchant for colors, the two little girls who were wise beyond their years, or their father whose odd mixture of aloofness and caring I found more attractive than I wanted to admit. Instead, I bent my head back to the letter and continued to read.
Per your request, I’ve done a little research on your grandparents’ house on Monterey Square. As you probably already know, the house was built in 1858, two years after the square was established, by your great-great-great-grandfather on your mother’s side. He was a successful doctor, as were the oldest sons of the following generation up to and including your grandmother’s father, Leo O’Hare.
I was able to find the original builder’s blueprints in the historical archives and found that the attic was originally designed as one large room, as we had thought. But this is where it gets interesting. My mother’s second cousin on her father’s side is a bit of an amateur historian, so I figured I’d ask her if she knew anything about the attic room. She recalls reading various accounts in unrelated research about families keeping less-than-perfect children in attic rooms to save the family from the disgrace of admitting to having given birth to an imperfect offspring.
There had been a kitchen addition in the early 1870s and the blueprints still showed a single attic room, so I knew to focus on records past 1870. I went back to the archives to find the family records and discovered a Thaddeus and Mary O’Hare, married in 1878, and the birth certificates of three children born between 1881 and 1900—the oldest being your great-grandfather, Leo. I took the liberty of using the house key that you entrusted me with, and went into your grandfather’s study, where I knew the old family Bible is kept.Your grandfather showed it to me once when I was on a business visit with my grandfather and I expressed an interest in the old book. I must say that I deserve a little pat on the back for this insight on my part, and I have to admit that it gave me a thrill to discover that I have a little bit of a detective lurking in me.
I shook the letter in frustration and hastily skimmed the rest of the paragraph dealing with George’s brilliance and skipped to the next sentence.
I found Thaddeus and Mary, with their birth and death dates, along with their children—except in the Bible there were four children listed, the third one, a girl named Margaret Louise, having been born in 1898 but with no death date. There are no public records to indicate that a Margaret Louise O’Hare ever existed. I think my next visit will be to check burial records from 1898 on at Bonaventure and other local cemeteries. I’ll let you know what I discover.
I’ve enclosed the copy I made of the inside of your family Bible—which is why I’m sending this as a letter instead of an e-mail—so you can add it to your stack of research in case it means something later on.
I do worry about you being alone right now, but when I spoke with my grandfather earlier this week and told him that you were at Asphodel Meadows, he told me that it would be good for you, which made me feel better. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything—personally or professionally.You know I am here for you.
I will get back to my sleuthing as soon as I’m done with a couple of legal briefs I’m working on. I will be in touch as soon as I discover anything new. In the meantime, remember to eat well and to do your exercises for your knee.
Very truly yours,
George Baker
I folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope. Regardless of how interesting George’s discoveries were, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Margaret Louise was born in 1898, eighteen years before my grandmother had been born. And she’d been a girl. I realized that the blue blanket I’d found in the secret room could have swaddled a baby of either sex, but my discovery of the blue sweater in my grandmother’s trunk had me convinced that I should be looking for a baby boy. And, even though I hadn’t found any evidence to show that they could be related, there was still the newspaper article about the discovery of a male infant found in the Savannah River.
I stuck the letter in the pocket of my skirt, then left the garden, eager to return to the cottage and the binder Helen had given me. I’d begun to sort through it the night before, finding it mostly to be business papers and shopping lists with a few surprisingly sterile letters between a newly married Charlie and Lillian. Disappointed, I had fallen asleep on the sofa, the papers scattered around me. I hoped that with a clearer head this morning I’d be able to at least document the contents of the binder and even organize them in some meaningful way before returning it to Helen.
I walked to the circular drive in front of the house, and stood between the front garden and the sundial I’d passed several times but hadn’t yet approached. It sat on a stone pedestal at the “v” that pointed toward the oak alley, its bronze face darkened by time and weather. I shaded my eyes and peered at the inscription that had been carved along the edge of the dial.Tempus fugit, non autem memoria.I knew the first part meant time flies, but I wasn’t sure about the rest of it, although I had once known it. I committed it to memory so I could check online once I got back to the cottage.
I began to walk down the alley, apprehension scuttling up and down my spine as I remembered the previous night and the eerie whistling. By light of day the trees didn’t appear quite as ominous, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched as I passed under the arch created by the first two oaks.
The sound of a man’s voice and the unmistakable beat of horse’s hooves against hardened dirt made me stop. I looked around and realized the sound came from the far side of the house, where the oval window in Helen’s bedroom must look out. I heard the man’s voice again and recognized it as Tucker’s. I wanted to continue walking, but something held me back. I remembered how he’d looked the previous night when he asked me to teach his daughters to ride, and how much it must have cost him to ask. He didn’t strike me as the sort of person who asked for help very often, and I realized how much he must love his daughters to even try.
