Page 54 of The Lost Hours
Slowly, Earlene sat down, her own hand tucking the charm back out of sight, but it was too late. Lillian had seen it, and along with it saw her own past and the sudden realization that seven decades could be reduced to the blink of an eye, or the reflection of sunlight on the wings of a gold angel.
“Where did you get that?” Lillian asked, her voice sounding horrifyingly normal.
Earlene lifted her chin in a way that was so reminiscent of Annabelle in a stubborn mood that Lillian wanted to laugh at her own stupidity. It had been there the whole time—the familiarity, the unexplained connection she’d felt. The moonflowers. Maybe Lillian had known all along, but like a child opening the door to a darkened closet, she’d been afraid to look inside, not really wanting to know. Because once she saw what was on the other side of the door, she knew what would have to happen next, and she wasn’t at all sure that she was ready.
“My grandmother left it for me when she died.” Earlene’s jaw didn’t waver, but remained set in the endearingly familiar way.
“Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim,”Lillian said slowly, her mouth rusty on the old words. “Do you know what it means?” She still held on to a thread of doubt that maybe she was wrong, that maybe this girl wasn’t who Lillian thought she was.
Earlene’s gaze never shifted as she answered. “ ‘Be patient and strong; someday this pain will be useful to you.’ It’s Ovid.”
Tucker looked from Lillian to Earlene and then back again. “Earlene said that it was a fad when you were younger—that lots of girls had them. Right?”
Lillian found herself staring out the window toward the alley of old trees, the stiff limbs reluctantly shifting in the wind, going where they didn’t want to go. She closed her eyes, felt the ache in her fingers, and knew what it was like. After a deep breath, she said, “There are only three that I know of. And they all say the same thing because they were all engraved at the same time.” She looked back at Earlene, who was studiously avoiding Tucker’s eyes. “Which one is yours?”
Lillian saw the old familiar jut of the chin again. “Annabelle’s. Annabelle O’Hare Mercer was my maternal grandmother.”
Lillian nodded, feeling surprisingly calm as if none of this was news to her. “And your real name is . . .” She found herself unable to say it, the unknown darkness behind the door seeping towards her.
“Piper Mercer Mills.” Her chin wobbled just a little as she said her name, the little movement revealing how hard it had been for her.
This time, Lillian did laugh—great gasping laughs of relief, and of the inevitability of everything. Since receiving Piper’s first letter, she’d known this would happen, regardless of her efforts to the contrary. If she believed in such a thing as karma, she would have agreed that this was it, that all past sins would come back to you regardless of how many hours spanned the commission of the sin and the reckoning. And she laughed with joy, as if having this girl in front of her was like having Annabelle back, and knowing that to find the truth, Annabelle would have done exactly what her granddaughter had done.
Tucker gently disengaged himself from the head of the bed, where the now sleeping Sara had been resting against his chest, and stood. Color flooded his face, and even under the circumstances, Lillian found any emotion besides sorrow there a welcome sight.
“Piper Mills? You’re Piper Mills?” His voice was hard, and Lillian wasn’t sure if he was angrier at Piper for her deception, or at himself for his gullibility.
Piper stood, too, and faced Tucker. She reached a hand up to touch his arm, then dropped it when he flinched. “I’m sorry. I never meant to deceive anyone.”
Tucker’s expression was mocking. “Really? Then what exactly were you trying to accomplish?”
For a moment, Piper looked as if she were unsure of the right answer. “I needed to know about my grandmother. I wrote to Lillian three times—the first two letters were ignored and the third was replied to by you stating that your grandmother was too sickly to meet with me and that she didn’t know who my grandmother was.” She lifted her chin a notch. “And I knew both statements were untrue.”
“So you figured you’d just come here, lie about who you are, and try to get what you wanted.”
Piper clasped her hands together in front of her. “At the time, I couldn’t think of another way to gain access to your grandmother.” She shot an apologetic glance at Lillian.
“You couldn’t or you didn’t bother to find another way?” He shook his head and started to say something else, but his gaze fell on Sara, who had fallen asleep. Quietly he said, “I can’t. . . . I have to go.” Without looking at anyone else, he touched Sara gently on the forehead, then left the room, passing Helen in the doorway.
“Piper?” she asked as she stepped into the room.
“I’m here with your grandmother and Sara.” Piper moved toward Helen, took hold of her arm, and brought her back to her vacated seat.
Before sitting, Helen grabbed Piper by the shoulders. “You told them?”
“Not exactly. Lillian saw my necklace.”
Helen fell inelegantly into her chair. “Oh, wonderful. I told you that you needed to tell them before they found out.”
“You knew about this?” Lillian tried to show her indignation but she wasn’t all that surprised to find out that Helen already knew Piper’s secret. She’d always seen things more clearly than anybody else.
“It doesn’t really matter, Malily. You both weren’t completely truthful, were you? She just wants to ask you about her grandmother, all right? And I know that you know who Annabelle O’Hare was because she’s all over your scrapbook—at least the parts you’ve shared with me.” She leaned toward Lillian. “This whole situation could have been avoided if you’d simply told her yes when she first asked. Annabelle is gone—what harm could it do?”
Lillian thought back to the time when she was eight years old and she’d fallen off her horse and landed on her back, knocking all the air from her lungs. As she’d gasped for air she’d wondered if it were possible to drown on dry land, and found herself wondering the same thing now. A calmness descended on her, making her think of drowning again, and of Susan, and she wondered if this was how Susan had felt after she’d stepped into the cool waters of the Savannah River.
Lillian had the absurd notion to laugh again, as if it were the only normal response to the vagaries of life—as if Sara’s brush with death had been a necessary reminder of how fleeting this life was, and how it could disappear in the same amount of time a moonflower bloom took to close in the bright light of day.
Schooling her face to hide any emotion, as she’d been taught, Lillian said,“If it’s any consolation, I recently told Tucker that I’d changed my mind, that I wanted him to contact Piper. He said that his phone calls to the home number she’d given us went unanswered. He was going to write a letter. I suppose it’s unnecessary now.” She paused to let her words sink in. “I’m not really sure why I changed my mind, only that Annabelle and I used to be friends. I suppose I was curious.” She focused her attention back on Sara. “Not that I think it matters now. I doubt Tucker will want her to stay.”
