by Karen White
I listened to the thick air stir itself enough to push a wind chime, to press the scent of moonflowers against my skin. “Like I said, I don’t ride anymore,” I said, squeezing the book tighter against my chest.
“I’m not asking you to. I just need somebody who has experience and knowledge to teach my daughters the rudiments of riding. That’s all they need for now.”
I shuddered, but at the same time felt the heat of the old flame lick at my chest again. “I don’t . . . I mean, I’ve never taught anyone before. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“But I’m assuming you were an advanced rider, correct? To sustain the kind of injury that you have, you must have had a serious fall. Not from a cross rail, in other words.”
I searched for his eyes in the shadows, but saw only the darkness. “I don’t like horses anymore. I haven’t had anything to do with them for a very long time.”
I felt him watching me closely. “If only it were really that easy to stop. Once horses get into your blood, there’s no amount of bloodletting that will make it go away.” Without waiting for me to respond, he began walking toward the golf cart, then stopped by the passenger side until I caught up to him. He took the book and helped me sit before placing it in my lap. He didn’t speak again until we’d gone around the house and were facing the alley of oaks. They looked different at night, altered by the settling darkness. They wore the shadows like cloaks, their ancient knobs and limbs trembling slightly with impotent anger, hovering close over the alley as we began to pass through it.
A high-pitched whistle pierced the night, a lingering song whose words were lost in the black branches and Spanish moss outlined against the sky. I clutched at Tucker’s sleeve without being aware of it. “What is that?”
“It’s the oak trees,” he said, slowing the cart. “The breeze off the river at night stirs them up.” He tilted his head as if to hear it better. “They say that it started after they changed the course of the river and that when the wind blows it reminds them of the time their brothers were cut down and they shout out their grief.”
I let my hand drop. “What do you think it is?”
He watched me for a moment before he answered. “I think that when they dammed the river it changed the way the wind hits the land, which is why they started whistling after the alley was carved in half. It’s the only explanation that really works. I just can’t imagine that anything could grieve for that long.” He hit the pedal hard with his foot, causing the golf cart to jerk forward.
We didn’t speak again until we’d reached the cottage. He helped me out and walked me to the door. He said good night but hesitated. Finally, he said, “Would you at least think about it?”
I didn’t have to ask him what he was talking about any more than I had to think about why I hadn’t already told him no.
“I wouldn’t ask you to get on a horse if you didn’t want to. Just supervise the girls. And it’s only temporary since you’re leaving in a few months. It’s just . . .” He raked his hands through his hair and I remembered what he’d said in the cart. I just can’t imagine that anything could grieve for that long.
“After their mother died, I promised them that I would teach them. It’s different between us now . . . without their mother being here. I’m not sure how to go about it. But I thought if they could learn to ride . . .” His voice drifted off and he turned as if to leave. “Never mind.”
I pulled him back. “I understand,” I said, knowing more than most that this one thing in common could be what they needed. And I understood, too, that the grieving time wasn’t determined by the hours in a day but by something else I didn’t yet have a name for. But my own grieving time for the life I had once thought to have had come to an end. Like closing a casket or burying a box, I’d make it go away. Probably not forever, but hopefully long enough that I could find something else to look forward to.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “I won’t be getting back on a horse, but I can help you teach the girls to ride.”
His teeth beneath his smile showed white in the porch light. “Thank you, Earlene. Thank you.” He slapped at something on the back of his neck. “Well, there’s a lot to do then before we can get started. I’ll have their nanny, Emily, call you tomorrow to discuss their schedule. And I’ll call after I check out a few horse auctions for some ponies. We can discuss money, too, since I don’t expect you to do it for free.”
“No, please. I don’t need to be paid. I’d like to do it. I like Sara and Lucy and I think we’ll have fun together. And I think I might need this as much as they do.”
He was silent for a moment. “If you’re sure. And if you’ll let me know if you change your mind.” He slapped at his neck again. “I’d better be going before these damn mosquitoes eat me alive. Thanks again, Earlene. I really can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome,” I said and watched him climb back into the golf cart. “And thank you,” I said softly as I watched him drive away, listening again for the whistling oaks, and wondering how long it would be before they realized that they had grieved enough.
CHAPTER 11
Lillian sat on the bench listening to the splash of water from the fountain in what she always considered to be Helen’s garden, her face shaded by the large brim of her straw hat. The morning sun was hot, but not yet hot enough to have evaporated the morning dew that clung to the closed marble petals of the moonflowers that dangled from the stone fountain.
She sensed the girl’s presence before she spotted her by the garden gate, hovering there as if unsure she should proceed now that she realized she wasn’t alone. Their new tenant was past girlhood, Lillian knew, but there was something so vulnerable and fragile in Earlene’s eyes, and in the way that she stood with her shoulders down, that reminded Lillian of her motherless great-granddaughters. It was as though she’d found life disappointing and had managed to retreat to the point in her life where the burdens of growing up had not yet found her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Earlene turn from the gate as if to leave.
“Would you like to join me?” Lillian called out. She wasn’t sure why. She’d come to the garden to be alone. Maybe it was because Earlene had needed to be alone, too, and had chosen Helen’s garden. Most people would have chosen to stay in bed at this early hour, wrestling with jumbled thoughts behind closed blinds. But Earlene had sought the garden, and the fragrant blooms that Lillian had once been told by an old friend represented the hand of God on earth.
“Only if I’m not intruding.”
Lillian moved over on the bench as an invitation for Earlene to sit, then tilted back her head so her hat brim wouldn’t obscure the view. “Not at all. My gardens have always been meant for sharing.”
Lillian studied the younger woman as she approached, her limp less pronounced in the flowing calf-length skirt she wore. She was very pretty, Lillian thought, and could be prettier with more attention to cosmetics and maybe a softer hairstyle other than the low ponytail she always wore. But her skin was smooth and fine, her delicate eyebrows giving her face an almost angelic quality. It was her eyes, though, that commanded attention. They were light brown and outlined with long, dark lashes and stared out at the world like those of a wounded animal. But there was something more, too—a light that simmered beneath her defeatist attitude, but a light nevertheless. Lillian couldn’t help but compare Earlene to the damaged horses Tucker rescued, and wondered if she’d be like the ones that somehow managed to regain their spirit.
Earlene sat and Lillian continued to stare, too tempted to get a close-up view to care about politeness. The young woman seemed so familiar to her, reminding her of someone she couldn’t yet place. But maybe it was that familiarity that had made Lillian pat the seat next to her, to want to share this corner of her garden with a stranger.
Earlene gave her a tentative smile. “When I left the house last night, I smelled the garden and Tucker invited me to come see it in the daylight. I don’t think I�
�ve ever smelled anything quite like it, except maybe for the garden at my house in Savannah. I recognized the gardenias. And the moonflowers.”
Earlene cupped her hands, one inside the other, and rested them on her skirt. Lillian studied them, the neatly clipped nails and the fading calluses on the outside of her ring fingers. Lillian smiled to herself. Yes, it was true you could stop riding horses. But there would always be something left behind to remind you of what it was like.
Lillian smiled. “Not many people recognize the scent of the moonflowers when there are gardenias nearby. Gardenias are like the bullies of the garden, always muscling out the scents of the other flowers.”
Earlene leaned forward and touched the folded-up moonflower bloom. “But these are my favorite. I think I’d recognize their scent anywhere.”
“Your favorite? But they only bloom at night and during the day they look like wet tissue paper.” Lillian’s voice sounded sharper than she’d wanted it to. But she’d always considered the moonflower a sentimental bloom, favored by those who took a childish delight in surprises. Annabelle had been like that, and she’d learned the hard way that it was best to take things at face value. Moonflowers had been Annabelle’s favorite flower, too.
Earlene’s shoulders went back in a defensive gesture at odds with the placid demeanor she normally showed the world. “True. But I like to think of them as courageous flowers. I mean, how many people would keep a flower in their garden that looked like this if they didn’t know what happens to them at night? It’s like the flowers like the risk of being yanked out of a garden, holding on to the thrill that some lucky gardener will discover them at night.”
Despite herself, Lillian grinned. “That’s certainly one way to put it.” She ducked her head, hiding her eyes under the brim of her hat. “I used to have a friend who gave the flowers personalities, too. It used to annoy me.”
She looked up to see Earlene watching her steadily. “Was she a good friend?”
“The very best. She was like a sister to me.”
“Are you still friends?”
Lillian shook her head. “She died recently. But we’d had a falling-out a long time ago, so we hadn’t kept in touch. It was a . . . misunderstanding.”
Earlene was silent for a moment, staring at the drooping moonflowers, their glorious blooms hidden until nightfall. “Do you regret not mending the misunderstanding before she died?”
Lillian closed her eyes, the heady mixture of the gardenias and ginger lilies making her feel faint. If she’d ever allowed herself to feel regret, it would have left her paralyzed—afraid and unable to move forward. No, regret was an indulgence she wouldn’t allow.
“I don’t believe in regret. I’ve always thought that regret is as useful as trying to stop a flooding river with your hands. It’ll keep you busy, but you’ll still drown.” Lillian sat back, letting her ramrod-straight spine touch the sun-heated back of the bench. “I’ve always thought that regret was just another word for fear, and I’ve got no patience for that, either.”
Lillian felt Earlene bristle next to her. She hadn’t meant to alienate another person, although it had become apparent to her recently that she’d become incredibly good at it. She supposed old age really did have its perks, after all. But not Earlene. Earlene was a mystery Lillian needed to figure out. And she loved Lillian’s garden, especially the silly moonflowers.
Earlene clasped her hands tightly together. “I think you’re wrong. I think regret is a way to atone for past sins.”
“Nonsense. Go plant a tree or adopt a puppy if you want atonement. But regret is just another way of saying ‘I quit.’ ”
Earlene turned to Lillian, her brows drawn together and perspiration dotting her nose. “Then you must have led a very boring life with little to regret.”
Her earnestness and fire surprised Lillian; she’d been wondering if what she thought was glimpses of personality hiding behind the wounded victim persona was just in her imagination, and it was almost gratifying to see that it really did exist. But her words brought memories back to her—memories of Annabelle, and Josie, and Charlie. And Freddie. The grief that always seemed to float around the periphery of her vision shimmered for a moment, tightening around her heart until she thought she couldn’t breathe. She pressed her fingers around the angel charm and let it work its soothing magic.
“No,” she said softly, facing Earlene to look her in the eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually. I just choose to live my life in the present.”
Earlene’s mouth formed a perfect “o” of indignation. They stared at each other for a long time before Earlene stood. “I’ve intruded on your morning long enough and I need to get to work.”
“Oh, don’t leave in a huff. Why don’t you sit back down so we can agree to disagree for now, and we can talk about my beautiful flowers? Maybe you can tell me more about why you like the moonflowers. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a reason to like them.”
“I doubt it,” Earlene said, almost out of hearing. But she sat down anyway, her chin jutting out with a mixture of stubbornness and indignation.
Lillian ducked her head, hiding her face under the brim of her hat so Earlene couldn’t see her smile.
I sat on the bench next to Lillian in the garden for a long time as we talked about the merits of each of the flowering blooms, all placed according to their scent and color scheme to create a feast for all the senses. Lillian appeared to enjoy argument, always playing devil’s advocate when I’d question her as to why she didn’t use a particular plant and chose another one instead.
“Because I learned from a gardening master. The friend I was telling you about before. When I was about thirteen I got very sick and couldn’t leave my house for a long time. As I was slowly getting better, she dragged me out of my bed and warm blankets and brought me out here to where the gardeners had a boring English boxwood garden. She helped me recuperate by refocusing my attention on getting things to grow, and showing me how to plan and choose. I don’t know if it was the distraction or fresh air that made me better, but my friend had taught me an important lesson.”
I knew who she was talking about, of course, and it was almost like sharing a memory. The first day I’d come to live with my grandparents after my parents died, my grandmother took me out to her garden. I’d wanted hugs and sympathy, but my grandmother instead gave me lessons about the life-giving properties of the soil and how to coax living things to erupt from the dark earth, sprouting life and color and scent where nothing had been before.
Most of the time we’d spent together in those first fragile months had been spent in her garden. I’d resented it at first, wanting to be allowed to retreat into my grief. It had taken me a long time to realize that by placing a beloved rose clipping in my hand and telling me to plant it, my grandmother had given me the deepest part of her heart. But then my grandfather put me on the back of a horse and I quickly forgot my grandmother’s gentle teachings as I began my pursuit of invincibility.
I found myself searching Lillian’s face, wanting to be recognized. “What was the lesson your friend taught you?”
Lillian looked at me with familiarity and for a moment I thought she did know who I was. But then I realized that she was seeing her childhood friend again, and maybe even recognizing a part of me that reminded her of Annabelle.
“That there are no troubles in life that can’t be sorted through or solved by spending time in your garden. And, for the most part, I’ve come to believe she was right.”
I thought back to the barrenness of my grandmother’s garden at the Savannah house and felt a wave of shame and ingratitude overcome me. I couldn’t blame its neglect on my grandfather;Annabelle had chosen me to spend time with in her garden, after all.
I focused on the sun flare roses that bordered the outer edges of the garden’s brick paths, like yellow lights marking a stage. I looked down at my once-capable hands—hands that had done nothing recently but flip through old books and tap on computer keyboards. M
aybe if I’d turned to my grandmother’s garden instead, I would have found the answers I was still looking for.
“I just might have to agree with you on that one, Miss Lillian, if only because I was once told the same thing.”
I felt her staring at me, but I refused to meet her gaze, afraid to give too much away. “My aunt had a garden in her Savannah house—the house I grew up in. I’ve allowed it to go to weed. But being here, it reminds me of how much I used to enjoy it.” I looked up at her, blinking into the sun. “I was thinking, maybe, if you didn’t mind, that I might be able to help out in your garden. It seems a lot for just one person. I won’t change anything, unless you want me to. Just tend it.”
A soft smile lit the old woman’s face. “I’d like that, Earlene. I’d like that very much. I can’t do much garden tending anymore because of my arthritis and I was just sitting here wondering if I should hire somebody or let it go to weed. But here you are, and it looks like you could use some dirt under your fingernails.”
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.”