The Lost Hours

by Karen White

  Sara giggled as I lifted her and placed her in the saddle. I held on tightly until I was assured that she had a firm grasp on the reins. “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “Like I’m on a horse,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Great. Then we’re on the same page.” I showed her how to hold the reins, then took the lead rope from Emily. I turned back to Tucker. “Let’s just walk them around the ring a few times and then let them practice getting on and off their ponies. That should be enough for their first lesson.”

  “Can we at least walk fast?” Lucy asked, kicking her heels into Benny’s flank.

  I watched as Tucker struggled not to smile. “After you show me you can keep your seat while we’re going slowly. Then we can up the pace. But not before.”

  She looked at her father without smiling. “I’d much rather go fast.”

  Tucker returned her gaze. “We can’t always get what we want.”

  Lucy touched the pony’s mane with one hand. “I know that, Daddy.” Her voice carried with it more hurt than I thought an eight-year-old could know.

  I looked away, unable to look at Tucker’s face and tugged on Oreo’s reins, clicking my tongue. “Let’s go. And try to remember to keep your heels down and your toes up.” Slowly, Oreo began to amble, followed and eventually surpassed by the more spritely Benny.

  After an hour, we stopped. Emily took the girls home to change into swimsuits before going to swim in the pond, and the stable manager, Andi, with her nose still bandaged from her encounter with Captain Wentworth, appeared to take the ponies back to the barn, leaving just Tucker and me. I felt awkward being alone with him, remembering my outburst from the previous day as well as Lucy’s pervading silence during the entire lesson. There was a tension between Lucy and her father that I couldn’t discern, something that went a lot deeper than childish disappointments. I had no interest in becoming involved; I’d be leaving at the end of the summer and had no business delving into problems that had nothing to do with me.

  But then I remembered what Lucy had said when she was on the pony, how she wanted to run, and to run fast. I was lost then, of course. I had found a kindred spirit, not one I could easily leave behind. And Tucker, too. He carried his regret like a suitcase, a barrier between him and everyone else, including his daughters. Regret is as useful as trying to stop a flooding river with your hands. It’ll keep you busy, but you’ll still drown. I recalled Lillian’s words, and wondered if she’d ever shared them with Tucker.

  His eyes were warm but still guarded as he approached me. “Thank you, Earlene. The girls really respond to you. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  He stood close, close enough that I could smell the peculiarly enticing scent of citrus cologne, male sweat and horse. An understanding seemed to hover between us—an understanding of kept secrets mingling with the desire to be set free from them. I looked away, uncomfortable.

  Tucker continued. “I can tell you really know horses and riders. And that you must have once been a pretty amazing equestrian.”

  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—The Josephine 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.

  Odella straightened. “So who was the third friend?”

  “Annabelle O’Hare. Josie’s mother worked for her father, Dr. O’Hare.” Lillian squeezed the metal frame, as if the action would somehow bring them all back to that moment when life stretched before them, a road of shimmering possibilities. “We were thick as thieves.” Lillian grinned at the memory.

  “Who’s the man?” Odella pointed to the tall man with the straw hat and striped jacket.

  “That’s Freddie Montet, Josie’s brother.”

  Odella whistled. “He’s what the kids today would call ‘hot.’ But are he and Josie really related? He could sure pass for white.”

  “And he did. He even attended university in England, and did very well. That summer, he told me that he’d run out of funds and that he was going to work with the horses at Asphodel like he’d been doing during his school breaks to earn enough money to return.”

  Odella tucked her chin into her neck. “But who paid for the rest of it? I can’t imagine he would have earned much working for your daddy during the Depression.”

  Lillian blinked at her image in the mirror. “I’ve asked myself that a dozen times. To be honest, when I was young it never occurred to me to question it. It was only in my adult life that I began to wonder. His mother was the housekeeper in a doctor’s household and his father was never in the picture. I suppose he could have borrowed funds from the doctor—but I always thought that would have been a lot more forward-thinking for the times back then than it would be now.”

  Lillian leaned forward and placed the frame on her dressing table. “Not that it matters anymore. Freddie’s been dead for a long time. Before I married my Charlie and that was almost seventy years ago.”

  “That’s a shame,” Odella said as she held on to Lillian’s elbow until the older woman had grabbed her cane. “A real shame.”

  By the time they’d reached the dining room, Lillian was exhausted. The memories pressed down on her, as heavy as the layer of years, making her stumble. She turned to Odella to ask her to take her back to her room, but her eyes settled on Earlene instead.

  Earlene stood behind her chair in conversation with Helen, across the table. She was angled slightly, so that her back was partially turned to Tucker in a not-so-subtle gesture. Tonight she had her hair pulled back, showing her profile, and her long elegant neck. And, despite the shoulders that Earlene seemed to force into a rounded position, she held her head regally, as if she’d once been used to being looked upon with admiration and hadn’t quite learned how to hide it completely.

  But there was something else that drew Lillian into the room toward her seat at the head of the table. It was the feeling of familiarity she felt with Earlene, of having found a friend. It was odd, considering their age difference, but maybe a love for flowers and horses was the great equalizer—the ties that bound the generations together like smocking on a dress.

  Lillian’s ruminations were interrupted by Tucker as he came to her side to escort her to the table while Odella returned to the kitchen. He kissed her on the cheek and cupped her elbow in his hand. “I’m sorry we missed you for cocktails, but I made your favorite and it’s waiting by your plate.”

  He pulled out her chair and seated her before returning to his chair and waiting for everyone else to sit before joining them. Conversation was light while they passed the dishes that Odella had brought in, and Lillian carefully watched the skittishness between Tucker and Earlene, like two magnets of the same pole.

  Lillian turned to Tucker. “Where are Lucy and Sara?”

  Tucker wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “They were exhausted from horseback riding and from swimming in the pond for most of the afternoon. Emily’s making them grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and putting them to bed early. She didn’t have classes tonight and offered to stay.”

  “Are they here or at your house?” Lillian took a long sip of her cocktail but even that wasn’t taking the edge off her impatience with her grandson. To outsiders it would appear that his cup of grief was bottomless, and maybe that was true. But she’d seen Tucker’s face when they’d pulled Susan from the river, and the look of relief that had initially crossed it. The grief had come later, but Lillian had never been completely convinced it had been grief over Susan’s death.

  Tucker set down his glass of wine. “They’re here. Emily is off at nine and I . . . have plans for later tonight. I didn’t think they should be left alone at the tabby house.”

  “No,” said Lillian tightly, “I don’t imagine they should be.”

  They ate in silence for a while, the clink of silver against fine china the only sounds. Lillian kept stealing glances at Helen, who seemed unusually restless. Her fingers played with the unused utensils, flipping them over and dropping them on the tablecloth.

  Finally, Helen’s fingers stilled and she leaned across the table toward Earlene. “How is your research coming along?”

  Earlene took her time chewing her food and washing it down with wine, as if buying time to figure out an answer. “Very well, actually. Thank you. I’ve finished going through Miss Lillian’s papers and those have been very helpful in gathering the names of people who would have been in the area in the earlier part of the last century.” She turned to Lillian. “The plantation business records have been particularly interesting, and make a good illustration of the business decline during the Great Depression. I noticed that by nineteen thirty-seven your father had sold about thirty of his horses and was down to one stable hand. That must have been hard for you.”

  Lillian took a large sip of wine, sensing Helen’s interest. She raised her eyebrow, hoping to convey uninterest and a real desire to steer the conversation away from where she was afraid it might lead. “One’s lack of funds is generally considered to be a difficult thing. Losing one’s favorite horse to the highest bidder would be another one.”

  Helen tilted her head, her brow wrinkled. “The remaining stabl
e hand would have been Freddie, right, Malily?”

  Lillian dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, nostalgia tugging her backwards. Her gaze found Earlene. “Yes. Probably because Papa didn’t have to pay him the same wages he’d been paying the Irishmen. Were there any accounting records of my come-out ball? I was discussing that with Helen just this morning.”

  “Yes, actually, there were. For the wine, and the flowers, and your dress. It must have been a beautiful evening. The guest list was there, too, but I didn’t see your gardening friend—Annabelle.”

  Lillian slowly chewed a forkful of food, but didn’t taste anything. “I suppose I’ll have to admit to a little spite. I believed at the time that she and I had romantic aspirations about the same man, and I didn’t welcome the competition.” She took another sip of her wine. “Besides, Annabelle was busy crusading against public ills and wouldn’t have come anyway.”

  “But she helped with the flowers,” Helen added.

  “Yes, she did do that,” Lillian answered, once again smelling the calla lilies and the gladiolus, and feeling the warmth of Charlie’s hand on the small of her back. Exhausted again, Lillian leaned back in her chair and regarded the other table occupants through half-closed eyes, her attention grabbed by Earlene, whose hand had slipped into the collar of her blouse, her fingers moving around the circumference of her neck as if she were searching for something.

  Lillian shifted her attention to Tucker, giving in to a fit of restlessness brought on by her memories of Annabelle that clung to her like a too-tight riding jacket. She placed her forearms on the table and leaned toward him. “Tucker, remember how you used to describe people and things to Helen so she could picture them in her head? It just occurred to me that Earlene has been here for over a week, and shared our dining table twice, but Helen has no idea what she looks like. Why don’t you describe Earlene to help Helen out?”