by Karen White
“You think so?” As if remembering that I was there, he shifted his eyes from the trees to me, dark pools of shadow backlit from the lights of the house. “Their mother certainly didn’t benefit from my presence.” He seemed to consider his next words for a moment. “She thought she would be better off dead than living with me.”
I touched his arm, his skin cool and clammy. “You told me that you didn’t love Susan enough. But what about your daughters? Do you feel the same about them?” I waited for him to answer, not completely sure what he would say.
“I love them more than enough. More than I ever thought possible,” he said softly. “But what if Susan was right? That they’re all better off without me?”
I felt his hurt while I grappled with my own shame. Had that been the reason my grandmother had retreated from my life? From reading her scrapbook and listening to Lillian’s stories of their childhood, I had learned that Annabelle O’Hare had once been a strong-minded, independent woman. Had my own selfishness driven her to recede into the shadows? Or had something else happened first, and I’d simply been the catalyst to finish the job?
I leaned toward him. “My grandmother gave me something with a Latin verse on it that means ‘Be patient and strong; someday this pain will be useful to you.’ She was also the person who used to tell me to get back on the horse whenever I fell. It took me a long time to realize that they mean the same thing. And she was probably right on both counts.”
I felt his warm breath on my face as we continued to stare at each other in the dim light. The wind had begun to pick up, the restless oaks behind us beginning their odd whistling as if summoning a storm.
“It’s always a lot easier to give advice than it is to take it, isn’t it?”
I pulled back, stung. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” I said, stumbling toward my car, feeling suddenly embarrassed about my limp. I slid into the car behind the wheel and slammed the door. My chest rose and fell with indignation, even as the realization bloomed that he was right, and that I was angrier with myself than with him.
I thought back on the last six years during which I’d wallowed in my own misery while my grandmother was left alone. How many days had that been? How many hours and minutes had I let pass between us like wind through leaves, not even bothering to look up and see how they glistened when they moved? Without reaching out to the one person who held all the answers long before I ever thought to ask the questions.
Keeping my eyes focused on the swaying moss in the trees, I said, “Just don’t let Susan be right. You’re here, and she’s gone. And those two little girls are upstairs now.” I didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the house and into the whistling oaks just as the first drops of rain began to fall.
CHAPTER 14
Lillian sat on her garden bench, feeling more tired than she remembered being in a long time. But the garden nourished her, the ninety-year-old magnolias that stood inside of the brick garden wall reminding her of all that they had witnessed since her mother had planted them as seedlings. Despite the turmoil in her own life, the garden had been her constant, a friend who gave her companionship without stealing her solitude. Or making her question the paths she’d walked, or causing her to look back at the road not taken as if it were still an option.
A heavy storm had passed through the night, keeping Lillian awake with her fear and her memories, but it had cleansed the air, leaving behind a cooler temperature and shining crystals of raindrops on her beloved flowers, raising blooms of rain lilies into clumps of star-pointed white flowers earlier in the season than they usually appeared. The leaves of the magnolia shimmered, waving their copper-backed leaves at her in the soft morning breeze. The garden is the soul of the house, her mother had told her as she’d knelt next to a young Lillian and explained how to plant an ugly jonquil bulb, promising her that the resulting spring bloom would be worth the work.
Lillian tilted her face back to let the sun warm her, remembering how she’d once planned to share the secrets of her garden with her own daughter, and how Margaret had never liked to come here, had told her that the magnolia frightened her, that the array of colors and scents made her head ache. There was Helen, of course; Helen adored the garden and the work involved, despite her limitations. But even Lillian had to admit that it wasn’t the same, and that the hours she’d spent in the garden with Earlene Smith in the last month had been the most satisfying hours she’d spent in anyone’s company in a very long time. Earlene understood the garden, the annual cycle of colors from brilliant summer, to green fall and brown winter, to the rebirth of the garden in springtime. She spoke of it as if speaking of her own heart, of how the changes echoed her life. And Lillian saw how Earlene seemed to linger in winter, holding back, waiting for spring.
A noise at the gate caught her attention and she turned around, expecting to find Earlene. She came often, although not every morning, deadheading blooms and plucking errant weeds. She’d even remulched the beds with pine straw, annoying Lillian at first because she hadn’t asked for permission, and then making her smile because she’d seen it needed to be done and had taken care of it. Just as Lillian would have done.
Tucker came through the gate, looking thoughtful but less drawn than Lillian was used to him being. She knew from Helen that he hadn’t been going out at night as much so he must be getting more sleep. But it was more than that. She’d like to think it was the time he’d begun to spend with the girls—awkward hours spent reading to them or watching them swim in the pond. He still didn’t attend their riding lessons, but received frequent updates from Earlene. It was an uneasy alliance she’d seen between Tucker and Earlene, like two bloodhounds searching for the same elusive fox, and she wondered if they had also noticed that their unease with each other was because they were so much alike.
“Good morning, Malily. You’re up early.” He leaned over and gave his grandmother a kiss on her cheek. He smelled of the outdoors and of horse and she knew he’d already been riding.
“I didn’t sleep, if that’s the same as being up early.” She rubbed her knuckles, the dampness seeping into the old bones.
“Storm keep you up?”
“Partly,” Lillian said.
Tucker raised an eyebrow in question and Lillian looked into the eyes that reminded her of Charlie’s. “Remember earlier this year when I received that letter from Piper Mills—the granddaughter of an old friend of mine?”
Tucker nodded. “I do. I actually read her name recently in Today’s Equestrian—something about how some newcomer was going to try and break a record Piper still holds although she hasn’t competed in more than six years. The anniversary of her last event is this month, so there’s a lot of buzz right now.”
Lillian closed her eyes and smelled the scents of her garden, breathing in the peacefulness and rest that eluded her at night. “I was thinking that I shouldn’t have told her no. That I should have invited her here to talk about Annabelle.”
She felt Tucker stiffen beside her. “I don’t see why. Whenever I hear Annabelle’s name mentioned, it’s always associated with something bad. Twelve years ago when you received the letter from Annabelle’s husband saying that he’d put his wife in a nursing home, you . . . changed. Not that the outside world could see it, but I could. You walked slower, you seemed more aware of your own frailties. And then Susan . . .” He stopped for a moment. “I know her . . . relapse had more to do with her own mental state than anything else, but she became obsessed with the story of your friendship with Annabelle. I just find it hard to believe that you’d want to revisit any of it.”
“I’m getting old,Tuck. And I’m not going to live forever. I suppose it’s natural for the elderly to look back on their lives and see if there’s something that needs to be put right. To undo damage.”
He looked intently at his grandmother. “Damage?”
Lillian shook her head. “I . . . lied to Annabelle about someth
ing. Something important and she died never knowing the truth. And since reading Piper’s letter, I’ve come to think that maybe it’s not too late. That by telling her granddaughter I can make amends to Annabelle.”
Tucker was staring at the moonflowers, their blooms tucked tightly inside themselves, the droplets of rain like tears. “Did Susan know about it? This . . . lie?”
“She might have. I’d written an apology to Annabelle that I never sent but kept hidden. Susan might have seen me access it once, but I never thought she’d pry. But when Susan died in the river, I suspected she might have.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked into Tucker’s face, seeing the devastation again, and knew she couldn’t tell him. Not now. Glancing away, she said, “It was just very emotional—you know how girls are. I think that’s why I kept it from her, knowing that even though Susan seemed fine, that maybe it would be too much for her to handle.
“I never gave her my scrapbook—she took it, remember. I thought she’d be content with all the rest of my stories, and my papers. She seemed so happy to have something to make her feel useful. She told me she didn’t need the pills anymore because she was feeling so good. Maybe she did that on purpose so I wouldn’t pay that much attention to what she was doing. So when she found the letter from Annabelle’s husband and was determined to find out more, I didn’t know to stop her.”
His voice was hard. “None of this is new to me, Malily. Except for whatever you lied about to Annabelle. Maybe if you just told me the rest of your story, I could contact Piper Mills and tell her myself. That might satisfy her and then you can stop worrying about something that happened years ago that doesn’t matter anymore.”
Lillian faced her grandson and sighed. He was male, and destined to think of history as only battles fought and won. He could never understand. “I need to tell her myself, Tucker. I think we need to contact her again.”
Tucker stood, then reached over to shake the moonflowers, their drops raining on the brick walkway. “What about Helen? She told me you’ve been sharing your scrapbook with her. Isn’t that enough?”
Feeling agitated, Lillian stood, leaning heavily on her cane. “No. No, it isn’t. Helen doesn’t need any life lessons from me; she’s never once looked back on her past and wished she’d done something differently.” She shook her head. “I need to tell Annabelle’s granddaughter. I need Annabelle’s forgiveness.”
“She’s dead, Malily. It’s too late.”
His eyes were dark with terror and pain and Lillian wished she could make it go away with a kiss as she’d done when he was small. She knew he wasn’t referring just to Annabelle, but that the ghost of his wife’s suicide lingered near him still, his guilt and regret unwilling to let her remain buried.
She touched his arm. “Until you bury me, it won’t be too late. ‘Where there is life, there is hope,’ remember?”
He shook his head. “I think you’re making a mistake, but if you want me to contact her, I will.”
She looked into his face and saw the boy he’d once been: the wild, reckless boy full of mischief and practical jokes. Lillian refused to believe that the boy was gone forever, hidden inside this sad shell of a man. Her lasting hope was that the revelation of her secrets would set all of them free—free from lives spent looking backward and wrestling with past mistakes.
Lillian stood on her toes and reached up to kiss him on his cheek. “Yes, I’d like you to.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and she looked up into his eyes, feeling much shorter than she remembered. Had he always been so tall? Or was she just shrinking? Becoming smaller and smaller until she would simply cease to exist? Perhaps that was what death would be like for her: a crumbling into dust, where pride and old wounds didn’t matter anymore.
A corner of his mouth lifted before he spoke and Lillian caught a glimpse of the old Tucker. “You’re really a big bully, you know. Always managing to get your own way. I don’t fall for this old-lady act at all. I never have.”
She smiled back, relieved to see his smile again. “I know. You’re much too smart for that. You got that from me.”
He grinned again, revealing his elusive dimple and her heart didn’t seem to ache as much. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he said, “I’ve got to go to the stables, see if today is the day Captain Wentworth is ready for a rider.”
“Captain Wentworth?”
Tucker dug the tip of his boot into a crack in the brick walk. “The new rescue horse. I let Earlene name him. After the Jane Austen character. I figured we wouldn’t be keeping him, so it didn’t matter.”
Lillian watched him closely. “So what do you think of this Earlene?”
He grew still for a moment, his eyes focused on the coppery waves of the magnolia leaves. “I can’t really put a finger on it, but there seems to be something . . . missing. I mean, where are her family and friends? She doesn’t talk about her past at all, and is here to study somebody else’s life. She reminds me of a college buddy of mine who was lost a leg in a hunting accident. He acted shell-shocked, barely able to focus on what was going on around him, sort of living those last moments before the bullet hit him again and again. Like he was afraid to move forward in life in case something like that happened again.”
She didn’t say anything, wondering if he realized how much he’d just described himself.
“What about you, Malily? What do you think?”
Lillian sat back down on the bench and stretched out her legs, willing the aching in her feet to stop. “She loves my garden.”
Tucker nodded, understanding as she knew he would. “I’ll see you at supper.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t risk saying anything in case he changed his mind. She watched as he walked back toward the garden gate, stopping once to pick up something from the brick path. He turned it over in his hand and studied it for a moment, then pocketed it before snapping the latch closed behind him.
I sat in the kitchen of the cottage, the air cool enough to leave the windows open. A breeze stirred the scrapbook pages in front of me on the table, the paper rustling with impatience. I’d put the scrapbook aside to go through Lillian’s papers, knowing already that I’d find nothing I needed in them. What I needed was Lillian’s scrapbook pages to read alongside Annabelle’s, but I knew Lillian wouldn’t part with them, especially to a stranger.
Dutifully, I’d taken notes on everything I’d seen in Lillian’s papers, and when Tucker had sent over a family tree—via Helen—that Susan had made, I’d plugged everything into my genealogy software if only because it gave me something to do while I waited for the answers I sought to come find me.
The blue knit sweater and baby blanket lay on the table next to the scrapbook as a reminder of why I was here. I felt the softness of the sweater again and raised it to my nose, still smelling the mothballs and dust. I was no closer to discovering who had owned these two things, or who had lived in the hidden attic room of my grandparents’ house than when I’d first arrived. But somehow I didn’t feel as despondent as I should have.
I gave the girls riding lessons four times a week—up from the proposed twice-a-week schedule because Lucy had asked and because I really wanted to. She was good—really good—with the confidence and ease of a much older rider. But she also had a hint of recklessness and fearlessness that made me outwardly scold her. Secretly, though, I applauded her sturdy little character, knowing she had what it took to be a solid competitor when the time came. Sara made me laugh with her plodding pony and Lucy made me remember what it had been like to be fearless. Through them, I found myself easing my way into days in which I didn’t dread getting up in the morning.
I stared at the scrapbook bundle for a long moment before opening it up and finding the place where I last stopped. Most of the entries I’d read so far were filled with the mundane aspects of my grandmother’s adolescent life: outings with Lillian and Josie, horseback riding on Lola Grace at Asphodel, and more mentions of Fredd
ie. She never wrote about any romantic feelings toward him, but the sheer number of times his name was mentioned made me wonder.
With the sweater and blanket cuddled in my lap like a small child, I began to read:
May 30, 1934
I was supposed to give this book and Lola to Lily back in March, but I don’t seem to have as much time to visit Asphodel—or to write in this book. But I get sore at Lillian for saying she’s too busy to write in it, so I can’t slack off, too, or she’ll become Miss Know-it-all.
At least I know I’m spending my time constructively. Now that I’m eighteen, my father says I’m old enough to help him on some of his doctor visits, especially if the patient is a woman. He said that a lot of women, especially in childbirth, seem to relax more in the presence of another female. I don’t do much but hold hands and give to Papa whatever he asks for, but I don’t get tired of it. There’s something about bringing life into the world or helping to alleviate the suffering of those already here that never tires me. Papa said that there will be a day when there are just as many women doctors as men, but I can’t see that happening.
Today Papa went to help a woman who seemed not much older than me deliver her fourth child. Since no one else was present, I kept the younger children out of the way, playing with them and feeding them lunch with whatever scraps I could find in the kitchen.The oldest boy had a stick he pretended was a machine gun like the ones Bonnie and Clyde used to rob all of those banks. Everybody’s talking about them now because of how they were killed last week in Louisiana. I saw a picture of their car, with all those bullet holes in it, and I couldn’t help but wonder if all that excitement and passion in their lives could have been worth ending that way.