The Lost Hours by Karen White Read Free Book Online

friendship you had with Annabelle must have ended some time ago. Please know that the reason or fault is of no interest to me. I’m simply trying to get to know the person my grandmother was before I was born, and perhaps to find some meaning to the death of a woman who I feel I never really knew at all.
    I look forward to hearing from you.
     
    Sincerely,
Piper Mills
    Lillian sighed, her chest tightening. So Annabelle is gone. The years seemed to rush at her like an incoming tide, the memories like a picture show in vivid color, each one moving forward like a sewn hem, and each stitch a mouthful of grief. But never regret. The one thing she attributed her longevity to was her stubborn ability to never confuse grief with regret.
    There was a soft rap on the door behind her before it was opened. Lillian smelled the dust and the sweat and horse before Tucker spoke. Her bones and her eyesight might not be as strong as they had once been, but her sense of smell had not yet deserted her. She closed her eyes again, remembering the man who’d once carried the same scent and found herself smiling softly.
    Tucker kissed her on the cheek and she looked up at him, seeing more of her son-in-law than her daughter in his olive skin and nearly black hair. He had her late husband’s height and broad shoulders and her own dark green eyes. But his aura of regret was his own, and settled on his shoulders like an ill-fitting coat.
    He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a tall glass of iced tea. “Can I get anything for you, Malily?” His childhood name for her had stuck, and had suited Lillian at the time as she’d once considered herself too young to be called “Grandmother.”
    “Sherry,” she said, watching his eyes.
    He didn’t even pause as he unstopped the decanter and filled a small sherry glass to the top. “I’m sure it’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said softly.
    Tucker crossed the room and handed her the glass, then remained standing. Although long since grown, he knew better than to sit on Lillian’s furniture when he was dirty from working outside.
    After taking a long drink of his iced tea, he said, “That new horse is a tough one. He’s got a big personality and the strength to match it. Who knows what kind of abuse he’s gone through, though.”
    Lillian took a sip of the sherry, already thinking about how soon she could have another, and turned to the window seeing past the rings and stables, beyond the green pastures, and saw through years to three little girls sitting atop a pasture gate. She turned back to Tucker, noticing his fingers wrapped around his iced-tea glass and how they were no longer the hands of a doctor. She thought of the horse with his scars and wondered if having them so visible wasn’t preferable to the hidden kind where nobody knew how to avoid the parts that still hurt.
    “I need you to do me a favor.” Lillian avoided Tucker’s eyes by taking another sip from her sherry, welcoming the numbness that seeped into her fingertips.
    He sounded wary. “What is it?”
    She paused for a moment, weighing her words. “I need you to write a letter for me. The granddaughter of an old friend of mine, a Piper Mills, wants to meet with me to discuss aspects of her grandmother’s past.” Lillian regarded Tucker before continuing. “As you know, I gave all of my papers to Susan for her research, and I don’t have the heart to go search for them now nor do I expect you to do it. It’s too soon. . . .” She looked away, unable to watch the color drain from his face. “And I’m afraid my memory isn’t as good as it once was, and without the papers I doubt I can recall anything with any accuracy. I’d rather just tell this Piper that I’m not available. I was thinking that if you wrote the letter, she would assume I was too ill to speak with her and leave it at that.”
    Tucker returned to the sideboard and poured himself another glass from the frosted pitcher of iced tea. A drop of