CHAPTER 10 #3
We walked in awkward silence down the hall but I voiced my surprise when we passed the staircase and continued walking to the other end of the long hallway.
“Elevator,” he said, as we stood in front of what looked like another bedroom door, but this one had two buttons on a panel beside it.
I nodded my acknowledgment, secretly grateful that he wouldn’t have to witness my clumsiness climbing down a set of stairs while holding the heavy notebook.
We descended in silence, both of us staring at the closed door.
The elevator smelled of new carpet and the air was filled with all the words that I couldn’t say: how sorry I was about his wife; how precious his two daughters were and how they would all get used to the idea of living without their mother; and how I hadn’t always been a crippled genealogist but that I’d once been an equestrian champion with dreams of winning Olympic gold.
Instead, I waited in silence for the doors to open, clutching the bulging notebook as I stepped out into the dimly lit marble foyer.
“This way,” he said, indicating the back of the house.
“Odella always leaves the cart by the kitchen entrance.” He pushed on a piece of wall paneling in the dining room, which revealed a hidden door and I followed him into the kitchen, which smelled like dish detergent and lemons and reminded me of my grandmother and the way she’d taken such pride in her kitchen.
I stopped in front of the island, staring above at a pot rack covered in gleaming stainless-steel pots and felt a stab of nostalgia for the woman who’d cooked for me all of those years but whom I barely remembered.
“This way,” Tucker said again as he held open the screen door that led outside.
I stood on the brick steps, and inhaled sharply. A mixed bouquet of flower scents wafted toward me like a spritz of perfume, and I turned to Tucker to see if he’d smelled it, too.
He’d paused on the bottom step, his face illuminated by an outdoor gaslight. He had the same half-amused expression he’d worn the first time he’d seen me, flat on my back in the middle of the horse paddock. “It’s Malily’s garden for the blind.”
I joined him on the bottom step. “Her what?”
“She planted it for Helen. It’s full of the most fragrant flowers in existence so that you don’t have to have sight to enjoy it. It’s Helen’s favorite place in the world.”
“I can see why,” I said, closing my eyes as I breathed in deeply.
“You should come by in the daylight to see it. It’s almost as beautiful as it smells.”
“I will,” I said, and moved off the steps. I hadn’t gone very far before I realized that Tucker wasn’t behind me. “Is something wrong?”
He stood staring at me for a long moment before coming toward me.
“No. I was just thinking.” He stopped in front of me, his back to the gaslight and his face in shadow.
“Lucy and Sara want to learn how to ride, but I don’t really have the time or the patience to teach them myself.
I’ve tried to hire someone, but I can’t find anybody who wants to come all the way out here. ”
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.