CHAPTER 11 #2
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.
Maybe 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.”
My response was interrupted by the shutting of the garden gate. Odella, wearing a man’s camouflage fishing cap to block the sun from her face, marched down the path carrying what appeared to be an envelope.
“Sorry to bother you two, but when I poked my nose out the kitchen window to shake out a dust rag, I saw that you were out here and wanted to save me a trip to the cottage.” She held out the envelope to me.
“It’s a letter addressed to you. I would have given it to you last night but it was stuck between my Precious Moments and Williams-Sonoma catalogs, so I didn’t see it until this morning. ”
I hesitated a moment before reaching out my hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I glanced down at the return address: Morton, Morton & Baker, Savannah. I flipped it over in my lap so Lillian couldn’t see it.
Odella turned to Lillian. “And you, Miss Lillian, have been out in this sun far too long. I’m going to bring you inside and set you next to an air conditioner so you can cool off.”
I noticed with alarm Lillian’s flushed cheeks and felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry—I should have known better. Let me help you get her in the house.”
Lillian waved a hand. “I’m not an invalid yet.
I can manage on my own, I assure you. And I’m only going inside because I’m thirsty and would like some lemonade with a little touch of something stronger to wake me up.
Not because I’m too old and delicate to be in this heat.
In my day, I used to ride horses and jump fences without a helmet.
If that didn’t kill me, then I doubt the sun will. ”
She faced me. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then, using her cane to stand, she allowed Odella to lead her from the garden.
I waited until the gate shut behind them before opening the letter.
As I’d suspected, it was from George. Although initially disapproving of me being at Asphodel Meadows at all, he seemed to have embraced the covertness of my presence by putting the name Earlene Smith in block letters on the outside of the envelope as well as in the address inside the letter.
When I’d told him about the torn scrapbook pages and the newspaper clipping, he’d seemed almost eager to help me with my research.
I hadn’t really expected anything from him so it was with curiosity that I opened the letter and began to read.
Dear Earlene,
I hope you are doing well and have found at least some of the information you were seeking.
I’m still not exactly clear why you need to be there as you can see from the rest of this letter that there is plenty to research right here in Savannah.
As I’m sure you are already aware, there was a suicide a little over a year ago at Asphodel Meadows.
I’m not implying that you’re in any kind of danger, but thought you should be aware that that sort of thing goes on there.
I lifted my gaze from the letter for a moment, picturing George in his seersucker suit dictating this letter to his secretary without even pausing to think about how ludicrous he sounded, as if suicide were a communicable disease.
I thought about writing him back to mention the borderline alcoholic doyenne of the estate, the blind daughter with a penchant for colors, the two little girls who were wise beyond their years, or their father whose odd mixture of aloofness and caring I found more attractive than I wanted to admit.
Instead, I bent my head back to the letter and continued to read.
Per your request, I’ve done a little research on your grandparents’ house on Monterey Square.
As you probably already know, the house was built in 1858, two years after the square was established, by your great-great-great-grandfather on your mother’s side.
He was a successful doctor, as were the oldest sons of the following generation up to and including your grandmother’s father, Leo O’Hare.
I was able to find the original builder’s blueprints in the historical archives and found that the attic was originally designed as one large room, as we had thought.
But this is where it gets interesting. My mother’s second cousin on her father’s side is a bit of an amateur historian, so I figured I’d ask her if she knew anything about the attic room.
She recalls reading various accounts in unrelated research about families keeping less-than-perfect children in attic rooms to save the family from the disgrace of admitting to having given birth to an imperfect offspring.
There had been a kitchen addition in the early 1870s and the blueprints still showed a single attic room, so I knew to focus on records past 1870.
I went back to the archives to find the family records and discovered a Thaddeus and Mary O’Hare, married in 1878, and the birth certificates of three children born between 1881 and 1900—the oldest being your great-grandfather, Leo.
I took the liberty of using the house key that you entrusted me with, and went into your grandfather’s study, where I knew the old family Bible is kept.Your grandfather showed it to me once when I was on a business visit with my grandfather and I expressed an interest in the old book.
I must say that I deserve a little pat on the back for this insight on my part, and I have to admit that it gave me a thrill to discover that I have a little bit of a detective lurking in me.
I shook the letter in frustration and hastily skimmed the rest of the paragraph dealing with George’s brilliance and skipped to the next sentence.
I found Thaddeus and Mary, with their birth and death dates, along with their children—except in the Bible there were four children listed, the third one, a girl named Margaret Louise, having been born in 1898 but with no death date.
There are no public records to indicate that a Margaret Louise O’Hare ever existed.
I think my next visit will be to check burial records from 1898 on at Bonaventure and other local cemeteries. I’ll let you know what I discover.