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 something. 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.”