The Lost Hours
Karen White
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
EPILOGUE
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Praise for the Novels of Karen White The House on Tradd Street
“Engaging ....White skillfully balances her tale at the meeting point of romance, mystery, and ghost story . . . a fun and satisfying read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“White delivers funny characters, a solid plot, and an interesting twist in this novel about the South and its antebellum history.”—Romantic Times
“Brilliant and engrossing . . . a rare gem . . . exquisitely told, rich in descriptions, and filled with multifaceted characters.”
—The Book Connection
“I loved this book! It was one of those that you struggle against putting down as the pages fly by. Karen White is an extremely talented and colorful writer with tons of imagination. If you are not a believer of the paranormal, you will be after reading this novel.”—Fresh Fiction
“The sights and smells of the old house, along with excellent dialogue and good pacing add up to a wonderful, mysterious, and ghostly tale.”
—Marilyn Heyman, Romance Reviews Today
The Memory of Water
“Beautifully written and as lyrical as the tides. The Memory of Water speaks directly to the heart and will linger in yours long after you’ve read the final page. I loved this book!”—Susan Crandall, author of A Kiss in Winter
“Karen White delivers a powerfully emotional blend of family secrets, Lowcountry lore, and love in The Memory of Water—who could ask for more?”—Barbara Bretton, author of Just Like Heaven
Learning to Breathe
“White creates a heartfelt story full of vibrant characters and emotion that leaves the reader satisfied yet hungry for more from this talented author.”—Booklist
“One of those stories where you savor every single word . . . [a] perfect 10.”—Romance Reviews Today
“Another one of Karen White’s emotional books! A joy to read!”
—The Best Reviews
Pieces of the Heart
“Heartwarming and intense . . . a tale that resonates with the meaning of unconditional love.”—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“A terrific insightful character study.”—Midwest Book Review
The Color of Light
“[White’s] prose is lyrical, and she weaves in elements of mysticism and romance without being heavy-handed. This is an accomplished novel about loss and renewal, and readers will be taken with the people and stories of Pawleys Island.”—Booklist
“A story as rich as a coastal summer . . . dark secrets, heartache, a magnificent South Carolina setting, and a great love story.”
—New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith
“An engaging read with a delicious taste of the mysterious.”
—New York Times bestselling author Haywood Smith
“Karen White’s novel is as lush as the Lowcountry, where the characters’ wounded souls come home to mend in unexpected and magical ways.”
—Patti Callahan Henry, award-winning author of Between the Tides
Praise for the Other Novels
of Karen White
“The fresh voice of Karen White intrigues and delights.”
—Sandra Chastain, contributor to Blessings at Mossy Creek
“Warmly Southern and deeply moving.”
—New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith
“Karen White writes with passion and poignancy.”
—Deb Stover, award-winning author of Mulligan Magic
“[A] sweet book . . . highly recommended.”—Booklist
“This is not only romance at its best—this is a fully realized view of life at its fullest.”—Readers & Writers, Ink
“After the Rain is an elegantly enchanting Southern novel.... Fans will recognize the beauty of White’s evocative prose.”—WordWeaving.com
“In the tradition of Catherine Anderson and Deborah Smith, Karen White’s After the Rain is an incredibly poignant contemporary bursting with Southern charm.”
—Patricia Rouse, Rouse’s Romance Readers Groups
“Don’t miss this book!”—Rendezvous
New American Library Titles by Karen White
The Color of Light
Pieces of the Heart
Learnīng to Breathe
The Memory of Water
The Hoūse on Tradd Street
NAL Accent
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by NAL Accent, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2009
Copyright © Harley House Books, LLC, 2009
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009
All rights reserved
NAL ACCENT REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
White, Karen (Karen S.)
The lost hours/Karen White.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-02882-7
1.Women in horse sports—Fiction. 2. Accident victims—Fiction. 3. Equestrian accidents—Fiction.
4. Grandparent and child—Fiction. 5. Grandmothers—Fiction. 6. Family secrets—Fiction.
7. Friendship in children—Fiction. 8. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. I.Title.
PS3623.H5776L67 2009
813’.6—dc22 2008053420
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, n
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To my beautiful grandmother, Grace Bianca.
Thank you for sharing your stories.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my daughter, Meghan, and her trainer, Jen Bishop, for reminding me what it’s like to love horses again. And yes, Meghan, I do watch.
A huge thanks to Andi Winkle for your generosity in sharing your time and knowledge about horses with me. I hope you don’t mind being the stable manager at Asphodel Meadows or that I wrote in your broken nose but made it more glamorous than walking into a glass wall. Any mistakes about horses and equestrian events are completely mine.
And thanks to talented authors Wendy Wax and Susan Crandall, whose support and willingness to bump ideas with me is priceless. Thank you for always being honest, and for being my two-person pep squad when I need it.
As always, thank you to Tim, Meghan, and Connor for allowing me to follow my dreams.
The golden moments īn the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand;
The angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.
—George Eliot
CHAPTER 1
When I was twelve years old, I helped my granddaddy bury a box in the back garden of our Savannah house. I didn’t ask him what was in it. The box belonged to my grandmother, so I didn’t care. Long before the Alzheimer’s got her mind, a fear of living had taken hold of her spirit, convincing me that my grandmother had no stories worth listening to.
I squatted by the edge of the shallow hole in the middle of my grandmother’s peonies, smelling sweat and summer grass as I dug my fingers into the dark earth and held up my handfuls of dirt briefly before opening my clenched hands, the clods raining shadows onto the box below. The dirt struck the tin with soft patters like little fists against the sealed box, demanding the release of its secrets. I yawned and turned away, the box and whatever it might contain forgotten by the time the screen door of the back porch slammed shut behind me.
I hadn’t thought about that hot afternoon for over a decade: a non-event in a busy life filled with friends, parties and my never-ending quest for accolades and excitement in the saddle on the back of a high-jumping horse. I had thought myself indestructible, immune to the fears and disappointments that had stolen the color from my grandmother’s face the same way the setting sun creates a world of shadows.
My delusion was understandable to my grandfather, who knew the source of it. After all, he was the one who’d told me that being the sole survivor of an accident that took the lives of both my parents meant that God was saving me for something important. I took this to mean that I had already experienced the greatest tragedy of my life and nothing bad would ever happen to me again. My grandmother claimed I was merely tempting the devil. But I was content to exist in my make-believe world, where I was infallible until the day came when I was forced to realize how very wrong I’d been. Life is like that, I suppose: always slapping you in the face when you least expect it.
The doorbell rang, erasing the smells of summer grass and damp earth. I rose slowly from my chair in the front parlor, scanning my eyes over the worn furniture with the eyes of a person who hadn’t become accustomed to its growing shabbiness for over twenty years. The house still smelled of flowers although the last of the wilted funeral arrangements had been put out at the curb the previous evening with the rest of the garbage. I had hoped that keeping the flowers in the house would help me feel the grief I knew was living somewhere under my skin. I had done enough grieving in my life by the age of six that I guess my body figured I just couldn’t do it anymore.
The doorbell rang again and I walked stiffly to the door, my back and right knee protesting every step. Humidity hung over Savannah in the summer like a veil, antagonizing my injuries as much as any cold weather would. I’d long since reached the conclusion that there was no climate that would coddle my bruised bones, so I might as well stay in this ancient city and old house that had been in my mother’s family for four generations.
I swallowed back my disappointment as I pulled open the door and revealed my granddaddy’s lawyer, a man about ten years younger than the grandfather I had just buried. His skin was tinged gray like the color of dried marsh mud and he had down-turned eyes that always seemed to look anxious.
“Mr. Morton,” I said, stepping aside to allow him through the doorway. “This is a nice surprise.” I had hoped it would be one of my old friends from my equestrian days, the friends whose visits had trickled down to a slow drip in the last years. They’d gotten tired of asking me when I was going to ride again, and stopped visiting, as if whatever I’d contracted that kept me on the ground might be contagious. I had no classmates, having been homeschooled for most of my life, and my friendships had centered around the show circuit. A few had made an appearance at the wake, but that was all. Even Jen Bishop, my oldest friend and closest rival, had merely sent a flower arrangement and a note.
Mr. Morton grunted and led the way to the parlor. I indicated for him to sit only a moment after he’d taken his place in my favorite chair, the same chair my grandmother had sat in each evening with her endless knitting.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Why don’t you get me something to drink, dear?”
I paused, wondering if it would be polite to suggest he put in his hearing aid.
“What would you like, Mr. Morton? Tea or lemonade?” I watched as he ran his finger across the dust on the side table, etching out a single line of accusation about my lack of housekeeping skills. “Or maybe arsenic?” I added softly.
He blinked slowly up at me, and for a horrible second I wondered if he’d actually heard me. “A Co-Cola would be nice. It’s a hot day.”
I left the room and returned with two glasses of Coke filled two-thirds with ice. I’d only had a partial can and rather than try to go through the motions of explaining this to Mr. Morton, I figured it would be easier to just go with what I had.
“Thank you, Piper,” he said as he took a long sip, then wrinkled his nose before setting it on a coaster.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Morton?” I asked loudly, sitting on the worn sofa next to his chair.
He placed his briefcase on the coffee table in front of him and made a big show of opening it and taking out a large manila folder. “I’ve got some papers for you to sign concerning your grandfather’s estate.” He slid the stack in front of me and handed me a thick black pen. “There’re also papers regarding the continuation of your grandmother’s care that you’ll need to look at and sign.”
I looked up at him, realizing for the first time what my grandfather’s death would really mean for me. Along with the deed to the house, all its furnishings and his 1988 Buick LeSabre, I had apparently also inherited the care of the grandmother who no longer recognized my face.
I signed the papers where he indicated and slid them back to him. With meticulous precis
ion, he stacked the papers and placed them in his briefcase. But instead of standing up and taking his leave, he sat back in his chair and took another sip of his watery drink and blinked at me through thick glasses.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Morton?” I asked.
He looked at me, not comprehending. Placing his bony hands on his black-clad knees, he said, “There’s one more thing, Piper.”
I didn’t bother to reply.
“As you know, I’ve been acquainted with your grandparents since I was an errand boy in my father’s law practice. They were good people.” He looked down for a moment as if to compose himself and I wished that I could borrow some of his grief.
He continued. “Annabelle—your grandmother—was a beautiful young woman. Her father was a doctor of some reputation. He treated patients regardless of their social class or the color of their skin—a rarity in those days.” He lowered his head, his bushy eyebrows like avenging hawks in a downward spiral. “And Annabelle was no different. Always putting others first and taking care of people.” His voice softened when he said her name and I glanced up at him, but his eyes didn’t give anything away.
I looked down again, impatient, and curled my toes inside my shoes to keep my feet from tapping as Mr. Morton took his unwanted stroll down memory lane in my parlor. My gaze strayed through the window to East Taylor Street out front and to Monterey Square beyond it with its statue of Revolutionary War hero Casimir Pulaski. This view had been my world since the time I was six years old and moved in with my grandparents. The sound of the bells at St. John’s in nearby Lafayette Square mixed with the gentle conversation of my grandparents on the balcony below my bedroom had been my nighttime lullaby. For a brief while my talent for jumping higher and faster on the back of a horse had taken me around the world. But my horse was long since gone, and I was back where I started from, staring at the statue in Monterey Square and the implacable face of General Pulaski.
