The Lost Hours

The New York Times bestselling author of the Tradd Street novels delivers a gripping tale of family, fate, and forgiveness.

When Piper Mills was twelve, she helped her grandfather bury a box that belonged to her grandmother in the backyard. For twelve years, it remained untouched.

Now a near fatal riding accident has shattered Piper’s dreams of Olympic glory. After her grandfather’s death, she inherits the house and all its secrets, including a key to a room that doesn’t exist—or does it? And after her grandmother is sent away to a nursing home, she remembers the box buried in the backyard. In it are torn pages from a scrapbook, a charm necklace—and a newspaper article from 1939 about the body of an infant found floating in the Savannah River. The necklace’s charms tell the story of three friends during the 1930s— each charm added during the three months each friend had the necklace and recorded her life in the scrapbook. Piper always dismissed her grandmother as not having had a story to tell. And now, too late, Piper finds she might have been wrong. | “Reads as an intricately plotted mystery....White makes a good case for why new generations should sustain ties with the old—and why certain stories have to be told, no matter how long it takes.”—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“Wonderful phrasing…leav[es] readers with a slice of history too haunting to be forgotten.”—Charleston Magazine

“An evocative setting, dark family secrets, and a story that will keep you reading late into the night.”—Award-winning author Diane Chamberlain

“Characters and images as lush as the gardens of Georgia...satisfying and compelling.”—RT Book Reviews | Karen White is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty novels, including the Tradd Street series, The Night the Lights Went Out, Flight Patterns, The Sound of Glass, A Long Time Gone, and The Time Between. She is the coauthor of The Forgotton Room with New York Times bestselling authors Beatriz Williams and Lauren Willig. She grew up in London but now lives with her husband and two children near Atlanta, Georgia. |

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

Writen by todaās freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our plāce in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experence, as well as encourage us to explore these topics togehter—because books, and life, are meānt for shāring.

Visit us online at www.penguin.com.

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.

ISBN: 9781101028827

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, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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 precision, 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.

“When you first came to live with them, your grandmother planned to give you something that had meant a lot to her when she was a young woman.” He paused briefly, his brows furrowed with seeming incomprehension. “I guess she never found the right time to give it to you because your grandfather gave it to me for safekeeping when he put Annabelle in the home. I thought that you should have it now.”

I dragged my attention away from the window, aware that he was awaiting a response from me. I struggled for a moment to capture his last words. “Something from my grandmother?”

Mr. Morton took a sealed envelope from the inside of his jacket and handed it to me. There was a small lump inside and my name had been written with my grandmother’s meticulous cursive. I glanced at Mr. Morton and he nodded his head in encouragement before I dug my nail under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open.

I peered inside, looking for a letter or a note. I cupped my hand and tipped the envelope over, shaking it until whatever had been stuck at the bottom came tumbling out into my palm.

Mr. Morton leaned toward me and we both stared at my prize, a gold charm of an angel holding an opened book. I shook the envelope again, waiting for the chain to fall out, but the envelope was empty.

“There’s not even a note,” I said, turning the charm over in my hand, wondering why she had held on to it for so long without giving it to me and feeling an odd disappointment.

Mr. Morton took my hand, squeezing it hard enough to almost be painful. “No, there wouldn’t be. Annabelle had always planned to give it to you in person. It’s a part of your grandmother’s history—part of her life she would want you to know.”

I stood, uneasy with his intensity. “I’ll take good care of it. And I’ll look for the chain, too. Maybe it’s somewhere in her old room.”

He stared at me for a long moment and I thought he hadn’t understood what I said. While I prepared to paraphrase slowly and clearly, Mr. Morton said, “You do that, young lady.” He stood and faced me, a concentrated look on his withered face. “You never know what you’ll find.”

Uncomfortable, I waited for him to gather his things, then quickly led the way back to the foyer.

“You’re a pretty young lady, Piper. I’m sure your grandfather would want you to move on. To find a young man and get married. Start a family of your own.”

“You mean sell the house?”

Mr. Morton shrugged. “That’s certainly a possibility. Even after making allowances for your grandmother’s care, with the remainder of your parents’ and grandparents’ estates, you’ll have a nice little nest egg. Maybe you’ll want to travel for a bit.”

I opened the front door, hearing the distant sound of the church bells. “There’s no place I want to go. Besides, with my back and knee, I don’t think long-distance travel would be a good idea.”

He regarded me quietly. “It’s not always the distance of a trip that determines its value. Sometimes the best trips are only as far as the circumference of your heart.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, he said, “Speaking of trips, Matilda and I are going on a four-month excursion around the coast of South America. It’s been a dream of hers for a long time and I finally figured that now’s as good a time as ever. You might be able to reach me by e-mail, but that would be sporadic at best. If you need something immediately, you can call my office and George will be happy to take care of you.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying not to flinch at the mention of George’s name and impatient now for Mr. Morton to leave. His words had unsettled me and all I wanted was to go back to my darkening parlor and think about all I had lost.

He stepped outside onto the brick steps and pulled an old-fashioned gold watch out of his pocket. A gold key fob dangled from the chain as he studied the clock face and frowned before shoving it back in his pocket. “One more thing. Matilda asked me to find out if her family tree is ready yet.”

Dabbling in genealogy and delving into other people’s family secrets had been the riskiest behavior I’d allowed myself to be involved in since my riding accident six years earlier. I frowned, knowing that my answer would not be something Mrs. Morton would want to hear. “Tell her almost. But I haven’t been able to find any connection between her family and the British royal family as she thought there might have been. Although I have found a family connection to sheep farmers in Yorkshire.”

He stared at me blankly for a long moment. Finally, he said,“I’ll let you tell her that yourself.”

“Just feed me to the alligators instead,” I muttered to myself as he turned away. I imagined his imperious wife, whose aspiration to grandiosity was equal only to her disdain for me for having had the bad taste to have been born north of the Mason-Dixon Line, regardless of the fact that both my parents had been born and raised in Savannah.

Mr. Morton faced me again abruptly, almost making me startle. “I heard that, you know.”

I smiled, my face feeling stretched and unused to the movement of turning up my lips. “Good-bye, Mr. Morton,” I said as I closed the heavy door with the black wreath hanging from it.

I watched him through the leaded glass of the door, trying again to find the tears for the grandfather who had raised me since I was six. I absently fingered the small charm in my hand and blinked hard, willing the grief to find me. But I could only stand there, dry-eyed, as I watched Mr. Morton slowly make his way down the walk toward the square with the statue honoring a fallen war hero. And I wondered, not for the first time, if dying in the quest for glory wasn’t far better than surviving with the livid scars of failure for all to see.

CHAPTER 2

I woke up with a stiff neck and something small and hard pressed into the side of my hip. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa again in the absence of a grandfather to tell me to go upstairs to bed. I sat up, rotating my neck while digging under my hip for the protruding object. It was the small gold charm and I picked it up, a misplaced sense of excitement filling me for a moment. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because a quest for the missing chain might distract me long enough that I might forget about the rest of my life.

I shuffled to the kitchen, my knee and back joining in protest with my neck. I opened the refrigerator for my morning Coke, belatedly remembering the sad display of hospitality I’d shown to Mr. Morton with the remnants of my last can of Coke rescued from the back shelf. Covered casseroles, assorted salads, and a large ham, courtesy of a misplaced sense of duty on behalf of neighbors, my grandfather’s former business associates, and church members, crammed the small space. It was the Savannah way of feeding bereavement, as if all that grieving required extra caloric input. I hadn’t so much as lifted a corner of foil wrap, feeling guilty for not having earned any of it. I had yet to shed a single tear.

“Dang it,” I said to the empty kitchen as I slammed the refrigerator door. Something clattered on the wood floor and I belatedly realized that I’d been holding the charm in my hand and had dropped it when I’d slammed the door. With unaccustomed alarm, I got down on all fours, forgetting to favor my right knee, and began to search for the charm.

I found it resting on the floor, propped next to the overflowing plastic garbage bin, as if a reminder that it needed to be emptied. I picked up the charm, then held it in the light from the kitchen window. Squinting, I studied the back of the opened book, my attention caught by thin black lines etched across the covers. Moving my head closer, I realized that the lines were actually writing but the words were too small for me to read. With as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I walked across the foyer to my grandfather’s study, pausing only a moment as the smell of pipe smoke made me think that I should have knocked on the door first.

I rifled through the desk drawers until I found the magnifying glass still resting on the top of the desk, where my grandfather had read the Sunday paper. A shadow of sadness drifted over me, stilling me for a moment as I willed the grief to come. But I remained as numb and helpless as I had been for the last six years and even that thought couldn’t bring the tears I needed to shed. I held the metal handle in my hand, imagining it still warm from my grandfather’s touch. Instead it felt cold and impersonal as I brought it over to the window to see better.

I held up the charm and the magnifying glass and brought them closer to my eye. Turning the charm around to see the inscription on the book’s covers, I read it out loud. Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim. I looked up, hearing the words as I’d read them. Wasn’t that Latin? I read the inscription again, racking my brain for the high school Latin that I’d done my best to forget in the intervening years.

Putting the magnifying glass back on my grandfather’s desk, I turned to the shelves of books in the off chance that any of my old Latin textbooks might have been saved over the years. Granddaddy never wanted to have anything to do with computers and I didn’t feel up to climbing two flights of stairs to get to my own. And by looking through the library, I was guaranteed that my search would eat up most of the empty morning.

With breakfast forgotten, I spent an hour going through my grandfather’s books and finding nothing remotely resembling anything that would help me translate the Latin phrase. I was about to leave the room when I spied the antique sea captain’s trunk under one of the windows.

My grandmother had used it to keep her knitting projects, including the sweaters and scarves she’d made for me that never quite fit or suited me and which I’d never worn. I had never been curious about the trunk’s contents before, but something made me pause before it, a fleeting memory of my grandmother kneeling before it with creaking knees to place something inside.

Slipping the charm into my pocket, I knelt on the floor and lifted the lid. The overpowering stench of mothballs made my eyes sting as I averted my face for a moment to allow the contents to air out. I began rummaging through the trunk quickly, pushing aside old knitting projects and half-used balls of brightly colored yarn that even at the time when my grandmother was knitting, had seemed so