The Lost Hours by Karen White

trying not to wince at the stiffness in my knee and back, and noticing the yellow silk chiffon dress Helen wore that seemed more appropriate at a morning wedding than spending an afternoon at home.
    When I reached the top, I extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Helen. And thank you for being able to accommodate me on such short notice.”
    Helen’s hand remained at her side, but she continued smiling, her eyes focused on my forehead. “Did you notice our trees? They spook people the first time they see them. I suppose that’s one of the reasons Malily hasn’t opened Asphodel Meadows to the public.”
    I let my hand drop, scrutinizing the other woman closely, wondering what it was that seemed to be missing. Reluctantly, I followed Helen’s gaze toward the trees. “I’ve never seen live oaks like that.”
    “They are unique, aren’t they?” she said, not quite smiling. “There used to be forty-eight of them. My great-great-grandfather and his generation called them the ‘old gentlemen.’They had quite the reputation as being the longest and most beautiful oak alley in the South.”
    I tried to imagine it, but couldn’t. “What happened?”
    Her eyes reflected the sky and the trees as she spoke. “When they dammed the river a few decades back they changed its course and Asphodel lost quite a bit of property—and thirty-two trees. Men came and chopped those old trees down, then hauled them down the river on barges. My mama has a desk that was made from the wood from one of those trees, but it gives her bad dreams after she’s spent any time working on it. We were compensated for it, of course, but the remaining oaks didn’t take too kindly to the assault. Overnight they changed to how you see them now—like old men.”
    I shuddered and faced Helen again. “Do they know what caused it?”
    Helen shrugged, her gaze focused again on my forehead. “They said the trauma of the earth-moving equipment and superficial damage to the roots caused by the removal of the other trees somehow disturbed the roots of the remaining ones.” She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. “Of course, there are those who don’t believe that version of the story at all.”
    I was about to ask her what she meant when Helen extended her hand in the direction of the open front door. “You’re limping, so you must be wanting to sit down. Why don’t we go on inside?”
    I had a sharp retort on my tongue when I noticed the long, slim metal cane Helen held in her left hand. My gaze jerked quickly up to Helen’s eyes and I saw then what I’d been looking for earlier. Eyes the color of the marsh stared out at the world without focus or light, as if a curtain had been drawn across them. But there was something in the way Helen’s gaze flitted about her surroundings, as if she saw something entirely different from everyone else and that what she saw might even be better.
    I cleared my throat and nodded, then added hastily, “Sure. Thank you,” and followed Helen into the house.
    The foyer soared over two stories, with a curving staircase climbing along the outer wall, decorated by the frowning stares of painted ancestors. I wondered if they’d all been smiling at one time until the oaks had been removed and like the remaining “old gentlemen” had turned to grieving for eternity.
    As I followed Helen toward the back of the house, I was vaguely aware of marble floors and dark paneling, crystal chandeliers and oil paintings of horses and jockeys. Tall windows marched across the top and bottom floors of the house, yet heavy shadows sat like furniture against the walls as we passed darkened rooms, heavy draperies covering up all light.
    Helen led me into a formal parlor of high ceilings and intricate moldings with an antique piano in one corner and an ornate armoire in the other. Two sofas faced each other, flanking an empty fireplace, a mottled antique mirror hanging above the mantle. Dark wood plantation shutters