The Lost Hours by Karen White Page A

were closed, allowing little sunlight to creep around the edges to chase away the shadows. Despite the elegance of the room and its furnishings, I felt the same uneasiness I’d felt outside, like a strong wind would bring with it the scent of rain.
    After leaning her cane against the armoire, Helen asked,“What can I get you? We have sweet tea and homemade lemonade. Or I can fix you something stronger, if you prefer. As my brother,Tucker, is fond of saying, it’s always five o’clock somewhere.”
    “Sweet tea would be fine. Thank you.”
    I watched as Helen deftly handled the decanters and glasses, neatly replacing the lid on the ice bucket after dropping several cubes into two tall crystal goblets. Then she unstoppered a ship’s decanter filled with red liquid and poured it into a small glass until it was almost up to the top. She picked up my glass and held it up for me to take before picking up her own.
    “Why don’t you have a seat and rest a bit? My grandmother—I call her Malily but her real name is Lillian—will probably join us in a moment. She can smell her sherry like a shark can scent blood in the water.”
    I accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks, trying to disguise the sudden rush of adrenaline I’d felt with the mention of Lillian’s name. I sat down in an overstuffed wing chair by the piano and immediately felt something soft bump my hand. Startled, I looked down at the large yellow Lab, whose nap I had apparently disturbed. He bumped my hand again and I obliged by scratching him behind his ear.
    “That’s Mardi,” said Helen, elegantly folding herself into an identical chair opposite. “He likes to think he’s my Seeing Eye dog, so we just humor him. He’s a real marshmallow. He’s also, as you can see, a real watchdog, always alerting us to the presence of strangers.” She took a sip of her tea, then raised her brows. “And you both have something in common—he’s afraid of horses, too.”
    I stared hard at her, but Helen’s face was open and her expression without malice. “Well, then,” I said carefully,“we should get along just fine.”
    “Full use of the stables is included in your rental agreement, you know. That’s why most people who rent it choose to come here in the summer instead of the beach. I don’t suppose you’ll be utilizing the stables, though.”
    “No,” I said, feeling the mix of exhilaration and terror push through me again, “I won’t be.”
    My attention was drawn to a movement in the doorway and I realized that Helen had already turned her head. The older woman whose picture I’d seen in the newspaper stood with her hand gripping the doorframe, the fingers bending in the wrong directions. She wore a striped silk blouse and matching skirt, her blond hair and makeup elegant yet understated. I knew Lillian Harrington-Ross was ninety years old but she looked at least twenty years younger. A fleeting memory of my own grandmother with her weary face and long, uncut hair made me wince.
    “Are you pouring drinks, Helen?”
    “Yes, Malily. Yours is waiting on the shelf.” Helen gave me a wink and for a moment I forgot that Helen was blind.
    I stood to greet the newcomer and realized my hand was shaking. Lillian approached with her glass, appraising me with eyes the color of emeralds.
    “Malily, this is Earlene Smith. She’s renting the caretaker’s cottage for a few months while she does genealogy research. Earlene, this is my grandmother and owner of Asphodel Meadows, Lillian Harrington-Ross.”
    Lillian slowly took a sip of her sherry. “Yes,” she said, pausing for a moment, “I remember you mentioning her.” Her gaze took in my scuffed sandals, wrinkled linen pants, and pink button-down blouse with the coffee stain on the front courtesy of the idiot driver in front of me that morning on Abercorn Street. Lillian’s eyes returned to my face and stopped for a moment while I held my breath. “Have we met before?”
    I shook my head. “No. I