The Lost Hours by Karen White Page B

don’t think so.”
    The old woman stared at me for a moment longer. “You must remind me of someone else, then.” She moved to the sofa and then added as an afterthought, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smith.”
    “Likewise,” I said, my voice cracking as I resumed my seat. I glanced over at Helen and found the blind woman’s empty gaze fixed on me. Mardi nuzzled my hand and I focused on scratching his large head. “And please call me Earlene.”
    Lillian sat up with a straight back and elegantly sipped her sherry. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon but I wished that I’d asked for something stronger than tea.
    “Helen tells me your parents are from Savannah but that you were raised in Atlanta.”
    I bartered for time by taking a long drink of my iced tea, completely blindsided by my own shortsightedness. In all of my hasty preparations to come here, it had never once occurred to me that I would need an alternate background for Earlene Smith. There had once been a time in my life when acting before I could think of the consequences had served me well, but those days were long over and I needed to learn to stop thinking like the competitive jumper I no longer was.
    I put my glass down on the table, missing the coaster and feeling Lillian’s eyes staring at me coldly. I quickly stood, nearly tripping on the dog, and retrieved a cocktail napkin from the armoire to wipe up the drops of condensation.
    “Yes,” I said, trying to think calmly so I could remember whatever story was going to come out of my mouth. “I was raised in Atlanta. My father was a doctor there.”
    “In what hospital?” Lillian took another sip of her sherry but her eyes never left my face. “My grandson received his medical degree at Emory and was at Piedmont Hospital for his residency in general medicine.”
    I focused on the wadded cocktail napkin in my hands. “I . . . I don’t really remember. He—well, both of my parents died when I was six. I moved to Savannah to live with relatives after that.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone flat, as if at her age the news of death was no longer news. “With whom did you live in Savannah?”
    I looked over at Helen for some sort of reassurance but she seemed to be inwardly focusing on her iced tea. “My father’s aunt and uncle. He worked for one of the banks on Bull Street and my aunt was a homemaker.” I took another drink from my glass, trying to wash down the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. I’d never done this much lying in my entire life. “Harold and Betty Smith. They were originally from Augusta, I think.”
    An imperial brow lifted. “Augusta? I don’t believe I know anybody in Augusta.”
    Nor ever saw any need to, I wanted to add. I’d taken an instant dislike to the old woman, my dislike having nothing to do with Lillian’s aristocratic attitude. It had more to do with the words in the letter her grandson had sent. On your behalf I did ask her about your grandmother and it took several moments for her to even recollect that she had once known her.
    “Yes, well, they’re gone now, too.” I lifted my glass to my dry lips only to realize that I’d already drained the last of the iced tea.
    Helen stood. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to go rummage through my desk in the library and get the keys to the cottage for you.”
    “Yes, thank you,” I said, trying to restrain myself from begging her to stay so I wouldn’t be left alone in the same room with her grandmother. Even Mardi deserted me, moving as fast as the heat of the day would allow him.
    “I understand you’re one of those people who likes to dig into other people’s business.”
    I stared at Lillian for a moment, not yet comprehending. “Oh, you mean a genealogist? Yes, I guess. In part you’re right. But I really only dig as far as my clients want me to.”
    “And who are your clients now?”
    I desperately wanted another glass of iced tea if