Free The Lost Hours by Karen White Page B

I followed the drive to where it seemed to stop abruptly, disappearing into a steep green embankment. Finding it hard to breathe, I lowered the windows, hoping to find sight of the road.
    To the right of the Buick, at a sharp angle, I spotted the continuation of the road as well as the turnoff I must have missed while staring straight ahead in the hopes of avoiding any sight of pastures. Gripping the wheel tightly, I angled the car and turned, finding myself suddenly enveloped in the canopy of an ancient live oak alley. I stopped the car, looking at the old trees that barely resembled the live oaks of Savannah’s squares despite the generous shawls of Spanish moss. These trees were darkened and withered, despite enough leaves to show that they were alive. But the limbs were bent and gnarled, the knobs at the forks like the bent shoulders of mourners at a funeral.
    Gulping the stagnant, humid air, I caught the scent of the river, too, and continued to drive forward through the short line of hulking oak trees toward the cream-colored columned house beckoning me at the end.
    When I reached the circular drive in front of the house, I released my hands on the wheel and wiped my sweaty palms on my white linen pants, then dug into the side pocket of the door for a fast-food napkin to wipe my face. I sat there for a long time, pressing the napkin to my face and listening to my heart pound while I stared at the house in front of me.
    The house wasn’t the typical antebellum Greek Revival architecture found in my history books of the Savannah River plantations. Instead, it had been built in the English Regency style, with a raised first floor, flat roof, and twin sandstone staircases flanking the lower entrance. The steps rose to the front porch with its four Doric columns standing sentry to the double front doors. It would have been beautiful if not for the odd alley of grieving oaks that led to the house.
    There was something else, too, that shimmered in the air here along with the humidity and the foreboding trees at my back. It wasn’t neglect, exactly, or even the darkness that seemed to emanate from the oak alley despite the bright summer sun. It had more to do with the absence of light. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I did believe that this house could be haunted by its own past, its sorrows weeping shadows down the sandstone bricks and columns.
    The saving grace was the front garden. I recognized the smilax and the lantana, and the fragrant tea olives that had once, long ago, decorated my grandmother’s Savannah house. But whereas this garden oasis was neatly laid out with pristine edges and formed shapes, I recalled how the lantana in my grandmother’s back garden had been allowed to grow unchecked until it started poking through the window screens. I couldn’t imagine anything in this garden being allowed to grow beyond its boundaries. I pressed my hand to my face, the sweet, verdant smell now seeming more cloying than fragrant in the heat of the still summer afternoon.
    “Hello, there.”
    The voice came from the top of the steps and I had to exit the car to be able to get a better view. I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand and looked up. A beautiful woman with long, wavy dark hair who appeared to be in her midthirties stood with graceful hands folded on the sandstone balustrade. She was looking over my head toward the oaks as she spoke, and for a moment I thought the woman was addressing another visitor.
    “Hello. I’m . . . Earlene Smith. I’m renting the caretaker’s cottage for a few months. I was told to come to the main house to get the key from Helen Gibbons.”
    The woman smiled, illuminating her face. “I’m Helen—I spoke with you on the phone. Did you find us all right? Why don’t you come on up for some sweet tea and we can sit for a while and get acquainted before I get the key for you?”
    Feeling as if the oaks were watching me from behind, I began to climb the steps toward Helen,