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handwriting, but not that of the person who had scratched through Lillian’s name and address and written, “return to sender.” I didn’t know who Lillian was, but I knew of Asphodel Meadows. A former rice plantation built in the early eighteen hundreds on the Savannah River about thirty miles south of the city, it was now, and had been since around nineteen twenty, a horse farm. I’d never been there, although it hadn’t been for lack of interest on my part. Considering my past history with horses, I thought it odd now that my grandfather had never taken me there, or that our paths hadn’t crossed in the nearly incestuous equestrian community of Savannah.
    I glanced up at George, who looked back at me with undisguised curiosity. I shoved the key in my jeans pocket and put the letters back inside the larger envelope before tucking it under my arm. Smiling brightly at George, I began to lead him back to the front door. “Thanks so much for the casserole and for helping me with my groceries. I really do appreciate it.” I yanked open the door. “I’ll be sure to call you if I need anything. I promise.”
    His mouth jerked open and closed like a goldfish who’d sought sanctuary outside of his bowl as he tried to come up with something that would get me to invite him back inside. I put my hand on his arm and gently guided him through the doorway.
    He put a hand on the doorframe, overly confident that I wouldn’t shut the door with his hand in the way. “You have my cell number, right? Call me anytime. Day or night. You hear? If you need anything, please call me first.”
    I nodded. “I will, George. Promise.” I began to close the door and was grateful when I saw him yank his hand away.
    I carried the envelope into the study and emptied the contents onto the mahogany desk and sat down. With my grandfather’s ivory-handled letter opener, I sliced open the smaller envelope. Carefully unfolding the heavy stationery, I read:
    September 30, 1939
     
    My Dearest Lillian,
    My words are so inadequate, but I have no other means to reach you. I know that circumstances dictate that we not have any contact with each other, but my conscience dictates that I at least attempt to reach you using whatever means I have to ask your forgiveness. I don’t know if I can live the rest of my life without it, so I must at least try.
    What happened was an accident.You were there and you know the desperate situation we were in, but the end result was the same.And for that, I cannot forgive myself but must rely on your clemency to release me from this guilt that claws at me every day without mercy.
    Forgive me, Lillian. Forgive me for loving too much and for trusting too much. With God’s mercy and your forgiveness I might have hope again. Dum vita est, spes est, remember?
    Please let me know that you have received this.You can send a message through Paul at the law offices. I see him often and I know that he can be trusted.
    Remember how happy we once were? How much is changed, Lillian. I don’t know if I can ever feel happy again after all that has happened. But with your forgiveness I know that I can try. Josie always told us that the more we loved, the more we lost of ourselves. I think she’s right. I’ve lost so much that I don’t think I can ever find myself again.
     
    Your friend forever, Annabelle
    I read the letter three times, trying to hear my grandmother’s voice, the one I remembered from my childhood, but couldn’t. Who was this Lillian? And Josie? And what had my grandmother done that was so horrible that she was begging for forgiveness? If I hadn’t recognized her handwriting, I would have denied it was written by her. This young woman in the letter was passionate and forceful. The grandmother I knew was neither.
    Slowly, I slid the opener into the second envelope and pulled out the letter and began to read.
    December 15, 1939
     
    My dearest friend,
    My first three letters to you have been returned to me