“Exactly. After it came on, I started thinking about my dad’s arrest.”
Luke sat directly across from her, hands resting on his thighs.
“It troubles me that I wasn’t around at the time of Carla’s death,” Finley continued. “I really don’t know anything about the days leading up to it.”
“I understand why that would be upsetting,” June said. “What would you like to know?”
“Carla died on a Sunday. Do either of you know how he spent his time the day before that? Or the day before that?”
“I’m afraid that I don’t,” June said. “Robbie? I know the two of you went somewhere together a day or two before Carla passed away.”
“Yes. The day before.” He finished slicing a sliver of ham. “Ed had come across a horse he was interested in acquiring. So we drove down, took a look at it, and drove home. He didn’t end up buying the horse, but we had a great time. We laughed, we ate barbecue, we talked. When we were in Ed’s truck, we listened to that talk radio he liked so much.”
“Do you remember where you drove for the horse? And what kind of horse it was?” Finley asked. “I’d like to be able to picture his last free day.”
“It was a bay quarter horse. Down near Macon.”
Macon was more than two hours from Hartwell. Finley pulled thoughtfully on her earlobe. “Where did you guys eat barbecue?”
“Satterfield’s.”
“Are you a fan of barbecue, Luke?” June peered at him like a freshman girl peers at the high school quarterback.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” June said warmly, “then I guess I won’t have to revoke your citizenship in the state of Georgia.”
Unfortunately, none of the details Robbie had provided seemed clue-worthy, and she couldn’t think of any other questions to ask about Dad and Robbie’s whereabouts that wouldn’t make her line of questioning seem suspicious.
An hour later, the coffee maker happily percolated decaf as June slid cobbler from the oven.
Finley had told Robbie about Luke’s fondness for classic cars. As expected, Robbie had offered to show Luke his sports car. They’d gone to the garage, effectively providing Finley a private moment with June.
“Talking about my dad earlier jogged another memory,” Finley said to her aunt.
“Oh?”
“One of the times I visited him in prison we talked about his poetry. He mentioned that you had one of his poems.”
“Yes! As you know, I was always a fan of his poetry.”
“May I see the one you have?”
“Absolutely.” June slipped off her oven mitts and gestured for Finley to follow. “I tucked it away for safekeeping.”
They made their way upstairs to the reading room connected to the master bedroom. June knelt before her bookshelf and slid her fingers along the spines of her journals, which were arranged by year. For as long as Finley had known her, her aunt had kept her household well-organized. Winter accessories in labeled bins. Pictures in scrapbooks. Prayer requests and mementos in her journals.
She pulled out the journal belonging to the year of Dad’s arrest and flipped through it until she located a folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Finley.
The poem was titled “Carla.”
You.
A woman of feelings. Deep and rich.
Of songs. Loss and hope.
Of dreams. Found and faded.
