“Then you should give them to the real heroine,” Carley said gently, and fetched Brooke from her room.
Tuesday, reporters for the Hattiesburg American, Clarion Ledger, Times Picayune, and Channel 7 were waiting outside Annabel Lee Café before opening. Because of the life-and-death struggle at the pond, each wanted to interview Carley. But she was quick to correct them. Her only intention that morning, she explained, was to stop a teenager from making a fool of, or killing, herself. Brooke’s intention was to find justice.
“You may have her for thirty minutes, if she’s willing,” Carley added, an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “And if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.”
She actually did not mind the commotion. It was good to have a distraction, to keep her mind from wandering in an unpleasant direction.
Newly appointed Chief of Police, Garland Smith, stopped by the café to say Dale had hired a Hattiesburg attorney and that the Lamar County prosecutor would be presenting evidence against him in front of the grand jury in two weeks.
Thank you, Father, for protecting me from that man, Carley prayed silently.
Knocks sounded at Carley’s door when she and Brooke were attempting to ease back into their normal evening routines—she at the computer filling in an invoice register, Brooke at the coffee table finishing an algebra self-quiz.
“Please don’t be a reporter,” Carley said in low voice as she got to her feet.
“Unless he’s cute,” Brooke said, chewing on her pencil.
It felt good to laugh again. Carley pressed her face against the glass. Steve Underwood stood in the dim amber light pouring out onto the porch.
“I thought Thanksgiving vacation didn’t start until Thursday,” Carley said as she let him inside.
“It doesn’t. But when Mom called, I had to come.”
“Hi, Mr. Steve!” Brooke chirped.
“Hi, Brooke. My mom says you’re all over the news. I didn’t even realize.” He turned again to Carley, “Are you all right?”
She smiled. “We’re getting there.”
“I’m glad.”
Their eyes locked. He seemed on the verge of embracing her, but then he glanced over at Brooke and cleared his throat. “I was worried…”
“Thank you.” Impulsively, Carley reached for his hand. “I’ll bet you haven’t had supper.”
He smiled as his fingers, calloused from years of familiarity with woodworking tools, folded over hers. “Well, no…I planned to stop by Dixie Burger.”
She exchanged smiles with Brooke and began leading him through the living room.
“Please stay. We have six casseroles from the ladies of Mount Olive Church.”
Epilogue
The Lamar County Grand Jury found enough evidence to indict Dale Parker. To escape the certainty of first-degree murder convictions, he pleaded guilty to felony hit-and-run, two cases of second-degree murder, and one count of attempted murder. Carley did not even have to testify beyond giving her statement to the county attorney. As part of his plea bargain, Dale was sent to a federal correctional institution in Coleman, Florida.
When the crime lab released Tracy and Rick’s remains in early December, Steve accompanied Carley and Brooke and Melvin Kimball to a tiny Baptist church in Soso for Tracy’s funeral. Rick’s was held in Lockwood Funeral Home two days later. Out of respect for her landlord, Carley was one of the handful of attendees.
Mona Bryant, dressed in black, drew Carley aside after the burial in Tallulah Cemetery. “I’m sorry I weren’t any help when you were looking.”
“But you were. You gave me his social security number and birth date.”
Mona gave her a dry smile. “The private eye Dad hired three years ago said it looked like Rick had got himself a new identity. But if I told you that, your man would know to start from there instead of backtracking. I was afraid you’d find him.”
“But, why? Wouldn’t you have wanted child support?”
“He would’ve found some way to get out of it.” She shrugged. “That’s the sort of things he did. We were gonna let seven years pass and try to have him declared dead for the insurance. Now we don’t have to. And I’d better get back to my boy.”
Emmit merely nodded at her, but he did visit Carley in her office three days later. “Thank you for helpin’ us put this behind us,” he said. “You can have the same rent, for as long as you want.”
In this case, Carley did not remind him that Brooke was the true heroine.
****
Five months later, Brooke was awarded her General Education Diploma and scored a surprising twenty-three on her ACT. She was still putting most of her salary away for nurses’ training, so she spent the five-thousand-dollar reward on a lemon yellow 1999 Dodge Neon, and the five hundred dollars from the Lion’s Club Citizen of the Year award on her first six months’ insurance.
Steve and Carley had had five dates since November, and he telephoned from Hattiesburg almost every week. She did not have to give him the “friendship” speech, for he seemed to understand her caution instinctively. But she liked him very much and could tell he felt the same way about her. Sometimes she found herself counting the weeks until he would be back in Tallulah for the summer.
Annabel Lee Café attracted even more patrons than before, perhaps due to Carley and Brooke’s notoriety. The hours stayed the same. Almost losing her life had given Carley an understanding of where career should fit on the priority scale.
Certainly not before family, and having the two days off each week gave her time to be with them.
And not before worship. She had made peace with God. While she would never wish to go back and relive the wretched portions of her life, they were part of the sum total that made her who she was.
Her favorite poet, Longfellow, himself a Christian, had captured her newfound sentiments over a hundred and fifty years ago in his poem The Ladder of Saint Augustine.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
A path to higher destinies.
Nor doom the irrevocable Past,
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
LAWANA BLACKWELL is a full-time writer with eleven published novels, including the bestselling GRESHAM CHRONICLES series. She and her husband have three grown sons and live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Books by Lawana Blackwell
A Table by the Window
THE GRESHAM CHRONICLES
The Widow of Larkspur Inn
The Courtship of the Vicar’s Daughter
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark
TALES OF LONDON
The Maiden of Mayfair
Catherine’s Heart
Leading Lady
Visit www.lawanablackwell.com
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