Because I suddenly understood something.
June smiled the way people smile when they’ve learned that feelings are a luxury they can’t afford.
“Can we talk?”
Her smile disappeared.
Immediately.
“Did I do something wrong?”
There it was again.
That fear.
That immediate assumption that she was the problem.
“No.”
I paused.
“Actually, I need you to answer some questions.”
She slowly nodded.
“About what?”
“Clara.”
That name changed everything.
The color drained from June’s face.
The coffee pot continued dripping behind her.
One drop.
Then another.
But she remained still.
“You knew my wife.”
It wasn’t a question.
June lowered her eyes.
“Yes.”
“How?”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“She found me.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
June looked toward the window.
Outside, snow covered the garden.
White.
Quiet.
Almost peaceful.
“She found me when I needed someone.”
Four years earlier.
Before June ever worked in my house.
Before I had learned her name.
Before I had ever noticed the exhaustion in her eyes.
June Carter had been drowning.
