Free The Lost Saints of Tennessee by Amy Franklin-Willis Page A

It’s a fine view.”
    â€œWhere you headed?” Before I can respond he continues. “I’m Washington, DC–bound. Taking the long way round to get there. Wife died three months ago. God rest her soul. I’m ready to see the country. Know what I mean?”
    What must it be like to be eighty-something and starting out the rest of your life alone? Maybe not much different from being almost forty-three and alone. Only the prospect of fewer years of solitude waiting for you.
    â€œLook at me forgetting my manners.” He reaches out a hand. “Grayson L. Kenilworth. The second.” He winks. “Might as well tell you all my secrets.”
    We shake hands. A semi barrels past in the northbound lanes.
    â€œSon of a bitch, those suckers are loud.” Mr. Kenilworth shakes his head as if trying to clear out the sound. He looks heavenward. “Mrs. Kenilworth didn’t approve of swearing. But we won’t tell, right?”
    He asks again where I’m headed. I wait a few seconds before replying, wanting to make sure he’s done talking first.
    â€œVirginia. Outside Charlottesville. Little place called Bailey.”
    â€œI know Bailey. Sure do. Pretty country out there.” A fly lands on Mr. Kenilworth’s large left ear and he swats at it.
    â€œBailey is old Virginia. Wouldn’t figure you for the foxhunting type,” he says. “And I mean that as a compliment, son.”
    Tucker wanders into view, eliciting a laugh from Mr. Kenilworth. “That’s surely not a hunting dog. No way, no how.”
    The dog ignores him and stands by my side, unsure. The man is right about Bailey. From what I remember, every­body on Tall Oaks Road owned enough horses to run their own Kentucky Derby. Cousin Georgia and Osborne were two of the few residents who didn’t participate in the hunt. They got up on horses only when they wanted to explore the farm. Cousin Georgia said she could think of no bigger waste of time than chasing a poor fox like mad through the trees with a bunch of half-drunk snobs who thought they were better than everybody else because their great-great-great-great-­grandfather settled Jamestown.
    â€œI’ve got family out there. Cousins.”
    â€œHorsey types?”
    I shake my head. “They’ve got a farm. It’s a working farm. At least it was when I was last there.”
    â€œWhen was that, son?”
    â€œNineteen sixty.”
    He lets out a sound that is either a belch or a laugh. Or both. “Nineteen sixty? You’ve got some catching up to do once you get there, don’t you?”
    At five minutes after nine o’clock, we pull into a Motel 6 outside of Charlottesville. By the time I settle in the room, it’s too late to call Cousin Georgia. I grab the fat phone book off the nightstand and search for her number. It doesn’t take long to find Osborne Lacey. The last time I spoke to either one of them was after Louisa was born. They sent a baby outfit, and after weeks of Jackie nagging me, I called Georgia to say thank you. She kept saying I should bring the family out for a visit. Told me she and Osborne still thought about me every time they passed by my old room. We never went, though. Too busy mostly, but I also think I wasn’t ready to go back. Lacey Farms marked the spot for what life had been like before—when the University of Virginia was my future—and what came after.
    Thunderstorms move in and make trouble all night. Scared to death of them since he was a puppy, Tucker leans himself against me the whole night and whimpers nonstop. Sleep never quite comes for either of us, so when the sun touches the room’s dingy brown curtains, I go ahead and get up. Outside, the only sign of the night’s weather is a few random tree branches scattered across the parking lot. By six thirty I’m showered and shaved. If Cousin Georgia keeps the same hours she used to, she should be