Page 99 of The Nature of Fragile Things
He furrows his brow like he doesn’t understand.
Because he doesn’t.
Mam told her this. Ages ago. Before he disappeared from their lives like a phantom.
He doesn’t know the way of love.
And then he is gone from the room and people begin to stand and talk to one another.
The journalist sitting next to her turns to her. “Did he just say ‘kitty cat’ to you? Do you know him?” His tone is incredulous and his notepad is open for her answer.
“I’ve never met Clayton Sharpe,” she replies with a start.
“But he said ‘kitty cat’ to you just now. I heard him.”
She is about to answer that she does not know the man when the older gentleman sitting next to her on her other side says, “The lady has kindly told you she has never met Clayton Sharpe.”
The journalist shakes his head, and as he stands to leave, he shoves his tablet and pencil in his pocket.
Kat turns in her seat to face the man who came to her aid. He is a bit older than Sam—early fifties, she thinks. His brown hair is flecked with gray, and he is wearing plain clothes, but a law enforcement badge of some kind is pinned to his vest pocket and is peeking out from under his suit coat.
“Thank you,” she says.
“I, too, have never met Clayton Sharpe, but I’ve been looking forward to seeing him in a court of law for a long time.”
Kat says nothing.
“I am a U.S. marshal,” the man says, opening one side of his coat briefly and showing her the badge. “I knew this man by a different name many years ago. I was in San Francisco then, several months after that terrible earthquake.” His kind gaze is intent on her now, and the room suddenly feels too small, the walls too close.
He is looking at her with a gaze that speaks words she is meant to understand. And she does.
“I’m afraid I must go,” Kat says, rising to her feet, the blood in her veins rushing. “I’ve a friend’s wedding to attend.”
He rises as well. Quickly. “Will you be all right?” he says gently, and he nods ever so slightly toward the door where Clayton Sharpe exited the courtroom. Kat stares at the U.S. marshal for a long moment. Somehow this man knows why Clayton Sharpecalled her “Kitty Kat.” But there’s something about the fatherly way the marshal is looking at her that makes her want to answer him rather than abruptly take her leave. The marshal knows what the convicted man did to her all those years ago, and to people she loves.
He knows.
“I will be fine,” she replies, matching his soothing tone. “Iamfine. I don’t know Clayton Sharpe. He is a stranger to me.”
The marshal smiles. He looks relieved. Satisfied. “Good day to you, then, madam.”
She moves away from him and the gallery chairs and steps out into the aisle. She pauses a second, and then turns toward the marshal. “And a good day to you, too, sir.” Then she faces the oak doors that lead to the world outside.
Kat walks briskly out of the courthouse and into the golden afternoon.
