He inhales and then lets the breath out slowly. “It was made to look like a robbery gone wrong, but it was a retaliatory act bythe brother of a convicted man I sent to the gallows. I could not prove it.”
“I am so sorry.”
He shakes his head as if to deflect my sympathy, because to accept it would open a wound still struggling to heal, I’m guessing.
“I... I hope happiness returns to you someday,” I say as respectfully as I can.
I want him to know that I understand too well how hard it is to walk the path of loss. And even as I say such words to him, I see my life being given back to me by this man who has also known injustice. I see my little house at the Loralei as a hope-filled place where quiet Kat can fully find her voice again within the great circle of affection for her there. I see Belinda and Elliot marrying and adding to their family little brothers and sisters for Sarah. I see myself learning to trust in humanity again, and maybe even in the love of a good man. I have been reminded today that truly good men do exist.
I see myself atoning for the mistakes I have made by doing good whenever I can, for whomever I can. I see my mam emigrating to America with the promise of a job at the Loralei and Kat being wrapped in her grandmotherly embrace. I see myself keeping the handkerchief that sealed my pardon close to my bosom, to remind me that I am still the girl my da loved, still the sister Sophie clung to at night when she was afraid, still the mother of the blossom baby I would have named Juliet. I am that person and more. I am Mam to Kat. Auntie to Sarah. Friend to Belinda and Elliot. Confidante of a benevolent U.S. marshal, a good man I know I shall never see again.
“Good-bye.” Ambrose Logan starts to leave, but I touch his arm to stop him.
He turns.
“It’s pronounced ‘Seer-sha,’” I tell him.
He tips his head slightly. “What is?”
“My name.”
A glimmer of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hocking.”
He opens the door to the police department, and I turn from him to face the wide horizon of so many lives rising from ashes.
Epilogue
Carson City, Nevada
1926
The courtroom brims with family members of the victim, journalists, and—like the woman in the third row—the curious. A verdict has been reached, and those in the gallery are eager for the jury to return to their seats.
The man accused of murder is sitting with his back to the spectators. The woman can see that his hair is graying now and that it has lost some of its wave. She wouldn’t have recognized him from this angle. She has not yet seen his face.
It was the photograph in a Nevada newspaper of a man charged with poisoning his wife that caught her eye. She is in Carson City only to attend a wedding. She wouldn’t have known of the Clayton Sharpe trial concluding today if she had not glanced at the newspaper at the hotel’s breakfast table. She had known it washim the instant she saw the photograph. She would know those eyes anywhere.
All through the years, she had wondered if he was still alive. Mam told her when she was still a young girl that the San Francisco Police had long ago believed him to be dead. But there had been no body. They had held no funeral. He didn’t feel dead to her. He didn’t feel alive, either. She hasn’t spoken of him in as long as she can remember.
When she was twelve, Mam married a man from San Rafaela who owned a vineyard and who asked her to call him by any name she wanted. She has always called him Da because it makes Mam and Gram smile when she does and because she loves Sam like a father. He has always loved her like a daughter. She never thinks about this other man anymore. But she wonders now why he is still using names that do not belong to him, and why he lies, and why he likes to hurt people.
She’s not sure if she should tell anyone about this when she returns home. Perhaps she will tell Victor, who is at home with their eighteen-month-old son. Perhaps only him.
If Clayton Sharpe is convicted, he will be executed. The newspaper stated it is what the prosecutors have asked for. He will hang. In that case, nothing will change for her and Mam and Belinda, will it? Perhaps if he is found not guilty she will have a decision to make, because then he will be free. She contemplates what she will do if the jury does not convict him. She contemplates how she will feel if it does.
The room is called to order as the judge takes his seat, and then the jury is brought in. The bailiff hands the jury’s decision to the judge. He looks at the piece of paper and then hands it back. The accused man is ordered to stand. She watches him rise from hischair unsteadily, using a cane for balance. One leg appears to be slightly shorter than the other.
The decision is read aloud.
Clayton Sharpe has been found guilty of first-degree murder in the death of Bernice Templeton Sharpe and is sentenced therefore to death by hanging.
Cries of elation and relief erupt in the gallery. She feels nothing more than a pinch of sadness for what could have been if this man had been someone else. But he was who he was.
She watches as the condemned man is prepared to be escorted out of the courtroom. As he turns, he casts his gaze across the gallery and their eyes meet. It’s been twenty years, but it appears he would know her eyes anywhere, too.
A crooked jawline produces a lopsided grin that is disturbingly attractive. “Kitty Kat,” he murmurs.
She does not smile back. She holds up her left hand as if to adjust her collar but it is so that he can see the wedding band around her ring finger. It is the only way she can think of to tell him that despite all that he did to her, she’s been loved every day since she last saw him. Every day. They all have.
