of his work, he’d said, but mostly because his son’s long attachment to Miss Clark confounded him. It seemed Tate had never had feelings for any other girl, and even as a grown, professional man, he still loved this strange, mysterious woman. A woman now accused of murder.
Then, that noon, standing on his boat, nets pooled around his boots, Scupper breathed out heavily. His face blazed with shame as he realized that he—like some of the ignorant villagers—had been prejudiced against Kya because she had grown up in the marsh. He remembered Tate proudly showing him Kya’s first book on shells and how Scupper himself was taken aback by her scientific and artistic prowess. He had bought himself a copy of each of her books but hadn’t mentioned that to Tate. What bullshit.
He was so proud of his son, how he had always known what he wanted and how to achieve it. Well, Kya had done the same against much bigger odds.
How could he not be there for Tate? Nothing mattered except supporting his son. He dropped the net at his feet, left the boat wallowing against the pier, and walked directly to the courthouse.
When he reached the first row, Jodie, Jumpin’, and Mabel stood to allow him to squeeze by and sit next to Tate. Father and son nodded at each other, and tears swelled in Tate’s eyes.
Tom Milton waited for Scupper to sit, the silence in the room complete, then said, “Your Honor, the defense calls Robert Foster.” Dressed in a tweed jacket, tie, and khaki pants, Mr. Foster was trim, of medium height, and had a neat beard and kind eyes. Tom asked his name and occupation.
“My name is Robert Foster, and I’m a senior editor for Harrison Morris Publishing Company in Boston, Massachusetts.” Kya, hand to her forehead, stared at the floor. Her editor was the only person she knew who didn’t think of her as the Marsh Girl, who had respected her, even seemed awed at her knowledge and talent. Now he was in court seeing her at the defendant’s table, charged with murder.
“Are you the editor for Miss Catherine Clark’s books?”
“Yes, I am. She is a very talented naturalist, artist, and writer. One of our favorite authors.”
“Can you confirm that you traveled to Greenville, North Carolina, on October 28, 1969, and that you had meetings with Miss Clark on both the twenty-ninth and the thirtieth?”
“That is correct. I was attending a small conference there, and knew I would have some extra time while in town but wouldn’t have enough time to travel to her place, so I invited Miss Clark to Greenville so we could meet.”
“Can you tell us the exact time that you drove her back to her motel on the night of October 29, last year?”
“After our meetings, we dined at the hotel and then I drove Kya back to her motel at 9:55 P.M.”
Kya recalled standing on the threshold of the dining room, filled with candlelit tables under soft chandeliers. Tall wineglasses on white tablecloths. Stylishly dressed diners conversed in quiet voices, while she wore the plain skirt and blouse. She and Robert dined on almond-crusted North Carolina trout, wild rice, creamed spinach, and yeast rolls. Kya felt comfortable as he kept the conversation going with easy grace, sticking to subjects about nature familiar to her.
Remembering it now, she was astonished how she had carried it off. But in fact, the restaurant, with all its glitter, wasn’t nearly as grand as her favorite picnic. When she was fifteen, Tate had boated to her shack one dawn, and, after he’d wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, they cruised inland through a maze of waterways to a forest she’d never seen. They hiked a mile to the edge of a waterlogged meadow where fresh grass sprouted through mud, and there he laid the blanket under ferns as large as umbrellas.
“Now we wait,” he’d said, as he poured hot tea from a thermos and offered her “coon balls,” a baked mixture of biscuit dough, hot sausage, and sharp cheddar cheese he had cooked for the occasion. Even now in this cold courtroom setting, she remembered the warmth of his shoulders touching hers under the blanket, as they nibbled and sipped the breakfast picnic.
They didn’t have to wait long. Moments later, a ruckus as loud as cannons sounded from the north. “Here they come,” Tate had said.
A thin, black cloud appeared on the horizon and, as it moved toward them, it soared skyward. The shrieking