approval. Katherine places a kiss upon her cheek and refuses to glance back over her shoulder. Bennett will find her soon enough. Bennett will come, but she has Lottie.
“Wait until we get to where we’re going,” Katherine promises, and now Lottie laughs a brilliant, hiccuping laugh, as if she’s already imagining the wonders of the view, as if she has it within her power to keep her keeper safe.
A T THE TOP OF THE STEPS , K ATHERINE TURNS AND FINDS Bennett, taller than she remembers, his eyes searching hers. After so much running, Katherine simply yields; she will not be chased any farther. He is a beautiful man, not a handsome one. It hurts to stand here and see him.
“A baby?” Bennett asks, leaning in close, forcing her to lean closer to him.
“A friend’s baby,” Katherine says.
He smells of strawberries and yeast, of a long city day, of leftover flour. He looks vastly ruined in the sky space of his eyes. At the funeral he’d worn his father’s overcoat, had stood there, ravaged, no one beside him, an only child like Katherine is now an only child; both of them chilled through. Even Katherine, who’d refused to meet his eyes, to acknowledge him at all, could see how violently he was shaking. How sorry he was.
“I saw you at the streetcar stop,” Bennett says. “Earlier today.”
“You’ve been chasing me,” Katherine says, “for a long time.” She shifts Lottie in her arms and stares past Bennettat the accumulating crowd, the too many who have come aloft to get the greater view of Philadelphia, who have never even thought, she’s sure, of spreading their wings and flying.
“I wrote you letters.”
“I couldn’t read them.”
“I waited for you in the square.”
She glares at him.
“I understand you better than you think.”
“You do
not.”
Suddenly the ache and sorrow, the self-recrimination and regret ball up inside her, rage through. “You
could
not. Not possibly.” Her fury is sudden, incisive, but Bennett endures, takes it. He has lost something, too. She won’t let that matter. His heart is broken. It’s her own heart that she’s stuck living with, not his. A long time goes by. Lottie punches out her little fist and Katherine kisses her forehead. She waits for Bennett, and Bennett waits, too, gathering his words.
“There is something you should know,” he says finally, his voice falling far below the tenor of the organ, which has tuned itself up and is blasting a song. “Just one thing, Katherine, and you’ll never need to see me again. I promise.”
“You’ve made other promises.”
“This one will last.”
“I don’t trust you for a second, Bennett.”
“Just listen and I’ll leave.”
“Anna’s gone.” Katherine leans toward him now. “Youwere there. You let it happen.” What she says is not true. She knows it but stands by her words.
“I could not stop what happened from happening,” Bennett says as if there’s a difference, and with his eyes he asks,
Is there a difference?
and suddenly Katherine imagines that he has chased her all this time, hunted her down, to find out the answer to that question. To be made safe from asking it only of himself. He is a beautiful man, and beauty breaks, and he is broken.
“You stole her from me,” Katherine says, and she doesn’t mean at the river in February, she means all the days before, the barricaded intimacy, the secrets that Katherine was forced to keep, because,
No, Bennett, if you want to know: no
. Katherine never did confide in her father, never would confide in her mother. Katherine never said,
Anna was in love with that boy who was with her at the river. Anna was in love, and he did not save her. Anna was in love, and I knew it, and I did not save her
. Anna is gone, and this is all that Katherine still can give her—her secret kept, from now through eternity. Katherine and Bennett are the only two people alive who know what sort of love theirs was, and this binds them. Lottie is a warm
“Wait until we get to where we’re going,” Katherine promises, and now Lottie laughs a brilliant, hiccuping laugh, as if she’s already imagining the wonders of the view, as if she has it within her power to keep her keeper safe.
A T THE TOP OF THE STEPS , K ATHERINE TURNS AND FINDS Bennett, taller than she remembers, his eyes searching hers. After so much running, Katherine simply yields; she will not be chased any farther. He is a beautiful man, not a handsome one. It hurts to stand here and see him.
“A baby?” Bennett asks, leaning in close, forcing her to lean closer to him.
“A friend’s baby,” Katherine says.
He smells of strawberries and yeast, of a long city day, of leftover flour. He looks vastly ruined in the sky space of his eyes. At the funeral he’d worn his father’s overcoat, had stood there, ravaged, no one beside him, an only child like Katherine is now an only child; both of them chilled through. Even Katherine, who’d refused to meet his eyes, to acknowledge him at all, could see how violently he was shaking. How sorry he was.
“I saw you at the streetcar stop,” Bennett says. “Earlier today.”
“You’ve been chasing me,” Katherine says, “for a long time.” She shifts Lottie in her arms and stares past Bennettat the accumulating crowd, the too many who have come aloft to get the greater view of Philadelphia, who have never even thought, she’s sure, of spreading their wings and flying.
“I wrote you letters.”
“I couldn’t read them.”
“I waited for you in the square.”
She glares at him.
“I understand you better than you think.”
“You do
not.”
Suddenly the ache and sorrow, the self-recrimination and regret ball up inside her, rage through. “You
could
not. Not possibly.” Her fury is sudden, incisive, but Bennett endures, takes it. He has lost something, too. She won’t let that matter. His heart is broken. It’s her own heart that she’s stuck living with, not his. A long time goes by. Lottie punches out her little fist and Katherine kisses her forehead. She waits for Bennett, and Bennett waits, too, gathering his words.
“There is something you should know,” he says finally, his voice falling far below the tenor of the organ, which has tuned itself up and is blasting a song. “Just one thing, Katherine, and you’ll never need to see me again. I promise.”
“You’ve made other promises.”
“This one will last.”
“I don’t trust you for a second, Bennett.”
“Just listen and I’ll leave.”
“Anna’s gone.” Katherine leans toward him now. “Youwere there. You let it happen.” What she says is not true. She knows it but stands by her words.
“I could not stop what happened from happening,” Bennett says as if there’s a difference, and with his eyes he asks,
Is there a difference?
and suddenly Katherine imagines that he has chased her all this time, hunted her down, to find out the answer to that question. To be made safe from asking it only of himself. He is a beautiful man, and beauty breaks, and he is broken.
“You stole her from me,” Katherine says, and she doesn’t mean at the river in February, she means all the days before, the barricaded intimacy, the secrets that Katherine was forced to keep, because,
No, Bennett, if you want to know: no
. Katherine never did confide in her father, never would confide in her mother. Katherine never said,
Anna was in love with that boy who was with her at the river. Anna was in love, and he did not save her. Anna was in love, and I knew it, and I did not save her
. Anna is gone, and this is all that Katherine still can give her—her secret kept, from now through eternity. Katherine and Bennett are the only two people alive who know what sort of love theirs was, and this binds them. Lottie is a warm
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