Chapter 35

I made short shrift of the remaining boxes and their contents, finding some lovely, though undoubtedly old, cutwork table linens, embroidered handkerchiefs and pillowcases, as well as a multitude of crocheted doilies and place mats, all carefully stored in tissue paper.

Having never seen Mattie do needlework of any kind, I assumed that what I was holding had been done in her salad days growing up in her old Kentucky home. Perhaps she had kept them as mementos of her family’s once prosperous holdings, along with some of the fine furniture with which Diane was more and more impressed. But crocheted doilies? If that was the kind of memento that Andrew Cobb wanted, as far as I was concerned, he could have them.

Then, with a deep and hopeful breath, I got down to it. I confess that I’d been putting it off for fear of a great disappointment. But it was time, so I did it.

Putting aside the albums and boxes, I rose to my feet and marched back to the almost empty closet—no light, of course. I’d already searched diligently for a hanging cord to no avail. I leaned over so I wouldn’t crack my head on the shelf above and crept to the far corner, feeling my way as I went. And there it was, a small—about the size of a one-drawer file cabinet—unassuming safe covered by a tapestry. Feeling around in the dark, I found the dial on the front.

Etta Mae, I thought, you smart girl, you.

Delighted with the find and eager to try the combination she’d given me, I tried to slide the safe out of the closet. It wouldn’t budge. There was nothing for it but to get on my knees so I could see the dial.

That didn’t work, either, because I almost couldn’t get off my knees. Finally backing out of the closet, I tore through the apartment, hoping to find a flashlight. I could’ve run down the hall and borrowed one from Mr. Wheeler, but I didn’t want him coming back with me, insisting on helping. Whatever Mattie had valued enough to place in a safe that she hid the combination to in a bank was going to be my find and my secret. Whatever was in the safe could possibly justify the many bequests she’d made, as well as purchase a huge air-conditioning unit.

I jerked open kitchen drawers, frantically searching for a flashlight, all the time wondering what could be in the safe. Stock certificates? Jewelry? Deeds to the family farm? Cash from illicit deals? My imagination was running away with me.

Finally I found a flashlight—a small one with a weak battery—which I turned off to save what power was left. Then I scrambled through my pocketbook for the scratch paper on which I’d jotted down the combination that Etta Mae had phoned in to me.

With shaking hands and great trepidation of further disappointment, I crawled back into the closet, hunched down, and began to turn the dial, first left to seven, then right to ten, then left to twenty-three, then right to ten again. Then I pulled down on the handle—and it opened.

I sat back on my heels and stared at the open door, hardly daring to look inside.

Well, for goodness’ sake, I thought, what’s holding you back now?

With the flashlight on its last legs, I felt around inside, surprised at how little space was in such a heavy safe. But a little space was all that was needed, for there was only a shirt box on the one shelf.

Holding the box carefully, I backed out of the closet, sat on the bed, and looked at what I had. The once white box was tied with twine, and a logo from Rich’s in Atlanta was on the front. When, I wondered, had Mattie shopped at Rich’s? But I couldn’t answer because there was a lot about Mattie that I hadn’t known. A long-ago trip to Atlanta was only a tiny part of a long life.

Holding the box from Rich’s on my lap, I brushed away the dust around the edges, and picked open the knot in the twine. Then I lifted the lid and found a layer of cotton, which I carefully removed. Under the cotton I found what felt like a framed picture wrapped in a swath of fine, soft flannel and lying on another layer of cotton. I lifted it out—it was about eight inches by twelve inches, perhaps a little larger—but I was reluctant to remove the flannel. I sat there holding it, sure of what I’d find and, knowing what I knew of the future, I could hardly bring myself to look at it. I pictured that young Tommy in his army uniform, a cap set jauntily on his head, with an encouraging smile for his bride who was so many miles away, both actually and otherwise. For it would’ve been taken, I assumed, after he’d spent months in prison and after Mattie was back in her father’s home and before he headed overseas. How she had come to have it, I didn’t know. Maybe his family had taken pity on her grief and had slipped it to her after his death.

Teary eyed with the thought of it, I almost put the picture, unwrapped and undisturbed, back in its box and turned to something else. I’m glad I didn’t.

Steeling myself against the compassion that welled up for what could have been but hadn’t, I unwound the flannel wrapping to discover . . . The breath caught in my throat. It was not a photograph, browned by age, of an army private, or even an enlarged wedding picture to set on a mantel—it was the most remarkable thing I’d ever seen.

_______

I’d never seen anything like it. Well, yes, I had viewed some of the same kind at a museum display, but none of the same quality. I sat and studied the framed sampler for the longest time, for the longer I looked at it, the more I saw in it. Even though a glass pane covered it in its simple frame, I could tell upon close inspection that the background was silk and the embroidery done in silk floss—that was high quality right there. Silk on silk, I thought, and was amazed that such delicate materials were in such good condition. There was no fraying or pulled stitches or faded colors. Everyone who had owned it, including Mattie, must’ve known the care it needed. A framer’s sticker on the back, placed there years before, assured me that the sampler was mounted as it should have been on an acid-free mat and covered by a special type of glass.

But the sampler itself! My word, it was a wonder. There were two borders done in a variety of difficult stitches—I knew because I’d done some embroidery years before and had always ended up with a soiled tea towel full of dropped stitches and crooked letters. I recognized the blanket, cable, feathered chain, padded satin, and herringbone stitches, plus some French knots, but there were many that were so intricate, I couldn’t put names to them.

In the center, a large rectangular monument had been stitched—a tombstone on which the words Sacred to Memory had been inscribed. The figure of a man in a black frock coat and a high stock at the throat stood in profile beside the tomb. He held a large white handkerchief in one hand. Two small children—the girl in a full dress with pantaloons and the boy dressed similarly to the man, even to the black coat—played nearby. I leaned over to see the figures up close and, yes, just as I thought. The flesh color of the faces and hands had not been stitched in. They had been painted onto the silk with gentle strokes of a brush, the features carefully delineated.

Two weeping willow trees framed the scene—typical, I knew, of funerary art of the period. Shrubs and bushes surrounded the scene, and as I studied the variety of stitches and shades of green that made the greenery so realistic, I was amazed to see figures of small animals—a rabbit, a squirrel, and maybe a fox—emerge from under the leaves.

In the middle of the sampler, below the tombstone and above the two rows of the alphabet, I read the name of the creator of this example of extraordinary stitchery:

Wrought by Henrietta Cobb

In the sixteenth year of her life

1787

And under that in running stitches were the following words:

Comes the sun after the rain,

After the night, the morning.

As I turned the framed piece just the tiniest bit, the greenery shimmered and moved as if a small breeze had brushed past, and in one corner I discovered a single blooming flower—a peony, perhaps. And, perhaps, a symbol of Henrietta’s hope.

I don’t know how long I sat there holding what I recognized as a sampler of uncommon age and of the highest quality of needlework art. How had it come into Mattie’s possession—she, who had been in discord with her family and who had defied not only her father but the law? She, who had been brought home in shame to await the return of her husband in a casket? I didn’t know, and likely never would.

But there was this one thing that I did know: the value of Mattie’s estate had just gone up. Way, way up.