Chapter 37

Well, that put a whole different light on the matter. I leaned back in my chair and blew out my breath. “So she doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on, does she?”

“No’m, but she got something better’n a legal leg. She got the Reverend Abernathy, an’ he standin’ for her. Though he right surprised when he hear how they been livin’. But he don’t let that stop him, ’cause he say the church oughta take that house like the will say, then give it right back to Miss Bessie—free an’ clear. He say that the Christian thing to do, ’cause nothin’ good come from takin’ a widder woman’s house out from under her.”

I couldn’t help but recall the desolation I’d felt when I learned that Wesley Lloyd Springer’s will made no provision for me, even after forty-some-odd years of legal cohabitation. Of course, the state of North Carolina came to my rescue, but what a comfort it would’ve been to have had the Reverend Abernathy by my side at that time.

I nodded to encourage Lillian to go on with the rest of it.

She crossed her arms on the table and leaned over. “See, Miss Julia, the reverend, he say it don’t matter if she not a real widder woman. She be jus’ as good as. An’ the reverend, he get that happy look on his face an’ say maybe she write her own will an’ leave the house to the church when she pass. So ever’body come out doin’ good an’ not hurtin’ nobody.”

“The Reverend Abernathy is a good man,” I said, “and I hope the deacons . . . Oh,” I said, looking up at the sound of the doorbell, “that’s Diane. Come go up with us, Lillian.”

After greeting Diane at the front door, thanking her for coming, and introducing her to Lillian, I led the way down the hall and up the stairs for the unveiling. Along the way, I noticed Diane’s head turning from side to side, scanning the furniture in each room as we passed, evaluating and appraising as she went. I expect she couldn’t help it. It probably came naturally for her to pass judgment on any piece of furniture she saw, and I was quite proud of the quality of my home furnishings. They would stand up to anybody’s speculative eye.

“Here we are,” I said after retrieving the sampler box from under my winter gowns. Lillian, crossing her arms under her bosom, and Diane, setting down her large bag, gathered beside my bed as I unboxed and unwrapped the sampler. Then I placed it against a pillow so that Diane could get a good view of it. “What do you think?”

Diane leaned over, reached out so that her hand hovered over the glass, then she straightened up, her face flushed with excitement.

Then with both hands flapping as if she were fanning her face, Diane looked at me and cried, “Oh, oh! Oh! It’s . . . oh, it’s exquisite! A marvel! Where was this? How did you find it? Surely I didn’t overlook it.”

“Well, the way it happened was like this: I opened Mattie’s safe-deposit box at the bank and found absolutely nothing of value, except . . .”

But she wasn’t listening. “Oh, Julia, may I hold it? May I just hold it up close?”

“Of course, I want you to. Look at the details, Diane—you’ll see more every time you look. And the stitches, there’re some I’ve never seen before. And notice the skin tones on the figures—they’re painted in, not sewn. Mixed media, I think it’s called.”

Diane picked up the sampler, holding it as gingerly as she would a newborn baby. She brought it close to her face, her eyes running over every inch.

“I’d love to look at this under a microscope and a brighter light, but not sunlight. The colors haven’t faded at all—even after so many years—and I don’t want to ruin them now. Oh, Julia, this is unmatched! Absolutely unmatched. A marvelous example of funerary art!”

Funerary art, I thought, come to light only because of Mattie’s passing. Coincidentally? Or had Mattie counted on it being disinterred in the nick of time?

Diane whirled around to me. “You must keep it covered and safe. I understand your insistence on secrecy now, and you were right. I wouldn’t make any kind of announcement if I were you, to anybody. We need to get it to a textile expert who’ll take it out of the frame under the proper conditions and examine it for authenticity as to age and so on.” Then she flapped her free hand again and said, “I think I’m about to hyperventilate.”

Lillian turned toward the door. “I go get a paper bag.”

“It’s all right, Lillian,” I said, smiling. “She’s just excited. But, Diane, how and where will we find a textile expert? The closest thing to an expert around here just makes draperies.”

“Don’t worry. I have a list—they mostly work for museums. But I’ll start making some calls today. Oh, I can’t wait to tell them what I’ve found.”

Well, I was the one who had found it, but I let that pass.

I didn’t let the big question pass, though. “So, Diane, what do you think it’s worth?”

“Wait just a minute,” she said as she propped the sampler against the pillow again, then rummaged in her bag for a pencil and a notebook. And her camera. “I want to take some pictures. Then I’ll write down everything on it so they’ll know just what we have.”

So I waited as she took pictures of the sampler—some from a distance and others from up close to capture the details. Then she sketched the scene and drew arrows to the names of some of the stitches that she apparently recognized. She drew in the tomb, the man’s figure and those of the children, copied the inscriptions and the alphabet, and indicated where little animals peeked out from under the leaves. It seemed to take forever. I fidgeted, anxious to hear how far along on Mattie’s list of bequests the sampler might get me.

Certainly I appreciated the beauty, the age, and the uniqueness of the sampler, but when you get right down to it, it was its value that interested me the most. That’s what happens to one’s appreciation of art when a long list of bequests is made one’s responsibility.

“Okay, that’s it,” Diane said, stuffing her notebook and camera into her bag. “Oh, I can’t wait to get on the phone and tell somebody about this.”

I knew the feeling. “Diane, let me caution you now. Nobody, and I mean nobody—not Helen, not Mr. Wheeler, not your husband or your best friend, can know about this. The word would get around this town like wildfire, and I do not want to have to hire off-duty deputies to protect my home.” Especially from hot-under-the-collar-and-everywhere-else deacons who wanted an air-conditioning unit.

“No worries on that score,” Diane said, smiling at me. “The last thing we want is for word to get around. Then we’d begin to have speculations about its value, and who knows where that would lead. No, Julia, no one but out-of-town experts will hear a word from me.”

“Well, speaking of speculations about the value . . .” I said.

“I couldn’t begin to tell you. It will depend on its being authenticated, first of all, but I have no worries about that. Of course I don’t have much experience with textiles, but this has to be unique—because of its pristine condition, if nothing else. Then the next thing it will depend on is how many similar samplers Early American museums already have. I do think, however, that this has to be among the oldest—textiles don’t age well.” Diane paused and tapped her pencil against her cheek as she studied the sampler again. “And if it goes to auction, it will depend on who and how many museums and private collectors want it. If everything goes well, I’d venture it’ll bring at least forty thousand.”

“Forty . . . ? Good land above!” I stumbled back, stunned and lightheaded. “Lillian, I may need that paper bag.”

“It could go higher, depending,” Diane said, her excitement tempered now as she resumed a professional tone. “My job will be to find the right hands to put it in. He—or she—will know how to handle the rest of it. Oh, and Julia,” she went on, “I was going to tell you until I got sidetracked by this, but the auction house can send a truck Monday morning if that suits you. After I talked with them and sent pictures of Mrs. Freeman’s furniture, they’ll take everything. The better pieces will go on their prime auction list, and the reproductions will go on a lesser list. They’ll take care of it all.”

“What a relief!” I said. “When will I get a check?”

“It could be a few weeks. They’ll want to be sure the pieces are correctly listed and advertised for auction. And, anyway, they’ll send a check to me. I’ll subtract my commission, then get a check to you. Everything,” she said as she noted my look of dismay, “will be properly noted down and confirmed. You need have no concerns about that—we’re dealing with the top of the line in auction houses.”

“I’m only concerned about the beneficiaries,” I murmured. “They’re getting a bit restless.”

_______

“Well, Lillian,” I said, after seeing Diane out and making another trip upstairs to hide the sampler under a stack of towels in the linen closet of my bathroom. No need, I thought, to keep it in the same place all the time.

“Well what?” she asked. “You ready for lunch?”

“Oh, anytime is fine with me. I’m just overwhelmed with what that sampler might be worth. But the thought of sending it off to a stranger in New York or somewhere is worrisome. I may have to go with it and you know how I love to fly.”

Lillian laughed. “You got to trust somebody sometime, Miss Julia, so you jus’ give that pretty little thing to the FedEx man an’ he fly it for you. You don’t have to go with it.”

“That’s right, and I won’t. Actually, Diane might want to hand carry it, which might be the best way. And I’ll stay here and try to figure out who’ll get what.”