by Barbara Best
Kat smiles with visible pride. “Cotton is a beautiful crop, soft, inviting, miraculous. Who would think out of a green alien-like shell would pop a perfect delicate whiteness? Our fields turn so blinding white in the sunlight you can’t see anything else. Have you ever picked cotton, Mr. McKenzie?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, I’ve tried it. It is a repetitive, painful and backbreaking chore. Wimp that I am,” Kat chuckles, “I didn’t last more than an hour or two out there. I don’t know how our volunteers do it, but I think I can understand why. Until you have picked cotton, you have no idea what slavery on a plantation was all about or how far we’ve come. Our brave volunteers give our place life, they walk-the-walk. We are proud of that.”
While Bryce demonstrates interest in Kat’s narration, he cannot help but scan the space on his own for anything that might be familiar or useful. He is not exactly certain how useful will come into play, but he figures having the CliffsNotes on this dimension can’t hurt.
At a glance, his attention is drawn to the far side of the room near a massive fireplace. He heads in the direction of an adjoining alcove.
For a second Bryce is sure he has gone into cardiac arrest. There is a pain in his chest, his vision is dark around the perimeters, and he can literally feel the blood rush from his head down to his brogans. His ears have instantly turned a throbbing hot to match his feet. The imprint of his key sheathed by his ankle is magnified.
Kat takes Mr. McKenzie’s lead this time to stand silently by his side. She does not catch his reaction. The warmth of his body and brush of her sleeve against his arm causes her to shift a little, putting space between them.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” She knows every line, every brush stroke, angle, and curve of the piece. The recessed lighting they installed enhances the extensive elements and skills of a talented artist.
Bryce hears the easy note of admiration in Kat’s voice. It is momentarily diffracted like she is talking underwater.
“Our visitors are enthralled by the detail,” Kat continues. “Look at the light on the folds in her dress and the lace in her fan and gloves, the soft expression on her face. She is absolutely radiant. I can study her for hours.”
Mr. McKenzie’s eyes are trained on the full-body portrait, unblinking.
In his sudden stillness, Kat studies the man for a moment. There is a white sheen around his mouth and pale shade of pink at the tips of his ears.
“Why, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kat chuckles, mildly itchy. “Mr. McKenzie?”
“Huh?” Bryce is glued to the spot. “Oh, yeah. Uh, well, I didn’t expect to see something like this,” he stutters.
“This was commissioned shortly after Jane Peterson’s marriage to General Hopkins. At the time, he had just been promoted to Major. It was right before the couple departed for General Lee’s headquarters in Virginia. That is another amazing story in itself. I’m sure you’ve learned enough about it from high school days.”
Kat crosses her arms. “The artist was a master portrait painter during the era. George Frederick Watts. That’s his signature there,” she points.
“He painted great contemporary figures, Cardinal Manning, John Stuart Mill, Albert Tennyson . . . President Lee. This is one of his earlier pieces before he achieved popular acclaim. Why he was in this area or even in this country during the Civil War is anyone’s guess. But this is simply stunning, is it not? We get to see her in real life. The colors are so vibrant. Even now.”
“Green roses.”
“Magnifique,” Kat breathes. “I think George Watts captured the essence of our Jane perfectly, don’t you?” She darts a sideways glance.
“I reckon so,” Bryce says, curling one arm up over his head as if to keep it from falling off. His gaze surveys Jane’s exquisite form — her fiery red hair and glimmering green eyes, slender neck and bare shoulders. One hand rests lightly on the corner of an ornate table where roses are gathered in a large porcelain vase. Her right hand is resting casually on the folds of her full skirt. By the wide hem of her silk gown is a cat, her Millie, curled in a basket sleeping.
“This special room is one of my favorites. We made it into a private gallery. It is the best place for our priceless art. Only a small number of visitors actually see these paintings up-close-and-personal like this. The chosen few are drawn by lottery several times a year.”
“Her ring,” Bryce murmurs. His eyes are hopelessly locked onto Jane’s image. “A Lover’s Eye.”
“Excellent, sir. You surprise me. Not many folks know that either.” Kat remembers Mr. McKenzie’s recollection of the original rose garden on the front lawn only a short while ago. “It is rather extraordinaire.”
Bryce takes a deep breath to shake his queasiness and rolls his head to relieve the tension in his neck. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?” Kat’s finely shaped eyebrows tilt into a reticent frown.
“Oh, nothing.” Bryce clears his throat and straightens. “It’s a lot colder in here,” he notices, not sure if it is the air conditioning, a chill coming on, or the impact of what he has witnessed.
“Sorry, it helps to preserve our antiquity. Do you want to take a break?”
“No, that’s okay. Go ahead.”
Kat smiles, “Now, Captain McIntosh, his beautiful wife and lively brood are over here. Mah Scottish r-r-roots. Mah clan,” Kat chuckles.
Kat literally tugs Bryce by the shirt to a huge painting of a man and wife with five children and two handsome hounds that look like they have been reduced to family pets. A small boy has a ball in his hand and one of the dogs is sitting up for him.
“I can see the family resemblance,” Bryce says.
“You see it too?”
“Oh, yeah. I would say you definitely favor your namesake. Chloe, uh, Captain McIntosh’s wife, right? But you have the captain’s red hair, for sure.” It is all so surreal. Bryce had just met these people. The people in the painting, the people who were so alive just hours before. All long gone. All dead and buried years ago. Bryce feels a weakening in his body that indicates another coughing fit, but the medication Uncle Hal prescribed seems to have taken effect, keeping his symptoms at bay. He coughs into his hand and holds his breath, which sometimes helps.
Speaking softly, Kat makes an attempt to distract, “I have the match to that ring, you know. But it’s not another ring. It’s on a box.”
“What?” Bryce blurts out, his shock coming full circle. “You’re kidding.”
“I kid you not,” Kat grins, and is glad Mr. McKenzie’s attention is finally on her, for a change. She likes his eyes — intelligent, open, and sad in a way. They are different from her ex-husband’s eyes. “We found the box only recently. I moved it to the attic in the Old Homestead. After all these years, we still find things on occasion.”
“Can I see it?”
“Well,” Kat stalls, thinking open mouth, insert foot. “It is just an old box,” she glosses over.
Bryce makes a pathetic grunt, “Come on. What’s the harm?”
Kat shakes her head. “I am afraid I’ve said far too much, sir. Although the painted eye on the lid does match Jane Hopkins’ ring perfectly.” Kat glances over at Jane’s painting again.
“Won’t you please show me?” Bryce says in earnest. “I’m really interested.”
“There’s not much to show. A combination lock is keeping us from getting inside. Uncle Hal had it X-rayed. He said there’s a ninety-nine percent chance Jane’s actual Lover’s Eye ring is in there. We’d like to spend more time on it, but haven’t had the chance yet.”
Bryce and Kat travel back into the Captain’s study.
“Who knows how long it has been hidden away? A real Sea Oaks mystery,” Kat says. She perks up her ears, detecting normal house sounds and the muffled caws of black crows in the yard outside.
Lowering her voice a notch. “I hope you will be kind and forgive my blunder, Mr. McKenzie. You see,
no one knows about the box. It belongs to our family.” Her tone has a bristling energy. “We would like to keep it that way. The Salva Society has a habit of scooping things up.”
“I promise I can keep a secret.” Bryce gives a winning grin. “I see the perfect end to an incredible day.” He pumps up the charm and rests his hand on the small of Miz Logan’s back for effect. “Of course, I have you to thank. Really. Just a peek is all I’m asking. Pretty please?”
“Now?” Kat flutters her eyelids, receptive to the warmth of his touch. “Well,” she rolls her tongue, “Uncle would disapprove, but I guess I could make an exception just for you.”
“Chloe Katriona?” A woman’s voice cuts the air and makes both conspirators jump apart. Aunt Gracie’s imposing hoop skirt blocks the entire doorway to the study. Her eyes are quick to form an impression. She is sure she detects a strong magnetism between the two young people.
“The children have gone and our stew is ready,” Gracie says, turning to Mr. McKenzie, “You must be famished. I’ve never met a man without an appetite.” The corners of her broad mouth turn up Cheshire cat-like. “What do you think of my dear niece?”
“Auntie,” Kat cautions.
“Simply captivating.” Bryce does not miss the mischievous light that twinkles in Aunt Gracie’s eyes. “Her informative tour, of course,” he sweeps his arm and winks.
Gracie keeps her eyes on Mr. McKenzie. “Katriona knows every inch of this place.”
“She does indeed,” Bryce smiles handsomely.
“You two can start again where you left off. Hopefully, you have the time, sir. Very seldom does anyone have our Kat all to themselves.”
“Pleeez!” Kat rolls her eyes.
“Our noon meal is getting cold. This way, chicks.” Gracie’s laughter brims with ample cheer when the young people frown at her remark. “It seems I’ve been with the wee’uns too long, but at my age you are all chicks to me.”
Chapter 39
FROM THE ANCIENT DRUIDS
Kat sets the unusual bronze box decorated with acanthus vine and other patterns onto the surface of a late 18th Century highboy that is covered with a powdery layer. A bed sheet is draped over a vintage mirror attached to the top. It is stored in the Old Homestead’s roomy attic where there is hardly enough space to walk. Other pieces of furniture from the plantation are stacked in various configurations. Numbered crates line the walls. One container has been opened and bits of straw-packing litter a small table cluttered with tagged accessories.
“This has been in the McIntosh family for a long time. As far back as the 1700s.” Kat blows and particles of dust fly up. She fans the air in front of her face and swipes her finger under her nose. The box is decorated with Celtic symbols.
“Mostly Celtic, I think,” Kat confirms out loud, “From the ancient Druids.”
“Really,” Bryce is fascinated. Then, he surmises, his key is probably Celtic in origin too.
Kat runs her fingertips lightly around the border of the delicately painted miniature. She admires the gentleman’s eye in the center of the lid and is credited with discovering the valuable antiquity. Honoring her Uncle Hal’s wishes, she hid it among the plethora of family heirlooms and has done well to keep it a secret. That is, until now.
“May I?” Bryce smiles.
“Sure, why not? Good luck getting into it,” Kat smirks. She doesn’t understand how Mr. McKenzie is suddenly an expert at combination locks. To help them see better, she taps the control on her phone.
“Ah, hold it closer. Here,” Bryce takes Miz Logan’s wrist, directing the LED beam from her phone’s flashlight to the right position. The light falls on the lock and intensifies the details.
The combination is easy for him to remember. Bent over so the box is at eye level, Bryce thumbs through the dials. One at a time, he repeats the steps he watched Jane take the night he traveled from 1863 to 2013. The key at his ankle tingles as if it knows what he is about. With each Celtic symbol comes a solid click that Bryce can feel more than he can hear as the round dials slip into the correct slots. It snaps open.
“Oh my word! How did you do that?” Kat gasps, struck temporarily speechless. She quickly collects herself, “You are full of surprises, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Reckon I am, at that,” Bryce sniffs, pleased with himself. Pushing the object away from his body, he half expects some earth-shattering phenomenon to occur.
“Better step back,” he warns in all seriousness.
Kat, who excitedly leaned in, backs off a bit. “What’s the deal?” she breathes, trying to understand the man’s perpetual intensity.
Bryce squeezes one eye shut. With his fingers gripping each side of the lid, he cautiously lifts. Contact causes him to relive his last moment with the box and Jane. It creaks with age. Nothing more.
“The ring,” Kat exclaims and scoops it up. “Just like we thought. Uncle will be thrilled. It’s the ring in the painting. The Lover’s Eye,” she vibrates with pleasure. “And, a perfect mate to the painted eye on the box. Oh, but this is amazing.”
Without prompting, Bryce takes possession of a yellowed square of paper, folded flat and neatly fitted into the bottom of the box. “What do we have here?”
He ignores Miz Logan’s fuss over Jane’s ring, having seen enough of it to last a lifetime. It is, in truth, the Lover’s Eye she adored. He would recognize it anywhere.
Creased evenly, the paper is brittle with age. Bryce carefully peels it open. The writing is faded, but legible.
“I should probably be wearing gloves,” he remarks, and focuses on the sweeping strokes. A word crossed out, a correction meticulously made. He can tell the attempt at pen and ink was a challenge. It is uneven like a child just learning to write. It is Jane’s hand.
“What is it?” Kat wonders how a stranger could be in her attic, going through her family’s most private things. And she is letting him.
“A letter,” Bryce scans the first paragraph.
“Obviously,” Kat says, moving close to see.
In a frozen second, they both lock onto the second paragraph and two words that jump out on the page.
“Bryce McKenzie,” Kat reads with a tremor in her voice.
Bryce’s body goes rigidly. He instinctively moves the letter out of Kat’s range.
“Let me see that,” Kat demands, extending her open palm. She gets an abrupt sense the man might bolt with her property.
Bryce wipes one moist hand on his jeans. The precious letter flutters between his shaking fingers.
“Well, sir, are you going to give it to me or not?” Kat tilts her head.
Without a word, Bryce surrenders the precious sheets of paper into Kat’s care. “There are two pages,” he mumbles.
Kat detects a shard of pain in his expression. Emotional pain. She knows the tormented look, having her own scars to prove it. Mr. McKenzie has been deeply hurt, but by whom? Surely it was not the girl who dumped him on the side of the road. No, it is something more.
Kat confirms again, “Bryce McKenzie,” and reads the greeting at the top, “Hello Dear Friend.” She is immediately dubious. “Well it’s just a silly coincidence. A fluke.” Frowning, Kat glances up at the man whose eyes flicker anticipation, or is it apprehension. One thing is for sure, there is never a dull moment with Mr. McKenzie around. Maybe she should look for a hidden camera somewhere. Perhaps she is being pranked by some new reality TV show.
“Here, why don’t you read it. After all, your name is on it,” Kat says, holding the pages out, while her mind still searches for logic. Bryce McKenzie is not such an unusual name. Mr. McKenzie is from Georgia. Maybe it is a family member in his ancestry. But then, how in the world did he know the combination?
When Mr. McKenzie hesitates, Kat continues breathlessly, “Please, won’t you? After all, you are the first to unlock the mystery.”
When Bryce reaches for the letter, Kat playfully pulls it away and chuckles uncomfortably. When he darts a grave “make up your mind” glare,
she meekly shrugs her go-ahead.
In an instant, Mr. McKenzie’s face tells her nothing more. It takes on the obscure, impassive quality a physician forms when working with a patient. Kat has seen that look before with the doctors and nurses in her family. She also knows there is a lot going on behind the unreadable mask.
Chapter 40
FOREVER ATTACHED TO MY SOUL
“Hello Dear Friend,” Kat repeats, giving Mr. McKenzie a nudge. She can sense his heated tension ratchet up. “Go ahead. It says, I am smiling—”
“I got it.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.” Bryce tries to ignore the maddening hum in his ears and rapid increase in his heart rate. The intimate connection and irrefutable knowledge that this letter is meant for him causes Jane’s script to briefly blur on the page. Blinking his eyes to focus, he clears his throat and begins.
“Hello Dear Friend,
I am smiling now. How is it I know you will find this? The answer is as plain as the nose on my face — I just know. Or, at least I can hope. Either way, I am writing.
Actually, I am driven to write by an overpowering impulse I cannot explain. This strange notion distresses me beyond measure and I must do what I can to settle my mind. You see, Bryce McKenzie, although you disappeared in a glorious blue-white blaze, you are never far from my thoughts. That dear boy who rescued me from a locked storeroom closet in third grade is forever attached to my soul.”
Bryce lowers the paper and peers sharply at Miz Logan. Her soft mouth has formed the ‘O’ shape of astonishment.
