by Lisa Cach
Jeff shrugged and stepped aside, and the men carried the crate into the living room, leaning it against the mantel of the gas fireplace.
“Now you have yourself a nice day, sir!” the woman chirped, and the three filed out, closing the door behind them.
Tina emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, Clarence following her with a half-chewed slice of apple in his hand. The repetitive banging of pots could be heard from where his little sister sat denting the cook-ware on the linoleum floor.
“Did you order something?” Tina asked.
“No. You?”
She shook her head. “Who’s it from?”
Jeffrey searched the crate for a label, but found none. “Maybe it was delivered to us by accident.”
They both stood and looked at the crate.
“Well . . .” Tina began, “I don’t suppose we’ll really know unless we open it.”
“Open it! Open it!” Clarence chorused.
“There’s a crowbar in the garage,” Tina said.
Jeff bowed to familial pressure and went to fetch the crowbar. Several minutes later the crate was open, and Tina was helping him remove layers of padding and waterproof coverings.
“I think it’s a picture of some sort,” Tina said, as the thick, ornate edges of the frame became visible.
They lifted off the final layer of wrapping, exposing the painting that hid beneath. It was nearly five feet wide and nearly as many tall, and depicted a family dressed in a style from two centuries past. The date in the corner said 1799.
“Oh, God, Jeffrey . . .” Tina gasped, her hand going to her mouth. She looked at her husband, and saw the film of tears in his eyes. He sniffed once. “Look, there’s an envelope attached.” She squatted down and carefully tugged loose the square of thick paper from where it had been wedged into the bottom corner of the frame and handed it to him. His name was written on the outside in faded ink, in handwriting that he recognized as belonging to Elle.
He stepped back, dropping down into the recliner, and stared at the painting. That was his sister sitting there in that dress from another time and Tatiana panting happily beside her. A dark, handsome man stood behind the sofa on which she sat, leaning his elbows on the back of the sofa, one hand playing with a lock of her reddish hair. She held a tiny baby in her arms, and beside her a little boy sat playing with a blue ball.
Jeffrey’s hands shook as he turned over the envelope. It was sealed with deep red wax, imprinted with a heraldic device. He broke the seal, and unfolded the letter—it had not been an envelope at all, just the back side of one of the sheets.
December 25, 1799
Brookhaven, England
Dearest Jeffrey,
If all goes as planned, you will be reading this some short while after I left that too-short message on your machine. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have time to explain further, and now I have all the time in the world. There are benefits to knowing your descendants will be around to fulfill your wishes two centuries hence, making sure paintings and letters get delivered when they should. Or at least, Henry assures me they will follow the instructions of a long-ago ancestress, however unreasonable. And so you have this painting and this letter, and a chance to hear me tell a tale such as you have only read in books . . .
When he had finished reading the letter, he carefully folded it and sat staring at the face of his sister, smiling enigmatically from the painting. Slowly, and for the first time in many days, he smiled too.
