Final Rights

by Tena Frank

  Tate found Cally’s behavior confusing. She’s withholding something. I hate it when people do that. Give me a hint of something important, then I’m supposed to guess what it is or live with the suspense. Ever since they’d met, Cally had been open and easily shared her feelings and thoughts. Now she slouched in the seat and closed her eyes, making herself even more inaccessible. Tate sat with the uncomfortable silence and fought against her urge to withdraw into anger. Disappointment reared up again, nearly extinguishing her excitement about finding the lost fireplace. By the time she parked the truck in front of Conservation Salvage, Tate felt completely deflated. She also realized she had pushed Cally hard to make the trip even though Cally had made it clear she wanted some down time.

  “We’re here?” Cally roused herself as Tate pulled into a parking space.

  “Yeah, this is the place.”

  “What is it? Looks like an antique shop.”

  “Something like that. Listen, Cally. I’m sorry. I pushed you to come here when you obviously didn’t want to. We can come back another time. I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

  “No, Tate. Don’t do that. I’m just wiped out, and I have so much I want to tell you, but I need some time to process it for myself before I share all of it with you.”

  “Is that why you’ve been so quiet all the way here? That’s so unlike you.”

  “Actually, it is like me, at least a lot of the time. But I haven’t been like that with you, and I think it scares me a little.”

  “I scare you, Cally?”

  “No, not you specifically. Just that I opened up to you immediately and that you know so much about me, about all the things I’ve lost and how hurtful it’s been and . . . I just don’t share that stuff with people easily.”

  “Well, it would have been hard to avoid, don’t you think? Given how we met and each of us having such a strong connection with Leland and all?”

  “Point well taken, but still . . .” Cally closed her eyes again, took a couple of deep breaths and let a few tears roll down her cheeks. “. . . I’m emotionally raw, Tate. I feel like I’m caught in a whirlwind and being sucked into quicksand all at the same time. I can’t find my balance. I feel like a wimp, a crybaby, a basket case. And I really don’t like being like this or having you see me like this.”

  Tate took it all in. She could see the toll the past several days had taken on her new friend. New friend. Hard to believe she had met Cally only four days ago. It seemed like they’d shared a lifetime already. She could keep that to herself, or she could follow Cally’s lead, open up, share herself with another person.

  “I know how you’re feeling, Cally.” She managed to squeeze the words out, guiding them carefully past her resistance and the lump forming in her throat.

  “I’m not sure you do, Tate. You don’t cry every time something crosses your path.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s because I’ve spent most of my life learning to keep my feelings to myself, with a few notable exceptions.”

  “What would those exceptions be, exactly?”

  “Anger, for one. That’s the biggest one. I’m not proud of it . . . actually, I probably am, as sick as that sounds!”

  “Proud of being angry?”

  “Well, yeah. I guess that would be one way to describe it. Anger isn’t pretty, Cally, I’m not saying that. But it protects me and keeps me moving forward.”

  “Really?” Cally stared at Tate wide-eyed.

  “Really. Instead of getting scared, or anxious or depressed or . . . almost anything, I get angry. That energizes me, I get really focused, and I push through whatever it is. At least that’s usually what happens. Of course, it pisses other people off and they avoid me like the plague—but that’s really the only downside I see!”

  Cally started laughing, and Tate followed suit. “I love to hear you laugh, Tate. But I wonder if that’s another defense?”

  “Well, it’s a way of defusing my own anger. And I do have a wicked sense of humor that I’m pretty proud of, too.”

  Cally reached for Tate’s hand and gently kissed it. “I love you, Tate Marlowe. I truly do. I’ve only known you a few days, but we’re going to be friends for the rest of our lives.”

  “Even if I get angry with you sometimes?”

  “I’m way tougher than you may think. And I don’t scare easily.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “And don’t be surprised if I call you on that anger, should you ever direct it at me.”

  “I would really, truly appreciate that, Cally, more than I can say. Most people just walk away from me when they see that part. It never occurs to them that underneath the anger is a lot of pain.”

  “Now I know, Tate.”

  “Yes, you do. And that’s scary!”

  “Good. Then we’re even!”

  “We are, and we’re even in another way, too.”

  “How’s that?”

  Tate hesitated. She didn’t like revealing herself, but in some way she felt she owed it to Cally. “Well, I had my own meltdown today—right here, as a matter-of-fact.” Tate nodded toward the storefront.

  “You had a meltdown in an antique store?”

  “I sure did. I think the owner was about to call the paddy wagon on me.”

  “That’s hard to imagine. You’re so strong and I’ve never seen you even a little bit out of control.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have recognized me a couple of hours ago, Cally. I sat on the floor and bawled like a baby. And I have to say I felt a lot better afterwards.”

  “I bet you did.”

  “But it’s exhausting. I rarely cry, but when I was here, I saw several things that reminded me of my childhood—good memories, wonderful ones—but gut-wrenching at the same time.” Tate began tearing up and quickly wiped her eyes dry.

  “It’s okay, Tate.”

  “Ahhhh . . . I have to stop! I hate this!” Tate took several deep breaths followed by long sighs, regaining a bit of control with each round. Cally sat quietly and waited.

  Tate’s composure returned and she shook herself a bit then took the keys out of the ignition. “Okay, I think I’m ready to go. How ’bout you?”

  Cally let out a long sigh of her own. “I guess so. Let’s see what the big surprise is.”

  John Hathburn looked up as Tate and Cally entered the shop. “Hi. Didn’t expect you back so soon. It’s not ready yet.”

  “No problem, John . . .”

  Cally interrupted them. “What’s not ready yet?”

  “I brought the friend I mentioned, John. This is Cally. Can we go back there?”

  “What’s not ready yet?” Cally insisted.

  “I found something, Cally. Something incredibly special.”

  John watched the two women, noticing the tenseness building in Cally as well as Tate’s efforts to maintain her own composure. “Go on then. Want me to go with you?”

  “It’s okay, John. Actually I’d prefer it be just the two of us, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Go on back. Call if you need me.” He hoped he would not have to witness another storm of emotion from either of them.

  Tate headed for the door into the warehouse and motioned for Cally to follow. They worked their way through the aisles of old furniture.

  “How’d you find this place, Tate?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Why’d you bring me here? What’d you find?”

  “I had a dream last night. I was on Wheel of Fortune, and just as I woke up, I solved a puzzle . . .”

  “Very interesting, but it doesn’t answer my question!”

  “Don’t you want to know what it said?” Tate enjoyed building the suspense. Cally, however, wanted no part of it.

  “NO! I want to know why I’m here, Tate.”

  Tate persisted. “The answer to the puzzle was ‘Where’s the fireplace?’”

  Cally glared. “Where’s the fireplace? What fireplace?”

  “Exac
tly! The fireplace that used to be in my house. Leland and Ellie’s old house.”

  “You mean . . .” Cally stared at her wide-eyed.

  “You know, Cally. There used to be a fireplace in my house and it’s not there anymore, remember?”

  Cally dropped her head into her hands and shook it several times. “I remember, yes, I remember. But it’s gone, you told me that.”

  “It was gone, Cally.”

  “It was gone, and now it’s not gone? That makes no sense!”

  “It was gone and now it’s found.”

  “Found?”

  “Found!”

  “Here? You mean you found it . . . here?”

  “Right here, where it’s been ever since they took it out of the house, ten, maybe fifteen years ago.”

  Cally propped her hands on her knees and began taking deep, slow breaths. “I . . . am . . . not . . . going . . . to . . . cry!” She uttered one word each time she exhaled. And she did not cry. She stood up and declared: “Show it to me!”

  “I thought you’d never ask!” Tate grabbed Cally’s hand and began trotting toward their destination.

  As they approached the collection of mantels, Cally immediately noticed the one sticking partway out into the aisle. She rushed over, brushed off some of the dust and rested both hands on the top.

  The laying on of hands. The thought hit Tate as she watched Cally, head bowed, eyes closed as if communing with a living being. She’s healing it. They’re healing each other. And me.

  Cally turned to Tate. “This is it, isn’t it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gampa made this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And my initials are here? You’re sure this is the right one?”

  “Yes.”

  Cally knelt down and searched the wood panel with her fingers for the scars she had etched so long ago. She found them and the tears refused to be held back again. Tate sat down on the floor with her and waited for several minutes.

  Cally finally spoke. “I can’t believe it, Tate.”

  “It’s true.”

  “How’d you find it?”

  “When I woke up from that dream this morning, I just knew the fireplace was somewhere, that it had not been destroyed. So I went to the library and . . . no!” Tate stopped abruptly. “Short version!” She hissed the command aloud, looked at Cally and started again. “I called the guy I bought the house from. He came over. He told me he sold the fireplace. To John. After he moved the house to the current location. I came here looking for it. I found it. Here we are!”

  Cally grinned. “That’s the shortest version of anything I’ve ever heard from you.”

  “Thank you! It was a monumental effort.”

  Tate reached for Cally’s hand and they sat quietly for a few moments. “You know there’s one more thing to do, Cally . . .”

  “I know, Tate. I’m working up my courage.”

  “A part of me wanted to look when I was here earlier, but I just couldn’t.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m not known for restraint any more than I am for succinctness . . .”

  “It must have been torturous for you . . .”

  “Hard, difficult, but not torturous. She left it for you, not me.”

  “Do you think it’s still in there?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Only one way. And I have to know, even though it may break my heart.”

  “Okay, then. Want to look now?”

  “I have to.”

  They stood up and Cally faced the mantel. She began running her finger along the underside of the top piece, listening carefully for the faint click heralding success. She reached the other end without the hoped-for reward and turned to Tate. “You try.”

  Tate knew instinctively she could not honor Cally’s request, that to do so would diminish Cally’s experience of finding the gift awaiting her if it was still there. “No, Cally. You try again.”

  “Please, Tate . . .”

  “Tell me, Cally. Do you remember watching your grandmother open the compartment?”

  “Yes, oh yes. It was magical!”

  “Think back to that moment. See her doing it. Where does she put her finger? How does she move it? Do it just like she did.”

  Cally started again. She placed her index finger on the mantel and paused, deep in concentration, then adjusted her position slightly, moving her touch a bit lower on the edge of the mantel. She traced carefully along the surface, feeling each groove of the carved design. They both held their breath. The only movement in the warehouse was Cally’s searching finger and the dust motes floating in the air. Then . . . the click . . . echoing through the silence. They gasped in unison as the secret compartment fell open.

  Cally stood on her tiptoes and peered in. She threw her hands up to her mouth. “There’s something in there!” She wrapped her arms around Tate’s neck and they jumped up and down together, weeping and laughing all at the same time.

  “It’s still here, Tate! I can’t believe it!” Cally reached into the drawer and pulled out a small velvet jewelry pouch. She upended it and a diamond ring dropped into her open hand.

  “This was my great-grandmother’s! Gamma showed it to me.” Cally turned the tiny ring over and held it up to a shaft of light so it sparkled.

  “It’s beautiful. Does it fit you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s so small . . .” Cally tried to slip it onto her ring finger but it wouldn’t move past the first knuckle. “Nope. But I could wear it on a chain . . .”

  “That you could.”

  “There’s more stuff in there, Tate.” Cally looked frightened, like a small child who had been caught dipping into the cookie jar without permission.

  “It’s all yours, Cally. I already bought it and I’m giving it to you.”

  “No! Really?”

  Yes, really. So it’s okay to look.”

  “I know, but it seems . . . strange. Seeing these things again, whatever they are. Gamma was the last person who touched them.”

  Cally took a moment to brace herself, then reached back into the compartment. She pulled out a tortoise-shell hair comb. “Oh, I remember this, too. It belonged to Gamma’s grandmother, so that’s my . . . great-great-grandmother! I’ve never touched anything so old.”

  Tate bent close to see the comb. The magnificent piece measured nearly the full length of her hand and about two inches wide. It sported dark brown and orange blotches scattered on a pale amber-colored background. She knew nothing about antique combs, but she imagined this one to be quite valuable. “It’s beautiful, Cally.”

  “I remember it. Gamma kept it, but I think it made her unhappy.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Something about turtles dying for the sake . . . something. I had no idea what she meant, but I remember her saying it and looking so sad.”

  “Oh! Of course. Real tortoise-shell is probably illegal, like ivory.”

  “You mean owning it is a crime?”

  “Well, probably not. If this is an antique, it could date back to long before laws banning it were passed.”

  “Gamma must have kept it because it’s a family heirloom.”

  “You could get it appraised, Cally. Have an expert look at it and give you some advice.”

  Cally held the ring and the comb close to her chest. “Yes, that’s a good idea.” She seemed pensive.

  “How you doin’?”

  “I’m okay . . . actually, I’m frazzled. I had a long day before coming here, and there are more things in the drawer . . .”

  “Do you want to leave them there for now?”

  “I can’t. I know they’ve been safely hidden for decades, but now that I’ve found them, I’m terrified of losing them again.” Cally took a deep breath and removed two more items.

  The first was a blue bank book with gold lettering and worn edges. She opened it slowly. Inside she found her name in flowing cursive in the varying shades of
black and gray typical of fountain pen writing: Calliope Ann Thornton. Speechless, she handed the book to Tate.

  “Ellie must have opened this account for you.” Tate pointed to the date of the first deposit. “Look. Over a hundred dollars in 1961. It’s probably inactive now, but I bet you can still claim the money somehow.”

  “It’s priceless, no matter what.” Cally gently tapped her own chest above her heart with the palm of her hand. “She left it for me.”

  “She obviously loved you, Cally. She took care to leave you these precious things.” Tate noticed that Cally held one more item in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a letter . . . or something. It scares me.”

  “Why?”

  “It just does. I don’t think it’s from Gamma. I’m not sure I want to open it.”

  “You don’t have to, Cally . . .”

  “She left it for some reason . . .”

  “But still . . .”

  “She wanted me to read it, whatever it is.”

  “Still . . .”

  Cally couldn’t know she was about to discover a secret Ellie had kept even in death. She slowly slipped the folded note paper out of its yellowed envelope and read it aloud:

  My Confession

  My name is Harland Clayton Freeman. I was born on March 21, 1910. I am unmarried and the owner of Freeman’s Mercantile in Asheville, North Carolina. I am a very successful businessman and I have accumulated a sizable fortune. I think this makes me important, but really I am a cad. When I was in high school I used my popularity as an athlete to bed as many girls as I could. I didn’t care who they were, and I paid no heed to the consequences my behavior might cause them. I bragged to my friends about my conquests because I thought it made me popular. Now I know it made me despicable. Regardless of my success as a businessman, I am a complete failure as a human being. In March of 1927, I seduced Marie Eleanor Vance and fathered a child with her. Then I walked away and denied all responsibility for the child’s existence. The boy’s name is Clayton Samuel Howard. Ellie married my cousin, Leland Samuel Howard, who is raising the boy as his own and is a far better father to him than I ever would have been.

  I would never have admitted to this except that I’m a greedy man who will do whatever I must to get what I want. I want Leland Howard to build a fancy door for my new house and he said no. I won’t accept no for an answer, so I cornered Ellie and threatened her so she would convince Leland to change his mind. In exchange, she demanded I write this confession, and I do so willingly since getting my way is of utmost importance to me. I have no wife and no children born legitimately at this time, and I do not expect to acquire such burdens in the future. Therefore the only person with the right to claim my fortune when I die is Clayton Samuel Howard, the child I fathered with Ellie.