Final Rights (30 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

2004

Tate
decided to take the scenic route to Weaverville, so she headed north on
Merrimon Avenue, which wound past a beautiful lake and park before the
landscape turned into a smattering of tiny strip malls, family restaurants,
tire stores and a variety of other shops that catered to the needs and fancies
of the local population. She noted several places along the way that she wanted
to visit, including a small Mexican
taqueria
and
tienda
, a farmer’s market and a cheese store. Today would not be the
day for meandering and poking into new and interesting corners of the city.
Today her focus lay entirely on finding the missing fireplace.

Conservation Salvage
occupied a small storefront on Main Street in Weaverville. Tate stepped through
the door and into another era. There is a particular aroma that heralds the
slow passing of time and this placed exuded it. Tate inhaled the heavy
fustiness deep into her lungs. Just as pheromones attract potential mates in
the animal world, this scent excites the senses of antique lovers and bargain
hunters, drawing them into the recesses of tiny shops and huge warehouses
alike. Tate understood how one could get lost in the mysteries of a place such
as this. At least a dozen old tables filled the shop, their entire surfaces
covered with boxes and trays of old doorknobs, rusting hinges, crystals that
had once adorned chandeliers and lamps, old tools—many rusting and all
obsolete—and countless other artifacts of days gone by. Likewise, the walls
held several glass-front display cases filled with salvaged items from another
time. However, she did not see a single mantel and her heart fell at the
thought that what she came looking for might not be here.

A man behind the counter looked up briefly
before continuing his conversation with another customer. “I’ll be with you
shortly.”

“No rush. I’ll just look around.” Tate
studied the man quickly. Much like the merchandise filling his store, he had an
aura of oldness about him. Though more than six feet tall by Tate’s estimation,
he stood slump-shouldered and head bent, thus giving the appearance of a much
shorter man. Deep creases radiated out from the corners of his eyes and mouth
and his thick, dark hair had been slicked back off his face. One chunk had
fallen loose and rested against the edge of his black-rimmed glasses, which sat
askew on his nose. Tate guessed his appearance belied his real age.
No more than 50, give or take a couple
of years, I’ll bet.
Having
summed up the proprietor, she turned her attention to the array of objects on
display until he turned his attention to her several minutes later.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Tate noticed a surprising clarity in his
deep blue eyes, which reaffirmed her conclusion about his age. “Actually, yes.
Something very particular. I’m looking for a fireplace you would have purchased
probably ten years ago or so.”

“Well, that is very specific! Tell me more
about it.”

Without a moment’s thought, Tate launched
into her story. “I own a small house that was moved to its current location
about a decade ago. It used to be on Cumberland Street in Asheville and now
it’s over on Maplewood. There was a fireplace in it when it was originally
built, and the man who moved it sent me here. His name is Jim Kitching. He said
you bought the mantel from him when they were remodeling the interior of the
house.”

The man watched her intently, and she
stopped abruptly as she realized he did not need all the information she had
given him. “Sorry! That’s probably more than you need to know.”

“No, it’s fine. I have a lot of old mantels
in the back. I don’t recall a Jim Kitching, but I buy from so many different
people I could never remember all of them. Let’s look around.”

He headed through an
opening at the back of the room and into a wide hallway created by crude
shelves along each side, which were filled with stacks of furniture, mostly
wooden chairs in a bewildering variety of styles. The store front gave the
impression of a small shop, and Tate had not previously noticed the entryway to
the cavernous warehouse space in the back. Her hopes for finding the mantel were
re-ignited. They had just stepped into the warehouse when a tinkling chime from
the old-fashioned bell attached to the top of the front door announced another
customer.

Tate noticed the proprietor’s
dilemma—continue on with her or return to the front of the store. “Seems to be
a busy day for you. Is it always like this?”

“I wish it was! I’ll be right back . . . if
you can wait a moment that is . . .” The man hesitated, as if worried he would
lose one customer by attending to another.

“No hurry. I’ll need some time to look
around. If you point me in the direction, I’ll find my way.”

“Are you sure? I can
just see to them and come right back.”

“I’m sure. I just want to poke around a bit.
By the way, my name is Tate.” She offered her hand and the man shook it gently.

“I’m John. John Hathburn.”

“Nice to meet you, John.”

“Likewise, Tate.” He
looked thoughtful for a moment then obviously decided she could be trusted on
her own.

“Okay, follow this hall down to the end and
take a right. You’ll pass through the hutches and cabinets and then take
another right and you’ll find the mantels. There’re probably a hundred or more
back there.”

John returned to the front of the shop and
Tate headed in the direction he had indicated.
A hundred or more. This is going to be a challenge!

As she walked through
the conglomeration of artifacts lining the aisles, Tate flashed back on
memories from her childhood. A heavy farmhouse table reminded her of a rambling
kitchen with a wood-burning cook stove at her great-Grandma Marlowe’s farmhouse.
The unforgettable taste of sandwiches made of brown sugar heaped onto homemade
white bread slathered with butter that she had helped her grandmother churn the
day before jumped into her mind and made her salivate. Passing a china cabinet
with peeling veneer, she heard the clink of heavy, cut glass candy dishes and
cruets as her other great-grandmother, Grandma Strauss, placed them carefully
on the delicate shelves of the breakfront in the cramped dining room after
letting Tate hold them and run her tiny fingers over the etched crevices that
created snowflake-like designs.

Along with these distinct recollections came
the feeling of excitement and curiosity she had felt every time her family
visited those precious old women. She freely explored their farms, climbed
trees, spied on sows wallowing in mud and nursing piglets and watched a golden
carp swim in the water tank where the horse took long draughts of cool, dark
water. These images of her early life and dozens of others flashed and
flickered through her consciousness and stirred up a deep yearning.
 

As she turned the corner that led to the
collection of mantels, she stopped short and caught her breath. Stacked three
or four deep on both sides of the corridor all the way to the back wall stood a
dizzying array of fireplaces. “Wow! This could take the rest of the day!”

Tate whispered these words into the
stillness surrounding her. A row of horizontal windows placed a couple of feet
below the ceiling and caked with decades of dirt allowed thin shafts of
sunlight to filter in slanted streaks to the floor below. Specks of dust filled
the streaming light and floated about lazily like tiny feathers drifting along
on imperceptible currents. As she exhaled, her breath sent them scurrying in
fascinating corkscrews and swirls. She recalled exploring Grandma Strauss’s
cavernous barn, the scent of fresh hay, the crackling of straw, the creak of
the old tractor as she climbed onto the metal seat—and the dust motes
scattering frantically as she blew her breath into the beams of light filtering
down through the cracks in the roof.

She allowed herself to live there in the
memory for a few moments, as a child surrounded by wonder and amazed by her
power to make things happen in the world around her. She blew her breath into
the air again now as an adult who had grown into her power and also had learned
not everything would bend to her will as easily as tiny particles of dust held
captive in sunlight. She allowed herself to feel the beauty of innocence and
the burden of experience all in the same moment. She watched the swirling
vortex she had created and felt a sadness permeate both body and mind. They
were all gone now—the people and places that had been her refuge as a child—so
she breathed into the pain and refocused on the task ahead.

Tate spent a few moments
surveying the dozens of mantels stacked against the walls. She began visually
sorting them into groups. Big, small, fancy, plain, older, newer—and as she did
so, her plan began falling into place. No need to look at the huge, ornate
items constructed of mahogany or teak. Leland would have used wood native to
the mountains around Asheville, and he would have designed a mantel to fit his
modest home both in size and style. As she looked around, those criteria narrowed
her search down considerably. Additionally, it made the search easier since all
the oversized mantels hugged the walls and the medium and small-sized ones
stood in the first and second rows. Tate did not claim to be psychic, but she
often knew in advance when something was about to happen, and she had that
sense now. She would find the mantel. It was right here, right in front of her,
waiting to be rescued.

She began picking her way through the pieces
on the left side of the aisle. She quickly assessed each one, passing up many
for their simplicity or shoddy workmanship and looking more carefully at those
she thought could have been made by Leland. Several promising possibilities
ultimately proved disappointing. She continued her detailed search for close to
half an hour, wishing she had the dimensions of the space in the floor where
the fireplace once sat and also chastising herself for not having brought along
a flashlight. When she reached the far wall, she turned and headed back,
inspecting every promising item on the other side. She had nearly returned to
her starting point when her heart began pounding rapidly.

Wedged in the second row
and half-hidden by the broken specimen in front of it, she spied a dust-covered
mantel about the right size and made of what she believed to be cherry. She
stepped as close to it as she could, working her toe into a small opening so
she could lean in even more. She brushed dirt off the top of the mantel and saw
the distinctive color and grain of cherry wood. Inspection of the details along
the rim revealed a design reminiscent of the one she had seen on the mantel at
the Princess Hotel. She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes, both hands
resting on the mantel.
This is it. I know it is!

The problem lay in proving her belief. Only
one thing would verify her find, and it would be extremely difficult to see.
She stepped back and assessed the possibility of moving the mantel out of the
tight slot it occupied. That would require clearing the space in front of it
and swiveling it out so she could see the side. Just then, John Hathburn
returned.

“You could not have better
timing! This might be it. I have to see the side of it, down near the bottom.
Can you help me?”

“That’s pretty heavy stuff there. I’ll get
someone to come over and . . .”

“I’m strong, John. I’m really strong! If we
work together we might be able to move it out just a little so I can see the
side. Do you have a flashlight?” Tate realized her excitement may sound like
bossiness to John. “I mean . . . oh! I’m just so excited. Can we try to do it
ourselves? I can barely stand the suspense.”

“Well, if I can move this one out first . .
.”

“I can help! Let’s do it together.” Tate
grasped one end of the obstructing piece and began lifting. John’s eyes
registered his surprise at her strength, and he quickly took the other end. In
moments, they had shifted the first mantel out of the way. Together they worked
Tate’s prize out of its position and slid it part way into the aisle, its right
side exposed. Tate dropped to her knees and, using the sleeve of her
sweatshirt, wiped cobwebs and layers of dirt away.

“I knew it!” Her squeal reverberated through
the huge room. “Look!”

John knelt down beside her and looked where
Tate pointed. “C-A-T. Looks like someone’s initials.”

“That’s exactly what it is—the initials of
someone who will be ecstatic to see this again!” Then Tate burst into tears
leaving John to stare at her in astonishment.

“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” John
seemed flustered and fidgeted around her as if looking for open wounds.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You’re bawling like a
baby!”

John’s comment startled
Tate and she began laughing through her tears, which seemed to confuse him even
more. “John, I’m okay. Really I am. It’s just that . . .” She sniveled and
wiped away tears. “. . . I can’t even explain what’s going on with me right
now, but it’s all old stuff. Finding this just opened so many old wounds and
memories, and I’m swirling in them right now. Can I just sit alone for a bit?
I’ll come out in a few minutes. Please?” Tate recognized the pleading in her
voice and it increased her already extreme discomfort at expressing raw emotion
in front of a stranger. She rarely did that even in isolation.