Lost in the Mist Read online

  "I don't expect you to sign anything right now. And I will be happy to go over all these papers with you some other time at your convenience. The will has to be probated first at any rate. Here's my card.” He pulled an ivory business card from his coat pocket and put it on the coffee table. “Call if you have any questions. Keep those copies to review when you can. I've filed the will. Our office has a tax attorney who can take care of your mother's final return. I'll contact you when that procedure is completed and we can schedule an appointment.” He removed a large manila envelope from his briefcase.

  "There's one last thing. The main reason for this visit is this envelope and box.” The lawyer put his manicured fingers on the wooden container. “Your mother said you should look at these things in private."

  Standing with his briefcase at his side, he offered his hand. “It's been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Hart. Your mother talked about you often."

  Connie stood and took the offered hand, but remained silent.

  "Thank you for your hospitality. I'll wait for your call."

  Connie watched him don his coat, galoshes and hat and go out the door. She stood in front of the recliner with her arms tight across her chest. In her mind her mother was admonishing her for her rudeness.

  She cleared the coffee table and put the plate and cups in the dishwasher after dumping her lukewarm tea down the drain. Her stomach growled to remind her that she hadn't eaten since the previous evening when all she'd been able to stomach had been half a tuna salad sandwich.

  "Connie Hart,” her mother would have said, “you'll get sick if you don't eat. Sit yourself down and have a bowl of soup."

  Soup. Yes, some bouillon. The water was already hot and it would warm the bone deep chill, she thought.

  The powered mix dissolved quickly. Rich beef flavored aroma filled the room, making Connie's mouth water. Maybe some sharp cheese and an apple. She sat on one of the high stools at the breakfast counter, facing the living room to eat her meal.

  She was swallowing the second quarter of the Royal Gala when Connie realized that she was staring at the dark box sitting on a white plastic bag on her coffee table. The sweet flesh of the fruit suddenly lost its taste.

  Sliding off the stool, she walked to the sofa and sat. The spicy scent of the attorney's aftershave lingered in the air. Funny she hadn't noticed it earlier.

  The box was the size of a large Stephen King novel, with a brass plate and key hole. What had looked like scarring was in truth an engraving of two flags. The flagstaffs crossed in the center and the banners unfurled on the sides. One was an American Flag with fewer stars than the crowded banner now displays. The second was the flag of a Pennsylvania regiment but was too worn to make out the designation. Connie tried to open the lid, but found it locked.

  Where had her mother gotten the box? Puzzled, Connie picked it up. It wasn't especially heavy. What could be in it? Why didn't Mr. Fitch give her the key?

  Mr. Fitch. He left an envelope. It was still on the sofa. Connie leaned back and held the yellow package on her lap. She really didn't want to open it. She knew her mother probably wrote her a letter “to be delivered after my death” and she didn't want to read the words. She wanted to imagine that her mother was still alive and well, to sense her presence. Putting the envelope on top of the wooden box she rose and went back to her cooling broth.

  * * * *

  The TV was on. A rerun of some innate sitcom quietly droned on without an audience. Connie slept fitfully in the recliner. A burst of canned laughter woke her.

  For a few seconds she couldn't remember where she was, or why she was there. When her head cleared, Connie wished she could go back to the fog.

  Tears had wet her cheeks and dried while she slept. Elizabeth Hart had lived and died again in Connie's dreams. A sob escaped, she tried to control the torrent of tears, but it was no use.

  * * * *

  After a quick shower and a hot supper, Connie returned to the living room with a cup of tea and a paper plate of cookies. Her curiosity was beginning to overcome her sorrow.

  "I can't mourn forever,” she said. The words rang hollow in the small apartment. “Besides, Mom would have a fit if she saw the way I'm acting."

  Reaching first for the pile of documents the attorney left, Connie quickly scanned the will and list of bequests. The lawyer would act as executor. She read the sale agreement for the condo. It was fair and she would probably sign it. All that was left was the envelope and the box.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Two

  Connie's hand shook as she picked up the bulging envelope. She had a good idea what she would find inside. A letter from her mother, maybe some pictures, or instructions for the disposal of her belongings. Why did her mother think that she should have this right away? It must have been important to her.

  Stalling, Connie washed the last cookie down with the last of the tea and brushed her fingers off on a paper napkin before using the letter opener to slit the package open. She looked through the yawning gap. Pictures, a bundle of yellowed envelopes tied with a faded ribbon, a stack of papers and another envelope. This one was business size. There was no address or name on the outside.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the smaller envelope and slid out two sheets covered with her mother's handwriting. Her hands shook as she dabbed at her tears and unfolded the pages.

  Connie,

  I know this is hard for you, but there are some things that you need to know.

  If you're reading this letter, I'm beyond telling you and I don't want you to be sad or sorry about that. You've always been a good daughter, one I've been proud of, and you've been a great friend.

  I was sorry about what happened with Phillip, for your sake, not his. He didn't deserve your loyalty and certainly not your love. I'm proud of the way you've lived your life. I know I've told you how I feel, but I want you to have them in writing so you can read them over and over and remember how much you mean to me.

  Do you remember the long hours that you spent helping me ‘climb the family tree’ as you would say? I know that I've already told you most of the story of our family, but you seemed to lose interest when you starting thinking about boys and I left some things until I could get your full attention. I think I have it now.

  I've put some items together and given them to Arthur Fitch. You can trust him, Connie. When your father died without a will, I found Arthur in the phone book. He was a young lawyer but very capable. He's proven his value as a friend and council many times over the years. I've asked him to deliver some things to you the day of my funeral. I know you won't like this, but trust me “Mom knows best."

  Connie put the letter and package aside and went to get more tissues and a glass of water. It hurts, Mom. How can this help now? Maybe sometime down the line, when it's not so fresh. Looking at the papers on the sofa, Connie could hear her mother patiently tell her to finish the letter. Mom did seem to know just the right thing to do to make her feel better. After filling a tall glass with ice water, Connie went back to the living room.

  Arthur brought you a wood box and an envelope. You've opened the envelope or you wouldn't be reading this letter. You may have already looked at the pictures and papers in the envelope, but I'll explain what they are anyway.

  The pictures have been passed down in the family. They are of your great, great, great grandparents, Drew and Amanda “Mandi” Kosgrove. I know the pictures are showing wear and fading. And I don't think they were very clear in the first place, but they are a link to the past.

  The papers are the genealogy that you helped me with. I hope you will preserve it for your children and add to it for them.

  The box is special. Drew made it for Mandi. The pictures and box have been handed down for generations. It's been said that Mandi told her son, Wolfgang, that the box would someday go to a very special person and only she is permitted to open it. She would live during a time of wonder and she would know that the box was for her.
r />   I received the box from my mother as she lay on her death bed and although I have the key, I've never opened it. Whether it's true or not, it's said that no one has made the attempt all these years. Now it's been put in your care.

  The key is in a velvet bag. The bag also holds Mandi's wedding ring. I don't know if you remember the stories that I told you about the ring. It's unique in design and it's engraved, “M your love holds my heart D". The ring is too small for any of our family's women, but it has been used in all our marriage ceremonies and is said to bring happiness to the couples. True or not, we've never experience a divorce.

  Well, that's everything I think. You can read about your ancestors in the genealogy. It's interesting reading. But I warn you that you won't find much about Mandi. If your curiosity is aroused, you could try to continue the search in that direction.

  Daughter, your father and I were proud of you as a child. I'm proud of you as a woman. You were brought up to exhibit good sense and show kindness and trust to others. Even as I sit and write this letter, I know that you will one day have children to carry your goodness into the future. I'm only sorry that I didn't live long enough to meet them.

  Try not to be sad that I'm gone. Death is the way of all life, just as love nurtures us and makes us strong enough to accept the end.

  Mom

  * * * *

  It was true. The family tree on Drew's side went back to a few European relatives who ventured the journey to the new world in seventeen oh nine, but Mandi's started with her marriage to Drew, the date marked only as sometime in eighteen sixty-four. The only other notations were her birth and death, November fifth, eighteen forty-three to June second, nineteen thirty-five.

  Connie was surprised to see that Mandi was born the same day as she, more than a hundred and thirty years earlier.

  Drew had served with the Union forces during the Civil War and had been seriously wounded in some unknown battle. He returned home blind in one eye, with partial loss of hearing in one ear, the limited use of one arm, and with a bride on the other arm. Together they built a thriving business near Philadelphia, and Drew even dabbled in local politics.

  The pictures were difficult to see, even with a magnifying glass. One was of Drew sitting in a cane rocker, smoking a pipe, on a plank sidewalk in front of a store. “Kosgrove's General and Dry Goods Store, Cherry Grove, Pennsylvania” was painted across the façade above the doorway. Another was a family or church gathering. Everyone was dressed in their best Sunday-go-ta-meetin’ clothes. They were gathered on a lawn scattered with oak, hickory, elm, and maple trees. Some men and women sat in the shade on what appeared to be benches and straight backed chairs apparently brought out for that purpose, some stood in groups. One of those standing in the shade was a small woman wearing a white dress and wide brimmed sun hat. She stood with a group of other women. Connie couldn't see her face, but the note on the back said that the woman in white was Mandi.

  There were many more pictures; none were dated before nineteen ten and none after nineteen twenty-five. Someone had written notes on most of them with years and names but no other details. Again her mother was right; the pictures were very hard to make out. Carefully she put them in her desk, between the pages of her own picture album.

  The only items left were the bundle of letters and the black velvet jewelry bag. Putting the letters aside, Connie held the bag in her hand. The ring in this bag would have been used to bless her wedding to Phillip. If she had married him, Connie knew theirs would have been the first divorce to mar the family history.

  She clutched the small bag in her fist and closed her eyes.

  The day she'd found out ... was it only two months ago? She had been devastated but now she knew she had narrowly escaped a bad marriage and deceitful husband.

  * * * *

  It had been raining that day too, but Connie had felt happier that she ever had before. She was going to be married.

  Phillip Dickson was a vice president with an advertising firm. He worked hard, spending many evenings and weekends at the office and taking at least one business trip a month. Connie knew he was doing it for their future, so she had tried to be supportive.

  She had planned on surprising him at his office with a picnic lunch. Taking the day off from her own work as a free lance writer, she had spent the morning preparing the deep fried chicken, garden salad, and peach cobbler. She'd even chilled a bottle of wine overnight. Connie knew that Phillip never took lunch before twelve-thirty and seldom left the office. She planned on arriving by twelve-fifteen.

  The secretary's office had been empty, but her computer screen-saver was alive with tropical fish. Seeing the steno pad and pen in the middle of the desk blotter, she'd believed Diane had gone to lunch already.

  With a smile, Connie went to the office door. The top half was frosted glass and she heard someone talking. Phillip must be on the phone, I'll be quiet so I don't disturb him.

  When she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, she'd been surprised to find the room dark, the blinds pulled and no lights on.

  Connie had always thought the office was more like a living room with the conversation center, bar, and bookcases. The big oak desk with its brown leather executive's chair and two visitors’ chairs seemed misplaced.

  Someone was on the oversized leather sofa near the windows. Maybe Phillip was taking a nap. Did he talk in his sleep? She walked quietly over the thick carpeting and put the basket on the floor.

  "Phillip, are you awake honey,” she'd asked quietly.

  The small sounds suddenly stopped. The room had gone dead quiet. “Phillip?” Puzzled Connie tried to see past the gloom.

  "Connie, what are you doing here?” His voice sounded husky.

  "Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I just thought we could have lunch..."

  "Did we have an appointment?"

  Connie's eyes had adjusted to the dim room and she could see movement on the sofa, but something was strange.

  "Are you alone, Phillip?” She had moved to the window and yanked the blinds open.

  Connie smiled sadly thinking how surprised they had all been, Phillip, his blond bombshell secretary, Diane, and Connie, the suffering but ignorant fiancé.

  Well I guess you weren't alone were you, Phillip?

  A knot had formed in her stomach as she watched the naked couple disengage their intertwined body parts. Diane's long blond hair nearly hid her bare breasts, but nothing else.

  Connie had been the first to speak. “No, Phillip, we didn't have an appointment. I thought I would surprise you with a picnic lunch. People who love each other do things like that.” Even then she couldn't believe how steady and calm her voice was. Inside she was raging. If she had had a gun—she thanked God she hadn't.

  Diane grabbed her clothes and headed for Phillip's private bathroom. Phillip was busy pulling his pants on.

  "Oh, don't bother. I won't stay.” Connie picked up the basket and went to the door. “And Phillip, the wedding's off."

  "Connie, please listen to me. Diane means nothing...” were the last words Connie heard from Phillip.

  She had stopped and given the lunch to some bag-ladies sitting on a bench at a bus stop near the Capitol building and started driving. Connie was half way to Pittsburgh before she stopped at a truck stop and used the restroom. While she washed her hands she watched the diamond sparkle on her finger. She pulled the ring off and went to the trash bin, but she had stopped. No, I won't throw it away, I'll hock it.

  With a smile of satisfaction, she'd gone to the truck stop restaurant and ate a hot meal before returning to the city.

  She was able to get twenty-five hundred dollars for the ring. She put the cash in an envelope and sent a note signed with Phillip's name and business address, donating the money to the “City Women's Shelter,” a home for unwed mothers.

  There was one more thing she'd done before blotting Phillip from her memory. Connie put the pawn ticket in an envelope and sent it to Phillip's home addr
ess.

  * * * *

  Connie loosened her grip on the small bag. Opening her eyes she held out the dark blue velvet.

  Mandi Kosgrove's wedding ring, and a key to a mysterious box that would someday be opened by someone who would know it was meant for them. But not her, Connie Amanda Hart, it wasn't meant for her. She would put the box, key and ring in a safe deposit box and pass them on to her children.

  She had seen the ring many times. Her mother would tell her about it and bring it out, but she never put the ring on her finger. Opening the bag, Connie shook out the two items. Someone had had the foresight to wrap the key in a separate piece of cloth to keep the two metal objects from marring each other.

  Picking up the ring, Connie wondered that any grown woman could be so small. Mandi had been petite, standing tall just under five feet. Drew had towered over her at five ten. There was only one picture of her ancestors together, that was in front of a neat frame house with a small yard. It was taken in nineteen fifteen and both of the Kosgroves had been in their seventies. A battered work hat shaded Mandi's face. She wore heavy coveralls with the legs rolled up, over a long sleeved work shirt, and heavy work boots.

  Grandma Mary told Connie that Mandi and Drew had lived in that house most of their married lives. When Drew died in nineteen twenty, Mandi agreed to live with her grand-daughter.

  Connie held the small ring between her fingers. It's so little; it makes me feel like an oaf. It was battered and scarred from years of wear but there was something—it wasn't just the way the three broad band were woven together, or the inscription that she knew was inside—there was a feeling too. Connie slid the ring onto the little finger of her left hand, a perfect fit.

  Mandi, would you mind if I wear your ring? I'm not married and don't have any prospects—but it looks—right, yes, it looks like it belongs. I promise I won't lose it. As if to show she intended to keep that promise, Connie pulled at the ring; it was firmly set and wouldn't come off easily. No diamonds, but it's worth more than a king's ransom to me.