Randall sat alone in the darkness of his study, wondering what the heck had just happened. His eyes snapped back to the computer screen the moment the lights flickered back on. Strange. The power went out the moment he hit the submit button. It was as if that innocuous little finger tap were responsible. No matter. His only concern now was to make sure the questionnaire he’d labored on the entire week had arrived to its destination.
A co-worker recently convinced him of the advantages of an online dating service. It eliminated the hassle a busy professional had to invest in finding a soul mate, if one were specific in defining the parameters—or so he claimed. And Randall had been very specific. In fact, he doubted there was anyone out there in the ether who could match his specifications. He’d either find that special someone right away, or spend the rest of his life as a bachelor. Which wouldn’t alter his present situation one bit. So, what did he have to lose?
The dating site appeared as soon as the computer rebooted. The results were better than expected. A response was already waiting for him. Randall’s pulse raced. What would she look like? He clicked the link and held his breath. What he saw made his eyes goggle.
It was someone from a another era . . . or so she appeared.
Her photograph was cast in reddish brown sepia, resembling an old daguerreotype. Authentic, unlike those kitschy old-fashioned shots taken at amusement park kiosks. Her eyes, undoubtedly blue-gray, were the first things that captured him. They sparkled within a face framed by dark ringlets circling the sides of her cheeks. She wore a dress that had a V-shaped neckline fringed with lace. Though he could only view her from the narrow shoulders up, her bearing was elegantly Victorian, as though she belonged in some Brontë novel.
He tore his eyes away from her portrait to read a personal message. A frisson of excitement skittered up his spine. She wanted to meet him right away, this very evening, at midnight, in the old section of Rolling Brook Cemetery. He’d know where to find her, she assured him.
A cemetery? At midnight? What a bizarre tryst!
Margaret Chamberlain was her name. Chamberlain? He’d seen that name before. Where? Then it hit him. Randall tabbed over to the genealogy website he’d been researching all afternoon; providentially, it too had been spared. He’d just finished wending his way along a branch of his maternal line when he took a break to check out the dating site, right before the lights went out. Sure enough, there at the bottom of the page where he’d left off was the name—Chamberlain. William and Martha. They had three children: two sons and one unmarried daughter aged twenty who died in 1848—Margaret. Next to the entry was a thumbnail of a family portrait. Randall enlarged it, and gasped. Front and center, seated in between her two brothers, was the young woman who’d responded to his questionnaire. Her hairstyle was different, devoid of side curls, but her eyes, those scintillating eyes, were the very same.
His scalp tightened as the exhilaration of embarking upon an inexplicably taboo venture surged through him. Or was this just one big coincidence, inspired by a freak power outage?
There was only one way to find out.
Randall arrived at the cemetery’s wrought-iron gates 15 minutes early. After glancing over both shoulders, he passed between the brick posts at the entrance and headed directly to the old section. He followed the winding path to the area where many of his ancestors were buried, and upon arriving, began searching the tombstones with the aid of a full moon.
He stepped off the path and threaded between ancient headstones, some slanting others toppled over or missing bits and chunks. The names, the dates, the epitaphs, were also eroded by the elements and passage of time.
“Good evening, Mister Anderson.”
Randall started at the greeting. It was a female’s voice, deep and sonorous, accented with an air of well-bred sophistication. He spun around. Her silhouette stood straight and solemn against the night sky, like one of the obelisk monuments belonging to the cemetery’s well to do. Her features were hidden in shadow, but her outline—pinned up hair, bell-shaped dress—bespoke a bygone era. The woman stepped toward him with grace and poise. When she came out from under the canopy of a giant elm, Randall’s heart fluttered. Her hair, black as ravens’ wings, was smoothed over her ears and gathered in a bun in the back. She wore a dark dress with long close-fitting sleeves and a tight-waisted bodice. And those eyes . . . pools of shimmering gray-blue. Just as he’d imagined.
“Good evening,” he replied. “Randall. Please, call me Randall. You must be Margaret—um, I mean—Miss Chamberlain?”
She simply nodded, as if her mere presence at the appointed place and time should’ve rendered such questions unnecessary. The corners of her mouth tilted upward, probably in response to his gauche manners, he surmised.
“It’s such a beautiful evening. Why don’t we make ourselves more comfortable on the grass, Randall.”
They lowered themselves on top of a grave, sitting vis-à-vis. Her back was to a headstone surmounted by an urn finial. He held her pale, piercing eyes, while admiring the play of moonlight on her ivory skin, which tinted it in ethereal blue.
Randall lost all sense of time as they conversed well into the small hours. They didn’t stir from their grassy spot, until Margaret announced it was time for her to “go back.” She said it in a manner that presumed he would understand why; and he dared not ask for an explanation. She turned to walk back into the shadows from whence she came, as Randall made for the entrance. He whirled around as soon as his feet touched the gravel path. But Margaret was nowhere in sight.
He retraced his steps, calculating the spot where she would’ve been standing when he first saw her. He arrived at a grave where the grass had been trampled by dainty footprints and squinted at the gravestone. Though the writing was weathered and faint, Randall could make out the name, the dates, with the assistance of a little foreknowledge: Margaret Chamberlain. Born in 1828. Died in 1848. He smiled to himself.
The next two evenings proceeded in similar fashion. She greeted him in the same dress she had worn on that first evening. They strolled through the cemetery, talking, laughing, quietly so as not to arouse the curiosity of any late night trespassers.
They rounded out each evening by sitting together on the grass, always on the same spot, over the same grave. They even clasped hands; her touch was warm, electrifying. She was vague about herself and her past. The fact they were distantly related went untouched. Randall felt the subject was strictly off limits. He already knew answers; confirming them would only risk breaking the spell that bound their wonderful, forbidden romance.
But of this Randall was certain: he had found his soul mate.
On the fourth night, he entered the cemetery in typical high spirits. He approached the appointed spot at the appointed time. There, in the place of Margaret, was another woman. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and had shoulder-length auburn hair. The stranger resembled Margaret, alright, but held herself in a devil-may-care attitude bereft of elegance and refinement. And her eyes . . . dull and uninspiring. A relative paying her respects? She looked at him, unfazed, as though she were expecting him.
“Hello, Randall.” It was Margaret’s deep, confident voice.
He tilted his head. “Margaret?”
“Randall, I have a confession to make.” The woman cast her eyes downward. “I’m not Margaret.”
“You’re not Margaret? Then, who are you?”
My name is not important. Though my purpose is . . . or was. I was hired by two computer geek friends of mine to pose as your relative, Margaret Chamberlain. They hacked into your computer and monitored your online activities. They learned of your interests and then used that information to trick you into thinking that your dead relative was trying to strike up a romantic relationship with you. They had manipulated the websites and even caused your power to go out. They did it purely for the thrill. To see if it could be done.”
“But your eyes . . .” Randall said in a small voice.
“Contact lenses.”
“And the photographs?”
“The one on the genealogy site was real. I used it as a model to pose for the dating site photo; the guys used a software program to touch it up and make it look authentic.
“Look, Randall. I’m really sorry this happened to you. I didn’t plan on you being such a terrific guy. You deserve much better.” She reached into her pocket and held out a wad of bills. “Here’s 50 dollars, half of what they paid me. Please accept it, along with my apologies. It’s the least I can do.”
Humiliated, broken, Randall looked directly into the woman’s eyes, and for the first time, he could sense fear in them. Which made him smile.
“No, I think there’s more you can do. Much more.”
Hours later Randall stood over a grave, stamping down sections of turf he’d carefully replaced. In a few days new grass would knit them together. And no one would be be able to tell that anyone had tampered with the grave . . . or that anyone, aside from the original occupant, had been laid to rest there.
Randall grabbed his shovel, and before turning to leave, he glanced at the weathered name inscribed on the tombstone at the head of the grave—MARGARET CHAMBERLAIN. And smiled.