Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  I made a note to get the boiler checked and arrange a fuel oil delivery schedule for the winter. I’d be here until March when the sublease on my condo would end. There were legal documents that I set aside.

  At the bottom of the stack was an envelope addressed to me. Mr. Saffire said Uncle Jack had written me a letter when he signed his will. I’d put off reading it, not feeling ready for the emotional ride it promised. Now, it seemed like an easy thing to do in comparison to starting a book or tracking down my secret letter writer. I carefully tore open the flap and unfolded the handwritten letter inside.

  My Darling Emma,

  If you are reading this letter, I'm gone from your life, but not forgotten, of that, I am sure. You are my one constant I could always depend on.

  No matter how many playmates or soccer games you had, no matter how many courses and assignments you had to complete, and the boyfriend demanding your attention, you always had time for your Uncle Jack.

  With due respect to your mother, my sister, I’ve always thought of you as my daughter. Whenever she came to the Cottage in the summer, she’d stay inside with the air-conditioning turned up, while you and I played at the water’s edge in our bare feet, watching the soft crabs molt out of their shells. Remember how we’d stand in the mud and squeeze it between our toes? You said it tickled. Your mother was appalled at the mess when we walked back into the kitchen.

  I whipped a tear away with a flick of my hand. I’ll never forget the look of dismay on my mother’s face that day. She never got dirty, not ever.

  How we grew up in the same family, I'll never know. I guess we’re together now and will spend eternity hashing it out.

  I blinked away another tear and read on.

  Memories like that have made my life rich. That is why I’ve left the Cottage to you, and only you. It is a place that feeds your soul as it has fed mine. I never contaminated it with visits from my law partners or clients. I only welcomed those who felt its nurturing atmosphere. Every time you came, it was a joy. Though you tried to hide it, I saw the regret on your face when it was time for you to go.

  Remember the time when your mother came to take you home? You didn't want the summer to end, so you crept down to the dock and climbed into my rowboat. I’m not sure where you thought you were going, but you untied the line and pushed off. It was the flailing oars that caught my eye as I poured some lemonade in the kitchen. By the time I got down to the water, the current had grabbed you and was taking you out to the river. You weren’t afraid. I used the small sailboat to capture and tow you back. Thank goodness I’d put an outboard motor on it though it seemed like overkill.

  You said the sailboat was like a knight’s steed riding to the rescue of a damsel in distress. You always had an active imagination .

  Now, darling Emma, I won’t be there to save you, but I’m not worried. You’ve turned into a grownup I respect and admire. I hope you rediscover the joy you felt at the Cottage when you were a child. It will always be there for you.

  With all my love,

  Your Uncle Jack

  P.S. There’s an old desk in the garage.

  My breath quickened.

  P.P.S. It is a Plantation Desk, used by the manager back when local farms were big operations. The plantation manager kept track of everything from that desk. When I bought the Cottage, the owner of Waterwood – the farm that surrounds my land – offered it to me at a sinfully low price. I couldn’t turn it down, but I should have left it at Waterwood. Emma, the desk seems to be connected with a man named Daniel. That’s all I know. it would be better to leave it in the garage.

  Uncle Jack’s letter slipped from my hand.

  Daniel!

  “Too late, Uncle Jack. Daniel and I have already met.”

  Chapter Six

  “Pleasure, interest, and duty equally demand that our friendships and social ties should be maintained and strengthened. In many cases, this can be done only by means of letters. No one would willingly lose out of his life the joy of receiving letters from absent friends, nor withhold from others the exquisite pleasure.”

  — How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  I don’t know how long I sat at the desk staring out the window at the ospreys zooming above the creek. Slowly, anger started to burn deep inside. Anger? No. Resentment. I resented how my life had been upended and how I was bouncing around like a tiny boat in a storm. It had started with a truck driver who was texting. He drove straight into me, demolished my car, and sent me flying on a helicopter to Shock Trauma.

  For weeks and weeks, I was at the mercy of the doctors, their dour expressions, and the endless cycle of pills and surgeries. I had no choice but to follow their orders. They were working hard to save my life and then my leg. Those missions accomplished, they were determined to get me back on my feet, even if I thought it would kill me. When I shifted to the rehab center, it was a different kind of torture – physical torture in the excruciatingly painful therapy sessions and the mental torture of boredom. The painkillers wouldn’t allow me to concentrate on reading a book, let alone teach children.

  When I was allowed to go home, I felt like a convict let out on parole. If I didn’t behave by taking things slowly, going to physical therapy sessions, doing the exercises, they’d throw me back in rehab.

  The thought made me shudder. The joy of moving back home was short-lived. It was hard to sit at home with nothing to do, not that I could manage much. The aide took care of cleaning and cooking and getting me to appointments.

  At first, I was happy to sit on the balcony of my city condo and feel the sun on my face. Then I started watching the people down below, clutching their briefcases and phones as they dashed around with someplace to go. I had no idea when I’d be able to slip back into my life again. That’s when depression set in. I’d never been in analysis, but suddenly, I was sitting across from a stranger who asked, Why do you think you’re sad?

  I wanted to scream. A troop of monkeys would know. Why don’t you?

  When he offered me a prescription for even more medication, I knew I had to get away and focus on getting better… my way. The doctor was resistant, but his office found an outstanding physical therapy practice fairly close to the Cottage. The rest was a matter of organization and money thrown at the problem.

  Now, sitting at this beautiful antique desk, an unseen adversary was trying to wrest control of my life away from me, again.

  Not on your life, Buster or Daniel or whoever you are. You’re messing with the wrong woman. This is my desk. I won't share it.

  I pulled open a small drawer and took out my Waterman rollerball pen, another gift from Uncle Jack. I slid a small stack of paper in front of me to protect the wood while I block printed the words.

  Dear Sir,

  Who do you think you are? I am not your dearest. You must never write to me again. Do you understand? NEVER!

  Emma Chase

  Under normal conditions, I would slide this note into an envelope, address it and stamp it for the mail. But this situation was anything but normal. How do I address a letter to an unknown person…or a ghost?

  GHOST?

  My skin went cold as if a chill breeze had blown over me. Ghost? Where had that idea come from? The rational part of me replied: What other explanation is there?

  I sat very still in the chair. Who would know for sure? Thoughts of a medium, tarot card reader, even a priest, raced across my mind. Outside the window, a blue heron squawked its arrival on the creek. Its distinctive cry, like fingernails on a chalkboard, jerked me from those mystical thoughts.

  No, I decided. That approach will only invite more strangers to the Cottage. Gossip would spread like wildfire. Whatever I did, I'd have to do on my own.

  How do I send the letter to a ghost? I reached for the original letter from Daniel. Maybe if I put the two letters together on the desk, they would find their way back to the original sender.

  I couldn’t help but rere
ad his original words:

  If I may still call you my dearest…think so badly of me.

  This war…deprivations…waiting…paper.

  Assure you of my faithfulness now and always.

  I scanned my terse response and crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Even though this stranger, this Daniel, was intruding on my life, he didn’t deserve to be chastised. I’d accused my physical therapists of taking out their frustrations on my battered body. Now, I was about to do the same thing to someone else.

  Never mind. He didn't deserve it. I took a blank page and wrote:

  Dear Sir,

  Please, who is writing to me?

  Respectfully,

  Emma

  That was better. I put the pages together and placed them where his letter had first appeared. What happened to the two letters would tell me a lot. I sat back. I knew I was right when I told the doctor I didn’t need the anxiety medication anymore. I bet he’d flip if he knew what I was doing now. I—

  Two toots of a horn outside interrupted my revelry. Time to get back to the real world. TJ was back with the new locks. I pressed my palms to my eyes. Thank goodness I didn’t say anything about the letter to him. It would remain my secret. I looked back at it and my response and wondered if I would hear from Daniel again.

  Chapter Seven

  “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on until I am.”

  — Jane Austen

  I was at the door by the time TJ walked up, juggling the new locks and his tools, followed by his enormous white dog.

  “That didn’t take very long,” I said, trying to be gracious. “I appreciate you doing this so quickly.”

  “It’s not a matter of choice now. We need to make sure you’re safe.”

  I thought I saw him wince as if he didn’t mean to be so honest. Somehow, the mysterious light I’d seen the night before didn’t worry me as much now that TJ was taking care of the locks and I had dealt with Daniel.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Again, I appreciate the work you’re doing.” I set off down the hall. “I’ll be in my writing den if you need me.”

  “Have you started your book already?” He sounded impressed.

  “I wish. I drafted a note or two. It’s a start.” I hid my smile. If only he knew my secret.

  It didn't take long for frustration to replace my confidence. My computer and printer were connected and working perfectly, except for one minor detail. I had no connection to the internet. I didn’t want to interfere with TJ’s work so I went back to the desk and gazed out the window while some anti-virus scan ran on my computer.

  “You’re deep in thought.”

  I nearly jumped out of the chair.

  TJ added his apology. “I’m sorry. I’m used to creeping around quietly because your Uncle Jack often fell asleep in his chair. I didn’t like to wake him. I’ll try to remember to make noise so you know I’m around.”

  And I had to remember that even though I’d lost my uncle, TJ had lost a friend. “That was considerate. I’m sure he appreciated it. I know I do.”

  He glanced at the whirling icons on my computer screen. “I thought you were working.”

  “I’d like to, but I need internet access.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be connected soon enough and I don’t mean with dial-up.”

  "Thank goodness for that." We both laughed. He was easy-going and I liked that he treated me like a normal person. Not an invalid.

  He went on to explain. “When the telephone guy comes to install your landline, he’ll hook you up.”

  “I was beginning to think I’d have to use carrier pigeons.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not that bad. Well, I'm done with the locks." He held out his hand. "And you need these." A collection of keys tumbled into my hand. "Those are the keys to all the locks." Slowly, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crammed key ring, and began to work one of them off the ring.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “You said you wanted all the keys.” He kept working the key off the ring. “This is the key to the garage. Now, you’ll have all the keys. I’ll come to the front door so you can let me in.” He handed me the key. “Your Uncle Jack was a good man and a good friend. He wanted me to look out for you and I will, if you let me.”

  Oh dear, did my face betray my concern? “No, I didn’t mean I don’t trust you. I’m used to being on my own, that’s all.”

  “Yes, and being in control. I get that. Out here in the country, it’s good to have friends looking out for you. Now that Jack isn’t here…” His voice trailed off.

  "In a way, he's still here because of my happy memories," I said with a sigh.

  “I know what you mean.” He looked away for a moment. “Well, anything you need, let me know.”

  I followed him to the front door and leaned heavily against the wall. I felt like I’d moved around more this one morning than during my entire stay in rehab.

  “Thank you, TJ, for doing this work. Don’t forget to give me the bill.”

  “Mr. Saffire has things under control.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “The harvest starts next month, so if there’s something that needs doing, it would be better to let me know soon.”

  He skipped down the steps and whistled. The white streak flashed through a forest of chestnut brown tree trunks then Ghost scampered to his master. After a vigorous scratch behind the ears, they headed toward the truck. That’s when I had the feeling I was making a terrible mistake. Without thinking, I called out. “TJ! There’s one more thing.”

  He came back to the bottom of the steps.

  "I'm sorry, I…" I took a deep breath and started again. "A woman is entitled to change her mind. I just did. I'd like you to keep the key to the garage on your keyring," I looked into his hazel eyes and I was sure. "And a key to the Cottage." To lighten the moment, I held out the abundance of keys he'd handed me only moments ago. "Only you're going to have to figure out which ones they are."

  He picked through the collection, pulled the padlock key, and one more. “I believe this is the one to the front door.” He tested it. “Yes, got it in one.”

  “Now, put them on your keyring,” I said, trying to sound very serious, as if I’d never doubted him for an instant. “And use them whenever you need to.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say,” he said with a wink.

  A cloud of dust making its way down my gravel driveway caught my eye. “More visitors?” I groaned.

  A sleek white Jaguar sedan stopped behind TJ's truck and a small woman wrapped in an ensemble of white silk emerged. Yes, it was an ensemble – a snowy-white tunic top and flirty skirt of the palest gray. She could go to lunch at any New York City restaurant, but it was more than expensive clothes that made her remarkable. Her flawless skin had the luminescence of the inside of an oyster shell. She paused, no, posed by the car for a moment, then waved.

  “Hello! I’m here, TJ,” she called out as she stepped gingerly over the gravel, careful of her white high heels.

  “A friend of yours?” I said so softly only he could hear.

  He took a deep breath and waved. "Hello, Catherine. Good to see you again."

  She tiptoed to the steps and gave him an air kiss on the cheek then flashed a million-dollar smile at me. “You must be Emma. I’m Catherine Carmichael from the writing group. TJ told me you’re here working on a book and may be interested in some feedback. Our group is very good at that.”

  I shot TJ a dirty look while she took a breath. But he missed my reaction by looking off in another direction.

  "I thought I'd pop by, introduce myself and invite you to come to our next meeting." She reached into her white straw tote and pulled out a large envelope. "I took the liberty of printing two of the pieces we'll review soon so you'll be able to join right in." She handed me the envelope with the complete confidence that I'd want them.

  “I suppose you’ll need a ride to the me
eting.” She flung her hand in the air to bat away a fly. “I’ll be glad to pick you up.”

  TJ added, “And I’ll give her a ride home afterward.”

  "Perfect. I'll send TJ all the information." Again, her hand touched his arm. "Do come, Emma, it will be fun to have new blood. Now, I must run." She called out over her shoulder. “Who knows, maybe we’ll be reading your work soon.”

  As we watched her drive away, I hissed at TJ, “Blabbermouth.”

  “I have to go, too,” he said. He sprinted to his truck before I could say anything else.

  Boxed in, again.

  Chapter Eight

  “All wars are follies, very expensive and very mischievous ones: when will mankind become convinced of this, and agree to settle their difficulties by arbitration? Were they to do it, even by the cast of a die, it would be better than by fighting and destroying one another.”

  — Benjamin Franklin

  My first full day at The Cottage was so busy, what with visitors, changing locks, the tedium of unpacking, and the fear and excitement of finding Daniel’s letter. I made the tortuous climb up the stairs to bed right after dinner. My journal entry would have to wait.