Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  I nodded with a smile. “What did you do?"

  "I played with them." She sat up straighter in her chair. "Look at me. I'm almost 5'10" tall. That was considered very tall for a woman back then. Did I slouch? Did I try to hide my height? Absolutely not! I always wore high heels so that I could look them straight in the eye or even tower over some of them." She cocked her head and looked off to the side, remembering. "There I was in my three-inch heels, watching them squirm as I stood next to them before a meeting or at a reception. It was one of my secret weapons to get us on a more even playing field."

  We broke out laughing.

  "I know what you mean,” I said. “I naturally tower over the kids, but it works when I have to deal with parents and administrators." I gently rubbed my leg. "Do you have any other secret weapons?"

  A smile like the Cheshire cat spread across Maureen’s face. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll share a few as we get to know each other. Thank you for reminding me about those years at the agency. We were one of THE best, at least according to our Wall of Shame.”

  “Wall of Shame?” I asked.

  “At least that’s what I called it. We had shelves that ran from floor to ceiling and along more than one wall.”

  “For what?”

  “Our awards,” she said softly.

  “And you called it a Wall of Shame?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it was more of a Wall of Embarrassment, because the industry, our very talented peers, thought our work was terrific. I got the idea of calling it that because one of the kids, for some reason, I always thought of the young staffers as kids, said that when he was little, his mother said he should be ashamed of himself for being so much better than the other kids in sports. She wanted him to play nice, not beat them all the time. We didn’t play nice. We knocked the competition on its ass and gobbled up their clients. It was fun. So, dear Emma, keep working on something, anything creative, but do something every day. Every Day! You have to prime the pump. Then you have to keep working. Then you'll have a different problem."

  “And what will that be?” I asked, intrigued.

  “When the ideas and the words start flowing, you have to keep up!”

  We laughed together again.

  "I wish I had that problem of keeping up. I don't know where to start and I'm getting frustrated."

  "Then let me give you one more morsel of advice. Stories are about people so, that's where you should start. Think about the hero of your story, even a children's picture book. Then you have to do something even more important.”

  She smoothed her gray silk slacks with the palm of her hand. That subtle gesture made it easier to listen to her wisdom. I felt like I was sitting at the knee of a mentor.

  Maureen began to share. "This is probably one of the most important bits of advice about writing a story that you will ever hear. I know that sounds pompous, but it's true. Once you have a basic idea of the hero or heroine, work on your antagonist, the bad guy. But it doesn’t have to be a person. For a children's book, it could be a serious challenge faced by the hero.” She took a deep breath and took out her keys. “I think that might be enough for you to chew on for one day. I know you’re convalescing and I fear I’ve worn you out with all this conversation.” She stood up. “We’ll talk again if you’d like.”

  "I'd like that, but you don't have to leave." I wanted her to stay. I felt nurtured by her compassion and kindness, not pity. She wasn't trying to control me like my sister. She wasn't ordering me to just sit, like my lawyer. Maureen was calm and supportive. All attributes I needed and appreciated right now. But she was determined not to wear me out and moved slowly towards the front door.

  I reached for my walker.

  “No, don’t get up. Let me leave you with one more thought. If you try, you may succeed. If you do nothing, you are guaranteed to fail.” She patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll let myself out. Use your strength for something worthwhile. Your story.”

  "Now that you found your way here, don't be a stranger," I said the same way my mother always did. It felt right. She had given me an exceptional gift.

  For the first time, I felt empowered to write.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “[Oration, public speeches, reports are written as if] a thousand eyes are peering over the writer’s shoulder and scrutinizing every word; while letters are written when the mind as it were in dressing-gown and slippers—free, natural, active, perfectly at home.”

  How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  After Maureen left, I dove back into research materials collected from the library and found that Katie Cobin had earned a mention in the history books.

  There was never a proper recording of the death of Virtue Violl. About seventy-five years later, when an old woman appeared on the Point, living by herself, in the same place as Virtue, the local people were sure that the witch had returned. When the new resident appeared in town, people shied away from her in fear that she would cast a hex on them. The men believed their women were being silly but kept their distance from her as well.

  One day, Katie went to town and walked down the main street. People stood back to let her pass. But on this day, a little boy was curious. He broke away from his mother and ran up to Katie. His mother was horrified, but not brave enough to draw her son away. The townspeople watched in fear as the old woman knelt down to talk to the little boy. No one was close enough to hear what they said.

  Then Katie reached into the pocket of her tattered dress, pulled out something in her fist, and gave it to the boy. He smiled and rushed back to his mother. She was angry. The boy had disobeyed her. She grabbed him by the wrist, forced him to open his hand and found a small stone there. The mother examined it closely. Its white surface was smooth and round. There was nothing special about the stone until the sunlight touched it. It sparkled.

  Everyone in the crowd was amazed. The mother was terrified. She grabbed the sparkling stone and raised her hand high in the air to cast it away. Katie cried out for the mother to stop. Then she pointed at the mother and back to the boy. The message was clear: that stone was a gift from me to him. It is not yours to throw away. Slowly, the mother lowered her hand and returned the stone to the boy’s hand. He quickly put it in his pocket and dashed off to play with his friends.

  Later, other mothers challenged her for not throwing away the stone and protecting her boy. In self-defense, she claimed that the old hag used unseen powers to force her to put the stone back into her son's hand. People accepted her story, but they became leery of being too friendly with that family. The boy carried the stone in his pocket until his dying day.

  Hearing the crunch of the driveway gravel brought me back to the present. It was proving better than a doorbell. I thought TJ had arrived, but one of those fun Jeeps that belonged on the beach had parked and Stephani had climbed out. Oh no! She had come to give me a ride to my physical therapy appointment, the one I’d canceled earlier that morning.

  This isn’t a good way to start a new relationship, I thought as I pulled the walker into position so I could go and meet her. I apologized for bringing her over unnecessarily. She was a little peeved. I couldn’t blame her.

  “You see, I fell last night and hurt my leg again,” I explained. “I thought it was better if I stayed quiet today to rest the muscles. I canceled the appointment early this morning and completely forgot to call you. I’m so sorry.”

  Her lips grew thin as she evaluated my story. I suspected somebody in her life lied to her regularly. Finally, concern overcame suspicion.

  “Are you okay?” Stephani asked. “I can understand that you would forget to call me if you were hurting and taking strong painkillers. It’s not a bother, really.”

  “I’ll be happy to pay for your time,” I said as I started to look around for my purse.

  “No, no, that’s okay. Stopping here didn't take me out of my way." She looked around and her interest was piqued by the open books and note
s spread over the coffee table and sofa. “Are you doing more research for your book?”

  “I’ve been following up on some things about the area’s history and Waterwood Plantation. Would you like to sit down and talk a little?”

  “Yes, I have time before I have to get to the library,” she said as she slung that huge purse off her shoulder.

  “I’m glad, because I came across a story, an old legend really, that I wanted to ask you about.” I told Stephani about the tale of Katie Cobin. She listened intently and took in all the information like a black hole without giving me a hint of a reaction.

  I pointed out the window and said, “And to think the women lived right across the creek by the old tree…if it did happen at all.”

  She glanced out the window and then back at me. “You never know what to believe when you hear those old stories. In the early days, before there were bank vaults in this area, farmers and landowners would bury their valuables somewhere on their property for safekeeping when they traveled away from home for an extended time.” She got up and walked to the window, her eyes firmly set on the Lone Oak. “There are stories about people dying while they were away and before they could tell anybody exactly where the fortune was buried. But can we believe everything we read?”

  I too gazed out the window at the tree. “Probably not, but there is something intriguing about the stories of these two women and that tree. I wonder how it ended up on that point of land. Did somebody plant it, somebody connected to the Waterwood plantation?”

  I caught a fleeting glimpse of Stephani raising her chin and looking down her nose at me. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Then that look of contempt was gone.

  The question threw me. She was accenting the difference between locals and people who came here from the Western Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. For some, that difference was a wide gulf.

  “No, I didn’t grow up here,” I said carefully, “but I spent my summers with my Uncle Jack until I went to college.”

  “But you grew up in a city on the Western Shore.” Her voice was flat.

  “Yes, why?”

  She chuckled. “It shows that you’re not a country girl. That tree probably wasn’t planted by a person. A bird might’ve picked up the seed someplace and dropped it there one way or another. That’s the way Mother Nature does her landscaping. That old tree has been around for centuries, I bet,” she declared. “It’s seen a lot of happenings.”

  “Do you think it was there during the Civil War?” I was testing her.

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “What about the Revolutionary War? Do you think it might’ve been a Liberty Tree? It might have been a secret meeting place. Seeing it out all alone fires up my imagination. It’s certainly a great place for a lover’s rendezvous. Do you think there are any initials carved into its bark?” I was on a roll. “With all the talk about witches living there, I wonder if satanic worship ceremonies were ever held under its branches?”

  Stephani smiled at me. “Would you like to go over there and take a look for yourself?”

  I gazed out the window again. “I’d love to, but there’s no way.”

  “Why?”

  I tapped the walker. “That tree is a long way from the road. I don’t think I could navigate the ground, especially after last night.”

  “We could go in my Jeep. It can go just about anywhere. We could drive into the field and take a spin around the Lone Oak and come back. It’ll only take a few minutes.” She made it sound so simple.

  Hoping I wasn’t being foolish, I reached for my crutches. “Let’s go.”

  I took the front steps slowly and was encouraged by how well I was doing. Then I had to get up into her vehicle. It would be at home on any beach but climbing aboard was going to be a challenge. She found an old cinderblock around the corner of the house and placed it as a stepping stone for me. After some tugging and wiggling around, I settled into the passenger seat and attached the seatbelt. I was unnerved there was no real door between me and the roadway. I clenched my teeth and focused forward. Stephani jumped in and we were off. I held on and silently coached myself to stay calm.

  When we rumbled into the field, I held with both hands as we bounced around. Being under the Lone Oak was even more impressive than seeing it from the Cottage. Its trunk was massive. The limbs and branches spread out creating a safe place, a shelter for anyone who needed it. Its autumn leaves were beginning to show a tinge of red and orange, the comforting colors of a warm fire.

  Looking across the creek gave me a new perspective of Uncle Jack’s Cottage. Its many windows facing the water sparkled in the sunlight. Its cedar shingles had long ago weathered to a silvery gray. The stark white trim outlined the place that I now called home. I’d forgotten the gentle feeling of home the house always gave me when I saw it from this side, from the water. I never had the time to feel this way when driving up to the Cottage, first with my mother, then on my own. But I was always distracted by the excitement of seeing Uncle Jack to notice the effect the Cottage had on me. On this side of the creek, I could truly enjoy it.

  My eyes traveled along the far shoreline to a small cabin, now leaning hard to the left. It was situated in a tiny cove surrounded by reeds and fall foliage. Uncle Jack had kept a rickety old rowboat there for me, safe only to float on that little finger of water. I would drag the boat down to the shoreline so it barely floated then I’d lay down in it, and read while listening to the water gently lap against the sides. Oh, there were other places I could curl up and read, probably more comfortably, but this spot was special. I was surrounded by all the elements—nature, water, sky, birds, butterflies—that made the Shore magical.

  Stephani jolted me back to the present. “What do you think?”

  “About?” I asked.

  “What happened here,” she said as she drove slowly around the tree.

  I tamped down my panic. Did she know about Daniel and Emma?

  She continued as we jostled along. “You know, the murder and all.”

  She avoided as many of the holes as she could. Holes that the police said were dug the night of the attack. Were we destroying the crime scene? A quick scan of the area showed there was no crime scene tape. The investigators must have finished their work here. We bounced over exposed roots as Stephani drove to the base of the tree. It felt like we were stepping on its toes. As much as I wanted to find a heart and initials carved into the bark, there was no trace of any man-made mark there. Daniel and his Emma had met at this old tree more than 160 years earlier. Even if he had used his knife to make a mark, the tree would’ve reclaimed its skin by now.

  “You look sad? Are you disappointed?” asked Stephani.

  “What? Oh, no. I was thinking…”

  “If you were thinking about treasure, you should share your ideas with me. We could compare notes.” She laughed lightly. “I don’t believe anything is here, but it’s fun to think about.”

  “Somebody thinks there is treasure here.” I pointed at the ground. “Check out all the places the police tried to fill in the holes.”

  “Have you talked to the police? What did they say?” Stephani wanted to know.

  Fascination with crime wasn’t my thing. Normal life was daunting enough. But I humored her. “The detective said some people were out here digging these holes looking—”

  “For treasure?” Stephani asked eagerly.

  “Well, he didn’t say specifically that they were looking for treasure, but they were looking for something.”

  “What else did he say, the detective, I mean?”

  “He thinks a fight broke out for some reason. Somebody swung a shovel and a young guy was hit in the face.”

  “And…?”

  “And he died. Now, it’s a murder investigation.”

  I twisted in my seat so I could get a better look at Stephani. “You don’t know anything about it, do you?” I asked slowly.

  “Me? Why would I?”

  I shrugged to
ease the sudden tension I felt in the air. “I don’t know. You live close. Maybe you knew the boy who died?” Maybe your brother knows something. But I kept that thought to myself.

  “I don’t know anything. I think what happened is horrible,” she said with a shudder. Stephani ran her hands up and down her arms as if to warm them. “It’s creepy that those old women lived here. Do you think they knew about a treasure?”

  “If they did, I think they would have dug it up and lived better lives.”

  “Well, if you have any other thoughts about finding treasure, you will let me know, won’t you? Because it sure doesn’t look like those people found anything, but trouble.”

  She looked at her watch. “I’m afraid I have to get going. I don’t want to be late. Do you mind if I take you home now?”

  “Ready.” We rode back to the Cottage in silence, which left me alone with my thoughts.

  Later, sitting cozy in my writing den, I couldn’t stop staring at the Lone Oak across the creek. I was almost sorry that I’d let Stephani take me over there to look around. Seeing evidence of treasure hunting and violence unnerved me. I preferred my romantic vision of Emma standing by the tree in a long flowing gown, watching Daniel in his wool shirt and trousers carve their initials into the bark.

  Wanting, no, needing to reconnect with the young lovers, I opened the yellow file folder containing Daniel’s original letters. There would only be blank pages that had once held his beautifully flowing script. I was about to reach into the drawer where I kept the jump drive backup when I saw there was writing on the top page of the stack of paper. A new letter from Daniel had appeared while I was exploring the field and Lone Oak with Stephani.

  I settled myself into the large leather chair and read.

  Dear Emma,

  I perceive that you truly wish to know about our travels. I have never been able to deny you and shall not begin now.