Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “When you are about to write a letter to a friend, think what you would say to him if he were at that moment with you, and then write it. Such a letter should be unstudied, free from affectation, and as nearly as possible like good conversation.”

  How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  TJ leaned his long, lanky body against the wall by Emma’s portrait and folded his arms. “I think it’s time,” he said with a solemn expression on his face.

  Slowly, I said, “Time for what?”

  “Time for you to tell me why you’re so interested in Emma.”

  I started to open my mouth, but a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, rattled the room.

  “And you need to tell me about this fellow Daniel. I don’t remember anyone by that name on my family tree. I think I deserve an explanation.”

  I sank onto a step of the grand staircase with a sigh. “You’re right. You do, but it’s not quite that easy.”

  “Sure, it is. You only need to tell me. That’s all. Simple English. I’ll understand.”

  “What if I show you?” I asked.

  “Tell me. Show me. I don’t care. I just want to know what’s going on.” His voice was strained.

  He deserved to know. His steely eyes bore into me. This was about family, his family, worthy of his interest, his defense. I had no choice. I had to tell him, but in a way he would believe me or, at least, give me time to prove that Daniel was real, as real as a ghost can be. I had to tell him in a way that didn't end up with me being carted away in a straitjacket…or losing my friend.

  I pulled myself up on my feet. “Okay. We have to go back to the Cottage.”

  His brow furrowed as if he was about to object. He glanced out the window over the front door. It was still raining. It didn’t matter. “Okay, let’s go.”

  In the few minutes it took us to get to the Cottage, the storm had moved off. The rain had stopped. The sun, low on the horizon, peeked through the clouds. The sunset would be impressive, but we were both focused on something more compelling. He toweled the dog dry so Ghost wouldn't track mud through the Cottage or have to wait in the truck. I offered TJ coffee, which he refused. I suspect he knew I was stalling. With no other option, I led him into my writing den and we sat down.

  I began the story at the beginning--that first next morning here at the cottage—when I’d found the first letter from Daniel.

  “I thought at first,” I said with a nervous laugh. “That you had broken into the Cottage and left it on the desk to spook me.”

  He didn’t even smile. “That’s why you had me change all the locks and took my key.”

  I averted my eyes and nodded slowly.

  “So, who left the letter?”

  “The letter was signed Daniel. Since I couldn’t figure out how the writer had gotten into the Cottage, I wrote a response demanding to know who would address me as My Dearest Emma and left it on the desk by the stack of paper. The next morning, I found the reply.”

  “Can I see it, read it for myself?”

  This is where it got complicated. I opened the door to the cubbyholes and pulled out the transcribed copy I'd made and printed.

  “Yes, here you go. I didn't know the words were going to fade away so I wrote down everything I remembered.”

  It only took him a moment to read the short missive. “This is a bit of fanciful writing. It could have been a practice writing assignment." He flung the sheet toward the desk, but it missed and fluttered to the floor. "I trusted you. Now, you have two minutes to tell me the truth."

  This was the moment, the moment when he could decide to walk out or I could earn an ally and discover all I could about Emma and Daniel. It would not come again. I had to take the chance.

  With the door to the desk open, I reached up to the cubbyhole where I'd stashed all the letters and copies. I opened my photo gallery on my cell phone. With my file and my phone in hand, I confronted TJ. Confronted him, so he'd know I wasn't being polite or trying to mislead him.

  I took a deep breath and began. “As I said, the morning after I moved into the Cottage, I found a letter here on the desk addressed to My Dearest Emma written in black ink. I think they used to call the handwriting style Copperplate—flowing, a little ornate. Only calligraphers write that way today. I had to show you the copy I made of that first letter because the words disappeared without warning.” I flipped through the papers in my hand. “But I can show you the most recent letter I’ve received. The words haven’t faded yet.”

  TJ took the paper and shook his head a little in disbelief. “You mean you have received more than one letter from this Daniel?”

  I held up the papers. “Oh, yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  I cringed because this admission would make me sound crazy. "I've been answering Daniel's letters. We've been corresponding since that first morning." I thrust the papers and phone at him. "They're all here, pictures of his letters and copies of mine. There are copies of the letters that faded away. Go ahead, read them. Tell me what you think. I'll be in the kitchen." I turned and walked out of the den, leaving a mystified man in my wake.

  I had time to make a fresh cup of coffee and sit with my thoughts while I finished it before he stumbled into the kitchen and fell into a chair.

  “This is unbelievable,” he began. “How do I know you didn’t concoct this whole thing?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  He shrugged, but not in an angry way. I think he was as mystified and confused as I had been when Daniel’s letters first began appearing.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged again. “Boredom, maybe?”

  I straightened up, ready to defend my sanity and honor, but he reacted before I could say anything.

  “No, I’m not saying I don’t believe you. It’s all just, I don’t know, incredible.”

  I relaxed a little. “But you’re not convinced that Daniel is a ghost.” I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “You have to admit it strains reality as we know it. Don’t we need to know more?”

  My hackles went up again. "Whoa, you're not going to suggest that we bring in those crazy ghost hunters with equipment, microphones, and eerie green lights, are you?" I started shaking my head. "Because I—"

  He held up a hand for me to stop. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what you’ve shown me. Can you give a guy a break?”

  I knew I should. He had earned it. I put my elbows on the table and ran my hands over my face. We sat quietly together as the reds and violet of the sunset faded to the deep blue of night. In the growing darkness, I made TJ an offer.

  “It’s my turn to write a letter. I was going to leave it on the desk tonight. If he continues the routine, his reply should appear on the desk by morning. Why don’t you watch me write the letter then I’ll go upstairs? You sleep in the den. When we find his letter in the morning, you’ll know I didn’t sneak into the room to swap out the letters in the middle of the night. Then maybe you’ll believe me.”

  He thought for a few moments. “That’s a good way to resolve things. We’ll have dinner, write the letter and call it a night.” Then he added in a voice that put distance between us. “By morning, I’ll either know the truth or know to tell Mr. Saffire that you need more help than I can offer. Do we have a deal?”

  If Daniel didn’t write back by tomorrow morning, I’d lose TJ as a friend and have to deal with an attorney who’d been told I was crazy. It was a gamble, but I knew it would be when I decided to tell him the truth.

  I held out my right hand. “Deal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Don’t be afraid to write of little things. …Things that are worth talking about are worth writing about. When absent from home, we gloat over the simplest details. Anything and everything that calls up the picture of
home with all its dear associations and makes us forget for the moment that we are scores or hundreds of miles away.”

  How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  We scavenged our way through the fridge and cabinets to stretch the meal Maria had left me into a dinner for two. Our conversation was stilted. Ghost could feel the tension in the air. He kept watching us, looking first at TJ, then me, then back to his master. Finally, he gave up with a snort and found the perfect spot for an after-dinner nap. I thought how much easier it was to be a dog than a human.

  "Shall we write the next letter?" I suggested as we finished putting the dishes in the sink.

  “I thought you were going to do that?”

  “I am, but, from this point on, I want you to walk every step with me until you either accept what’s happening or you walk away convinced that I’m crazy. I thought that was our deal.”

  He stretched. “You’re right. If I walk away now, Daniel, whatever he is, will bother me forever. Let’s get to work.”

  I sat at the old plantation desk with TJ hovering over me. It was curious that I didn't feel like he was intruding or judging what I was doing. Instead, it was comforting that I had a partner in this adventure. At least, he would be a partner if I proved that Daniel was on the other side of our correspondence. It was time.

  “I try to respond to Daniel’s most recent letter. I think it’s safer than introducing a new tangent,” I explained.

  “That’s fine. Do what you think is appropriate. I’m new at this so, I’ll watch.”

  I slipped a sheet of paper in front of me. After removing the cover of the inkwell, I dipped the old-style pen into the ink and began.

  Dear Daniel,

  Please tell me more about the secret buried by the Lone Oak. I know you and my father believe that it will keep me safe. These are unsettled times. Knowledge shall be my shield.

  I turned and looked at TJ. He was frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s short and sweet,” he said.

  “Yes, and…?”

  “Let’s ask something specific. You were wondering about the miniature Emma is wearing in the portrait. Ask him about it.”

  I turned back to the letter, thinking. What could I say that wouldn’t reveal I wasn’t his Emma? I picked up the pen again, dipped it into the ink and added the line and closing to the letter so it read:

  Dear Daniel,

  Please tell me more about the secret buried by the Lone Oak. I know you and my father believe that it will keep me safe. These are unsettled times. Knowledge shall be my shield.

  I will keep the secret as close to my heart as I do the miniature.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Emma

  "Yes, that's good. Let's see how Daniel responds to the mention of the necklace."

  And, I thought, it’s something I know nothing about, which will help prove I’m telling the truth. And if the necklace was a product of the artist’s imagination, Daniel might be confused or even angry.

  I'd been so careful about what I'd written up to now, but I couldn't argue with TJ. I hid my unease as I signed the letter, moved it to the center of the desk's writing surface, and covered the inkwell.

  “Now, what?” TJ asked.

  “Now, we wait. Usually, I go to bed and find his response on the desk in the morning. You can sleep in the spare room upstairs, but it might be better if you slept here. That way, you’ll know I didn’t sneak in a reply while you were sleeping. I can give you a comforter and pillows. What do you want to do?”

  “Have you ever been in the room when his letter appeared?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “I never thought of that.”

  "I have a sleeping bag in the truck I use during the harvest when I can't get home. I'll close the door and stretch out in the hallway. I don't want to scare away this Daniel, this ghost."

  “But—”

  "It's okay, it's only one night. Ghost and I have slept in worse conditions."

  It didn’t take long to get them settled and for me to go upstairs and put my head down on my pillow. I’d sounded so positive when I was telling TJ about Daniel. This was the test. Would Daniel reply?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “A person’s social, intellectual, and moral culture are indicated in his letters, as plainly as in his manners, dress, and conversation.”

  How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  The next morning, something woke me at dawn. My first thought made me close my eyes again and snuggle into my pillow. This was the morning of truth: Had Daniel responded? Was he angry about the mention of the miniature? Would TJ believe me?

  Life would be so much simpler if I could stay in bed. But curiosity made me swing my feet to the floor. The house was silent except for the usual, random creak. Was TJ still sleeping? Quickly, I pulled on a sweatsuit and made my way downstairs, calling out his name.

  Nothing.

  I headed straight to the den. I looked at the desk and my stomach clenched. My letter was gone, but there was no reply in its place.

  No TJ. No letter.

  There was nothing for me to do, but make a cup of coffee, sit on the patio and stare at the Lone Oak. That’s where TJ found me with an empty mug.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” The man was out of breath. His shirt from yesterday was wrinkled. “You were right. I never would have believed it, but it’s all here.” He held up a white piece of paper with the smooth handwriting I’d come to recognize. Daniel had answered our letter.

  Dearest Emma,

  I read your most recent letter with dismay. Do you not remember what your father told you?

  In the high emotion of war and displacement, I can understand why you might not be able to recount the details.

  Therefore, I am writing to you with great concern. It is of the utmost importance that you have this information clearly at hand so that you can take care of yourself. I would never forgive myself if any delay on my part put you in danger.

  Harken back to the late afternoon that the horse and rider galloped up to the house with news for your father about events at the bank in Easton. As you know, everyone was very nervous at that time. No one knew what would happen between the North and the South or if the Union would survive. Unsettled times are never good for a bank. The rider brought news about a board meeting at your father’s bank. A vote by the board of directors showed a split of six to five in favor of the Confederacy.

  My father knew that your father was very nervous about his deposit at the bank and was pacing all night, trying to puzzle out the best thing to do. The next day, he went into town and converted all of his money deposits to gold and silver and brought them home. He had me bring down a strongbox from the attic and he filled it with the precious metals and other valuables he collected from around your house.

  Late in the night, the three of us went out to the Lone Oak. By lantern light, your father carefully walked off a complicated pattern, stopped at a spot just beyond the branches, and told me to dig a deep hole. We buried that strongbox together. After we covered it over with dirt and concealed the disturbance with grasses and leaves, he swore us to secrecy and gave us a sacred charge. If anything happened to him, we were to make sure that you, his beloved daughter Emma, had the valuables for your use.

  Remember, your father put the strongbox there for you.

  If you require it and I am not near at hand, take someone you trust and a shovel to the spot below the limb where we loved to sit and dream. Look to the dawn and walk, counting out the day of your birth. Turn toward the place you loved to play in the mud across the water.

  Walk again, counting out your birth month, and pray as we did as children before bed.

  I am sorry to be so opaque, but one never knows into whose hands this letter may fall. You and I share a history that began when we were small children.

  Knowledge of these
places is part of us and can never be forgotten. They are ours alone. No one else can interpret these direct actions and steal what is rightfully yours.

  Your mention of the miniature brought a smile to my face. I remember how you cajoled me to sit for you. It was almost painful to watch you struggle with the painting. You had taken only a few lessons when you announced that you wanted to create a miniature of me. When it was finished, you were unhappy with the result, but I thought it was a fair likeness. I rejoice to think that you have it now to remember me.

  I want you to know that my whole being yearns to see you. I fear it is not possible right now. I shall content myself with thoughts of your sweet face. As I sit here at my father’s desk, I feel a connection so, here I shall stay, waiting.

  As always, your obedient servant,

  Daniel

  We had our answer about a time long past and today's mystery of the many holes dug around the Lone Oak. There was buried treasure somewhere here at Waterwood. I even had instructions on how to find it if it hadn’t been dug up already. Daniel had encrypted the information in a very basic, but effective way. I had seen the month and day of Emma’s birth on her tombstone only hours earlier at the family cemetery. I understood that the first direction was to the east, but from where? The reference to a limb of the Lone Oak was clear, but which one. Where was her favorite spot to play in the mud? And how did they pray as children? Those words conjured up an old lithograph of a child praying by her bed, on her knees. Could that be what Daniel was suggesting?