Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  “You’re walking, well, like a normal person,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets then took them out again. TJ was fidgeting with embarrassment.

  I took a small bow. “Thank you, thank you very much. Walking feels better now even though I’m not quite ready for dancing.” I shrugged. “Not that there’s a rush. I was never very good at it.”

  He spoke the next words so quietly that I almost missed them. “I am.”

  “You are—?”

  “I’m good at dancing. Mom made me go to Cotillion when I was young. Later, when I found that girls like boys who dance, I took more lessons at that famous dance studio.”

  “You didn’t.” I burst out laughing. “I’ve never met anyone who answered those ads and signed up.”

  “Well, I did and, I must say, it paid off. In fact—”

  Quickly, I held up my hand. “Stop, stop! I don’t need to hear details.”

  He took a step toward me. Always distracted by pain and then the activities at rehab, I’d forgotten how handsome he was. A hunk of light brown hair bleached blonde by the autumn sun fell over his forehead. His shirt sleeves were rolled-up, baring his muscular arms that had rescued me after my fall. But it was his sparkling eyes—hazel green like his land—that drew me in.

  He held out his hands to me. “If you need motivation, keep on getting better and, when you’re ready, I will take you dancing.”

  A wave of warmth moved through my body. I tried to keep the giddiness out of my voice, "You don't have to worry. I doubt that will be anytime soon."

  As I put my hand on the doorknob to go inside, his words stopped me again. “In the meantime, may I take you out to dinner tomorrow night? As friends. Not a date. We wouldn’t want to do that.”

  The air around me seemed to shimmer. A great calm feeling came over me. “That would be nice. We can talk about things other than…” I cocked my head toward the cabin.

  He chuckled. “Yes, that would be nice.” He called out as he started walking back to his truck, “Pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  I called after him. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”

  He stopped and turned slowly toward me. “I don’t normally like city girls. Had my fill of them at college. Grad school was the worst. As soon as they found out I had some land, they were all ready for me to sell up and buy some fancy condo in the city or a big McMansion in the suburbs. No, thank you. But you’re different. I figured I’d wait.”

  I couldn’t let it go. “Why?”

  “I didn’t think you were ready.”

  “And now? What changed?”

  He smiled. “You’re ready to start living again.”

  A slow smile of satisfaction played on my lips. I nodded gently. “Yes. Yes, I guess I am.”

  Letters Across the Miles (Chapter One)

  It started as a rumble in the distance. Then, the noise and vibrations rolled over the land scoured flat during the ice age. Acres of fertile land soaked up the pelting rain. I suspected the Chesapeake Bay, two hundred miles of pleasant waters, was whipped up to four-foot waves. It would not be the place to be tonight. This storm was unsettling enough inland at the Cottage on a creek. As the storm moved closer, white-hot lightning followed by booming shock waves reminded me of a cannon firing in war, the Civil War. And of Daniel and Emma or the cabin TJ had restored for the lovers. I’d have to check it in the morning for damage.

  I stood at the window watching the storm’s flashy pyrotechnics. I’d heard that this kind of violent storm could spawn a tornado. People say the sky turns a sick green if a twister is in the area, but who could tell at night? Man was a sitting duck for Mother Nature’s tantrums.

  A splintered lightning fork streaked across the sky. I felt awe. The fork split and stabbed the earth. My muscles tensed. Close, that strike was close. The flash drilled through my eyes to my brain, blinding me. Thunder rattled the window and thudded against my chest. Driven back from the window, I wanted to run. Instead, I inched my way across the floor in the dark. The last thing I needed was to trip over something. My leg, mangled in the accident months earlier, was much better, even close to normal most days, but I wouldn’t tolerate even a stubbed toe. Besides, there was nothing to worry about. The Mid-Atlantic area of the United States was never hit by tornados. Except for the one that screamed across Southern Maryland almost twenty years earlier, causing more than a million dollars in damage. Or the whatever-it-was that skipped through a wooded area bordering a luxury area known as Kenwood outside of D.C. It cut off trees at an even height of about eight feet. One expert called it a tornado and had to walk back that designation. The damage, they said, was caused by straight line winds. Of course, it wouldn’t harm the beloved Japanese cherry trees that lined the streets of Kenwood. Mother Nature must have known who lived there. But those were instances on the western shore. This was the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. It wouldn’t happen here. It was a phrase I’d heard the locals say many times.

  The storm struck again, lighting the room in eeriness. Thunder pounded my little house. There was nowhere to hide except… Lightning cracked again. Forget caution. I sprinted across the room, launched myself into bed, and pulled the covers over my head.

  Emma, I lectured myself, stop being foolish. You’re safe here in the Cottage that has weathered storms for more than a hundred years?

  I was shaking, actually shaking. I’ll never get to sleep with all this racket. I’ll never get to sleep. I’ll never…

  Rays of sunlight warmed my face. I had fallen asleep and now it was morning. Slowly, I remembered what had happened in the night.

  The thunderstorm.

  The lightning strike.

  The cabin!

  I threw off the covers and scrambled into a pair of sweats and sweatshirt. Slow down. Slow down, I reminded myself as I walked down the stairs. It hadn’t been that long since my release from rehabilitation to heal my body after the car accident that almost took my life.

  Safely on the main floor, I slipped into my rubber moccasins, went out the front door, and skidded to a stop. For all the noise and fireworks of the night before, Mother Nature had created a breathtaking morning. The tall pines sparkled in the sunlight as they swayed gently, sending out puffs of pine scent through the air. The birds greeted me with a lively symphony of song. Not just one bird, but a forest full of those who had not yet flown south for the winter. There were Blue Jay squawks and Chickadee chirps plus the voices of those who came for the winter, robin trills, crow caws, and the Canada goose honks. And over it all was the cloudless sky dome of an achingly gorgeous blue. But it was the air that impressed me the most. Scrubbed clean by the storm, the air must have been as Mother Nature intended it to be in the beginning.

  I took in a deep breath and scurried down the path toward the cabin. Scurried wasn’t the right word. The thick mud and puddles made it slow-going, giving my brain plenty of time to concoct all kinds of possibilities of what I was about to see. The wind had pulled off the roof. The cabin was a burned-out shell destroyed by the lightning strike. Or…

  I rounded the bend in the path and saw the cabin nestled in the cove of crepe myrtle and wild grasses, safe. It stood strong and untouched, just the way TJ had built it. With a deep sigh of relief, I retrieved the key from its hidey place and opened the door.

  From the outside, the little cabin of wood planks had literally weathered the storm. On the inside, a maelstrom had struck. I only had eyes for the old plantation desk, Daniel’s desk. Thankfully, it seemed to be untouched, but the sheets of white paper we’d left on its flat writing surface were strewn everywhere as if someone had thrown an almighty temper tantrum. It was exactly what I’d hope never to see.

  When I inherited the Cottage from Uncle Jack, I’d discovered the desk used by the plantation manager of Waterwood, the land surrounding the Cottage. When I had the antique moved into the den from the garage where it had been buried under a blue tarp, an extraordinary experience had begun. Daniel had left letters addressed to
Emma on the plantation desk. Why was this unusual? His letters were dated 1862 and this was the 21st century. Daniel wasn’t writing to me really. He wanted to contact his true love, Emma. In a moment of silliness or boredom, I’d responded. And our correspondence had begun. His desperation and loneliness had made me want to help reunite them. I figured anything was possible since I was corresponding with a ghost.

  My friend TJ repaired this cabin to shelter the desk. I put a miniature portrait Emma had painted of Daniel next to a stack of paper and we closed the door. We assumed that the only way we’d know if we succeeded was if Daniel never left another letter addressed to Emma on the desk.

  And now this! Paper scattered everywhere, as if flung into the air in a fit of rage. Did Emma fail to join him? Was this another betrayal in his life, one that had finally broken his heart and ignited eternal grief and fury? I could feel the salt of my tears sting my eyes and my skin as they trickled down my cheeks.

  “There you are,” the male voice stated with some relief. TJ had come as if I’d called him. “I thought I’d find you here. Did you know you left your front door open?” he said in his calm, laid-back way. “I see we had the same idea. I was wondering how the cabin… whoa!”

  I knew he’d taken in the papers strewn everywhere and he’d realized what it probably meant.

  “It looks like… did Daniel… does this mean…” TJ touched my arm as I continued to stand with my back to him. I didn’t want him to see me crying. “Emma?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I wailed.

  He turned me toward him, put his arms around me, and let my tears soak into his Oxford cloth shirt. He didn’t say a word. What could he say? The evidence was clear that we’d failed to reunite the lovers of old. After all the research to uncover the true Emma of Daniel’s world and their connection. After the discovery of who had torn them apart. After the search for a treasure that was rumored to be rich enough to be life changing. After the terrifying murder of a young man in our time. After TJ rebuilt the cabin and…

  It had all ended in disappointment and rage.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured as I looked up at TJ.

  “Okay, time to dry your tears.” He pulled out a cloth handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans. “Let’s see what happened here.”

  “Isn’t it obvious. I-I-I failed them,” I sputtered.

  “Sh-h-h, we don’t know that yet.” He went around the small cabin interior, collecting the papers flung everywhere. “Didn’t you say that if our efforts to reunite Emma and Daniel failed, he would write a scathing letter about betrayal and being abandoned?”

  I nodded, sure that if I spoke, I’d start crying again.

  TJ held up a fistful of white sheets to me. “Emma, every one of these pages are blank.”

  I took the sheets and inspected them. What he said was true. “Maybe his words have already faded as they did with his letters to me?”

  “You have been checking the cabin religiously several times a day for the past two weeks.

  “How did you know…”

  “Because you’re not the only one who wants them to be happy. I’ve been anxious to know if what we did worked. I haven’t found any evidence of correspondence from Daniel. You’ve told me you haven’t found anything either, right?”

  I nodded.

  “So, I don’t think Daniel did this. I don’t think he made this mess. I think the storm…” he paused, his green hazel eyes slowly inspecting the ceiling, the door, the window… “Ah ha! Here’s your culprit.” He pointed to a partially broken glass pane in the window overlooking the creek and the Lone Oak tree. He looked outside. “Yes, there’s a branch on the ground. Probably broke off in the storm. “And if Daniel were sending you a message, he probably would have shredded that.” He pointed to the origami butterfly I’d folded from crimson paper and left in a cubbyhole for the lovers, to symbolize a soul set free and a bond of love to last forever. It sat just where I’d left it weeks ago. “Stop your worrying, please. I think we succeeded.”

  TJ was ever optimistic, and I decided to follow his lead. It was so much better than the alternative. I folded his handkerchief and stuck it in my pocket. “I’ll put this through the wash.”

  “OH! I almost forgot.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “I wanted to check on the cabin and to show this to you, a letter I found last night.”

  He handed me a small envelope, a little discolored, with a heavily-cancelled one-cent stamp in the corner. There was a letter inside.

  “You’ll see by the cancellation that it was written during the Civil War and addressed to Emma Collins, Daniel’s Emma, I think.”

  Carefully, I took out the letter and unfolded it, eager to read it.

  “Be careful,” he said softly. “Look at the notation there at the bottom. I suspect Emma wrote it.”

  The letter signed Sally (Sarah Lowndes). The notation written in a different hand read:

  Curious, I asked, “Who was Sally?”

  “I’m not sure. But I suspect you have a new research project.”

  Are you intrigued?

  Visit SusanReiss.com to be notified when Book Two is released!

  Acknowledgements & Notes

  Betty Dorbin, librarian and lover of history, traces her family roots on the Eastern Shore back to the 1600s. One area of the family’s estate that continues to exist is the family graveyard. She has meticulously researched her family history and was kind to share what she’d learned during a leisurely stroll on a brilliant fall day.

  Keith Shortall of Shortall Farm on the Eastern Shore, a man with rich soil under his fingernails, was so kind to share his time and expertise so TJ could be presented honestly and correctly.

  University of Maryland Extension Service was a wonderful source of farming information.

  Heartfelt thanks to James Dawson, owner of the Unicorn Bookshop, Trappe, Maryland and editor of 100 Years of Change on the Eastern Shore: The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951. Not only was it a wonderful source for chapter quotes, reading the entries helped bring alive the times when Daniel and Emma lived.

  Though Stephani was an interesting character, the real Maryland Room of the Talbot County Free Library is staffed by Becky Riti. She presides over a treasure trove of information, everything from maps and books to original journals and photographs from long ago. She knows how to find things and is eager to help every visitor to her domain.

  The fact that cursive writing is no longer taught in many schools is a shame, in my opinion. So, here’s a tip of the hat to teachers and parents who take the time to teach the next generations. It’s faster than printing and can be more legible. If nothing else, it gives a person the means to develop a distinctive signature.

  Many thanks to the St. Michaels Fire Department, Station 40, especially Kevin Smith, Firefighter Engineer and Kristen Jones EMT/Firefighter for help in getting the “fire in the field” scenes right!

  I think all dog lovers dream of having a well-trained companion. I’m fortunate to live with Leo, a yellow lab, who has qualified as a therapy dog. Before the lockdowns of the pandemic, he was the reading dog for kids at the St. Michaels branch library. His training became a little lax during our at-home time. Whenever someone came to visit, he was out of his mind with delight. One day during a particularly exuberant greeting, I said, “Manners.” Much to everyone shock, he sat and extended a paw. Since Ghost is so well-trained in the story, I thought I’d add this little detail to his behavior in honor of Leo.

  We don’t really write letters anymore. We write emails. Writing good letters to clearly convey information and how we truly feel is fast becoming a lost art along with cursive writing. I often thought of good letter-writing as belonging to times centuries past. Then I found the little book in the public domain and online called How to Write Letters: A Manual of Correspondence Showing the Correct Structure, Composition, Punctuation, Formalities, and Uses of the Various Kinds of Letters, Notes and Cards by J. Willis Westlake, A.M., Professor of English Liter
ature, State Normal School, Millersville, PA 1883. Quite a mouthful, I know. It was printed 138 years ago, as of this writing. Of course, some of the advice no longer applies, I was surprised how much of the information would be useful today. For example, the author suggests that a letter written in anger or extreme emotion should be set aside for at least a night, if not several days. I’m sure we all have hit Send before we should have.

  Many thanks to my writing buddies, Jen and Donna, who are always willing to read and comment. You are great companions on this writer’s journey.

  And as always, thanks to my family for your support always. Barry, Erin, Zoe, Matt, Maggie and our newest addition, Joey, I love you all to the moon and back!

  Susan Reiss

  St. Michaels, Maryland

  2021

  Susan Reiss

  Susan Reiss trained as a concert pianist, then worked as a television writer/producer for many years. Her work has received a Silver Medal, New York International Film Festival, the Cine Golden Eagle, three Tellys and numerous Emmy nominations. Named as a Scribe of the Shore, she participated in the Sheldon Goldgeier Lecture Series.

  Her blog explores topics about writing, sterling silver, sailing and Eastern Shore life at www.SusanReiss.com from her home in St. Michaels, Maryland.

  Website: www.SusanReiss.com

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3