Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

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