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

“What do you mean?” I was confused.

“On the farm, I’m up by five o’clock, maybe earlier. During harvest, I barely see my bed.”

I clutched my throat as a joke. “Five o’clock? In the morning? No, we’re not doing that. The appointment is definitely my early…8:30.”

“Ha! Middle of the afternoon.” We laughed easily together. “Don’t worry, we’ll work it out.”

When Mr. Saffire hired TJ to fix the house, I wondered if he chose him because he’d fix me as well. I sighed, hoping I had the energy to deal with two new men in my life—TJ and Daniel.

Back at the Cottage, TJ waited until I was inside. It felt good to lock the door and let the Cottage wrap its comfort around me. After taking a pill, I went directly to the desk, hoping to find another letter from Daniel. In a way, I was relieved there was nothing there. I still hadn't decided how to proceed. The library books fit on one of the desk's shelves like they were meant to be there. They all looked intriguing, but I pulled the book about legendary lore. It felt good to nestle into Uncle Jack's recliner. In moments, I was asleep.

Hunger pangs woke me about sunset. One ice cream cone did not make a satisfying lunch. Groggy, I went to the kitchen, convinced that dinner would be peanut butter and jelly. How wrong I was. Maria had left a treasure map of small slips of paper identifying the foil-wrapped and glass-covered dishes in the fridge:  Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, two crab cakes, green salad and dressing.  Pitchers of lemonade and sweet tea sat on the top shelf.

Bless you, Maria. You are an angel. I wish you’d included dessert.

I should never have underestimated her. A plate of beautiful chocolate brownies sat on the counter. While dinner heated up in the microwave, I nibbled on a small piece of brownie that brought back a sweet memory. Uncle Jack always said one should never take a chance and always eat dessert first.  Especially if it was chocolate. We only did that when my mother was not around. She would have yelled at us. Once the microwave dinged, I sat down to a feast with the book about Shore folklore for company. It took only a moment to realize that this was the happiest, most content I’d felt in the months since the accident.

Making the arrangements to sublet my condo, packing up most of my things, and moving down to the Eastern Shore, doing those things wasn't easy, but, at this moment, I was certain it was worth the energy. It sounded trite, but I felt it was meant to be. Months earlier, when they loaded me into a medivac helicopter, I got a glimpse of the tangled mass of steel and chrome that was once my car. At that moment, a spark of spirituality flared inside me. I couldn't have survived that impact without divine intervention. I didn't credit any organized religion, but I knew it was something greater than me. I'd whispered a thank-you in the quiet of my heart. I still had that feeling.

Feeling grateful for the here and now, I didn’t leave a crumb on my plate. Maria was a miracle in the kitchen. If I kept eating like this, I’d blow up like a blimp, but I didn’t care. It felt so right to have one more brownie. I poured a tall glass of milk to go with it. The pages of the book flipped to another section that was about the creek outside my window. When I saw the chapter heading, I swept my eyes over every part of the kitchen. Why did the book fall open to that page? Was the spine cracked at that place or had a ghostly hand given it a little help? It wasn’t a good idea to read about creepy goings-on after sundown while sitting in the Cottage all alone, but I was curious. I sank into the chair and began to read about Virtue Violl, the witch who once lived across the creek from the Cottage by the Lone Oak. It was tedious to read a story reproduced with old spellings, like an f for an s, but I tried.

In the year of Our Lord 1712, a woman named Virtue Violl of Talbot County lived on the Point of land at the far end of the landowner’s property, well beyond the Lone Oak that stood alone, as if it had scared away all the other trees. The new landowner did not need it. He had acres and acres of good soil to till so that the crops would take care of his family and add silver to his purse. Using his spyglass, he could observe the place where the old woman lived. 

It was not a house. It was a hovel with slanted walls that barely held up a dilapidated roof. A strange light often appeared at night, moving around the Point. People believed she was signaling the dead.

I soon found I didn’t have the energy to concentrate. Skimming it, I learned that Virtue was arrested for being a witch.

I closed the book, hoping to contain the disturbing story between its covers. I didn’t want to look out to the point across the creek where the woman once lived. Did the people who lived nearby blame every bad thing that happened on that old woman? I guess life would be so much easier if you could blame someone else, especially if you believed in witches and ghosts.

My smile faded.  Believed in ghosts.  Until a few days ago, I would have dismissed that notion out-of-hand.  If I couldn’t see it,