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

I felt every muscle stretch, every nerve twitch as I stepped up. At this rate, it would be time for breakfast when I finally got to the top. My kindergarten teacher instinct kicked in. What would I tell a child to make this fun? Of course, my old fallback. Sing a song! A counting song. But singing one I used in the classroom would make me miss the kids even more than I already did. I’d make up my own. That would distract me.

The first line that came to mind was Here’s step one. I wish I were done.

That was too pessimistic when I faced so many more steps. I teetered on the first step from standing there so long. Then inspiration came.

“Here’s step one,” I sang. “I’ve just begun.”

Oh, this wasn’t working. I looked around thinking that I should sleep on the sofa when something caught my eye. Outside, near the Lone Oak, a light was dancing around. The kids in my kindergarten class would think it was a fairy dancing in the blackness of the night.  More likely, somebody was holding a candle or flashlight. By the old tree? In the middle of nowhere? I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. The light was gone. The painkiller must be playing tricks. I needed to get some sleep. I wrapped my hand around the banister again and pulled myself up another step.

“That’s step two to make just a few, but it’s one more than when I’d begun.” The singing sounded more like grunts and the rhyme was awful, but I was making progress.

After only six steps, the tears started to flow. My shoulders hurt. My leg hurt. My pride was in tatters. Why did I think I could do this? Not only live alone in the Cottage but recover the use of my leg?

I can’t do this alone, Uncle Jack. I need you.

He always said, “Emma, you can do anything you put your mind to.”

I smiled remembering how that brilliant, accomplished man always let that one preposition dangle at the end of that sentence. He said it would help me remember what he said.

And that’s what l have to do…remember.

I wiped my cheeks with my sleeve, took a big breath, and climbed my way to bed. I only had enough energy to make my nightly entry in my journal.

The next morning dawned bright and clear with a break in the summer heat and humidity. Going down the stairs was a little easier. I was in the kitchen in no time and grateful it was small and compact. Soon, the toaster hummed. The coffeemaker dripped. The Cottage was beginning to work its magic, making me feel like I was home.

Anxious to begin work and make my mark on that stack of white paper, I hustled through breakfast. The dishes could sit in the sink for now. With a fresh mug of coffee placed on the computer table with wheels, I carefully pushed through to my writing den for the first day of work on my new book. I refused to let it rattle me that I had no clue about the storyline or characters.

As I approached my magnificent writing desk, I looked at the stack of paper I'd left there and gasped. Words were written on the top sheet.

My Dearest Emma

Chapter Two

“A good short letter is better than a poor long one. The language of a letter should not be…too dry or abrupt. It should be easy, flowing, graceful.”

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 Literature,

State Normal School, Millersville, PA 1883

I rocked on my crutches from the shock. It would be better to sit down than fall down, so I got myself into the chair and dropped my crutches to the floor. I couldn’t believe someone had addressed a letter to me in such an intimate way and left it on my desk. Almost forgetting to breathe, I slid the page in front of me and read:

My Dearest Emma,

If I may still call you my dearest since you must think so badly of me for not writing sooner. It is not a lack of desire to contact you. It’s about having the ability to write.

This war has brought such deprivations down on us. I have sat here at my father’s desk, as if chained to it, waiting for that most precious commodity, paper.

Now that it has appeared and in abundance, I shall be able to tell you what has transpired and assure you of my faithfulness now and always. I often think of you walking by the water, watching the osprey, and breathing the salt-tinged air. It brings me such comfort.

Your obedient servant,

Daniel

My dearest Emma? Who is this Daniel? How did he get into the Cottage?

I held my breath, listening. Was this Daniel still here? Could he be in the living room or watching me from the hallway? I spun around in the chair, but no one was there. The letter fluttered to the floor.

Okay, calm down, I told myself. If he was here, there would not be much I could do to defend myself. My phone, where was my phone? Not in my pocket. Not on the desk. Idiot.

I’d left it on the kitchen counter by the sink. So near, yet so far. There was nothing else to do but get up on the crutches and get to the kitchen as fast and as quietly as possible. Hopefully,