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

said the same way my mother always did. It felt right. She had given me an exceptional gift.

For the first time, I felt empowered to write.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“[Oration, public speeches, reports are written as if] a thousand eyes are peering over the writer’s shoulder and scrutinizing every word; while letters are written when the mind as it were in dressing-gown and slippers—free, natural, active, perfectly at home.”

How to Write Letters

by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

After Maureen left, I dove back into research materials collected from the library and found that Katie Cobin had earned a mention in the history books.

There was never a proper recording of the death of Virtue Violl. About seventy-five years later, when an old woman appeared on the Point, living by herself, in the same place as Virtue, the local people were sure that the witch had returned. When the new resident appeared in town, people shied away from her in fear that she would cast a hex on them. The men believed their women were being silly but kept their distance from her as well.

One day, Katie went to town and walked down the main street. People stood back to let her pass. But on this day, a little boy was curious. He broke away from his mother and ran up to Katie. His mother was horrified, but not brave enough to draw her son away. The townspeople watched in fear as the old woman knelt down to talk to the little boy. No one was close enough to hear what they said.

Then Katie reached into the pocket of her tattered dress, pulled out something in her fist, and gave it to the boy. He smiled and rushed back to his mother. She was angry. The boy had disobeyed her. She grabbed him by the wrist, forced him to open his hand and found a small stone there. The mother examined it closely. Its white surface was smooth and round. There was nothing special about the stone until the sunlight touched it. It sparkled.

Everyone in the crowd was amazed. The mother was terrified. She grabbed the sparkling stone and raised her hand high in the air to cast it away. Katie cried out for the mother to stop. Then she pointed at the mother and back to the boy. The message was clear: that stone was a gift from me to him. It is not yours to throw away. Slowly, the mother lowered her hand and returned the stone to the boy’s hand. He quickly put it in his pocket and dashed off to play with his friends.

Later, other mothers challenged her for not throwing away the stone and protecting her boy. In self-defense, she claimed that the old hag used unseen powers to force her to put the stone back into her son's hand. People accepted her story, but they became leery of being too friendly with that family. The boy carried the stone in his pocket until his dying day.

Hearing the crunch of the driveway gravel brought me back to the present. It was proving better than a doorbell. I thought TJ had arrived, but one of those fun Jeeps that belonged on the beach had parked and Stephani had climbed out.  Oh no! She had come to give me a ride to my physical therapy appointment, the one I’d canceled earlier that morning.

This isn’t a good way to start a new relationship, I thought as I pulled the walker into position so I could go and meet her. I apologized for bringing her over unnecessarily. She was a little peeved. I couldn’t blame her.

“You see, I fell last night and hurt my leg again,” I explained. “I thought it was better if I stayed quiet today to rest the muscles. I canceled the appointment early this morning and completely forgot to call you. I’m so sorry.”

Her lips grew thin as she evaluated my story.  I suspected somebody in her life lied to her regularly. Finally, concern overcame suspicion.

“Are you okay?” Stephani asked.  “I can understand that you would forget to call me if you were hurting and taking strong painkillers. It’s not a bother, really.”

“I’ll be happy to pay for your time,” I said as I started to look around for my purse.

“No, no, that’s okay. Stopping here didn't take me out of my way." She looked around and her interest was piqued by the open books and notes spread over the coffee table and sofa. “Are you doing more research for your book?”

“I’ve been following up on some things about the area’s history and Waterwood Plantation.  Would you like to sit down and talk a little?”

“Yes, I have time before I have to get to the library,” she said as she slung that huge purse off her shoulder.

“I’m glad, because I came across a story, an old legend really, that I wanted to ask you about.”  I told Stephani about the tale of Katie Cobin. She listened intently and took in all the information like a black hole without giving me a hint of a reaction.

I pointed out the window and said, “And to think the women lived right across the creek by the old tree…if it did happen at all.”

She glanced out the window and then back at me. “You never know what to believe when you hear those old stories.  In the early days, before there were bank vaults in this area, farmers and landowners would bury their valuables somewhere on their property for safekeeping when they traveled away from home for an extended time.” She got up and walked to the window, her eyes firmly set on the Lone Oak. “There are stories about people dying while they were away and