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

before they could tell anybody exactly where the fortune was buried. But can we believe everything we read?”

I too gazed out the window at the tree. “Probably not, but there is something intriguing about the stories of these two women and that tree. I wonder how it ended up on that point of land. Did somebody plant it, somebody connected to the Waterwood plantation?”

I caught a fleeting glimpse of Stephani raising her chin and looking down her nose at me. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Then that look of contempt was gone.

The question threw me. She was accenting the difference between locals and people who came here from the Western Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. For some, that difference was a wide gulf.

“No, I didn’t grow up here,” I said carefully, “but I spent my summers with my Uncle Jack until I went to college.”

“But you grew up in a city on the Western Shore.” Her voice was flat.

“Yes, why?”

She chuckled.  “It shows that you’re not a country girl. That tree probably wasn’t planted by a person. A bird might’ve picked up the seed someplace and dropped it there one way or another.  That’s the way Mother Nature does her landscaping. That old tree has been around for centuries, I bet,” she declared. “It’s seen a lot of happenings.”

“Do you think it was there during the Civil War?” I was testing her.

“I’m sure it was.”

“What about the Revolutionary War? Do you think it might’ve been a Liberty Tree? It might have been a secret meeting place.  Seeing it out all alone fires up my imagination. It’s certainly a great place for a lover’s rendezvous. Do you think there are any initials carved into its bark?” I was on a roll. “With all the talk about witches living there, I wonder if satanic worship ceremonies were ever held under its branches?”

Stephani smiled at me. “Would you like to go over there and take a look for yourself?”

I gazed out the window again. “I’d love to, but there’s no way.”

“Why?”

I tapped the walker. “That tree is a long way from the road. I don’t think I could navigate the ground, especially after last night.”

“We could go in my Jeep. It can go just about anywhere. We could drive into the field and take a spin around the Lone Oak and come back. It’ll only take a few minutes.” She made it sound so simple.

Hoping I wasn’t being foolish, I reached for my crutches. “Let’s go.”

I took the front steps slowly and was encouraged by how well I was doing. Then I had to get up into her vehicle. It would be at home on any beach but climbing aboard was going to be a challenge. She found an old cinderblock around the corner of the house and placed it as a stepping stone for me. After some tugging and wiggling around, I settled into the passenger seat and attached the seatbelt. I was unnerved there was no real door between me and the roadway. I clenched my teeth and focused forward.  Stephani jumped in and we were off. I held on and silently coached myself to stay calm.

When we rumbled into the field, I held with both hands as we bounced around. Being under the Lone Oak was even more impressive than seeing it from the Cottage.  Its trunk was massive. The limbs and branches spread out creating a safe place, a shelter for anyone who needed it. Its autumn leaves were beginning to show a tinge of red and orange, the comforting colors of a warm fire.

Looking across the creek gave me a new perspective of Uncle Jack’s Cottage. Its many windows facing the water sparkled in the sunlight. Its cedar shingles had long ago weathered to a silvery gray. The stark white trim outlined the place that I now called home. I’d forgotten the gentle feeling of home the house always gave me when I saw it from this side, from the water. I never had the time to feel this way when driving up to the Cottage, first with my mother, then on my own. But I was always distracted by the excitement of seeing Uncle Jack to notice the effect the Cottage had on me. On this side of the creek, I could truly enjoy it.

My eyes traveled along the far shoreline to a small cabin, now leaning hard to the left. It was situated in a tiny cove surrounded by reeds and fall foliage. Uncle Jack had kept a rickety old rowboat there for me, safe only to float on that little finger of water. I would drag the boat down to the shoreline so it barely floated then I’d lay down in it, and read while listening to the water gently lap against the sides.  Oh, there were other places I could curl up and read, probably more comfortably, but this spot was special. I was surrounded by all the elements—nature, water, sky, birds, butterflies—that made the Shore magical.

Stephani jolted me back to the present. “What do you think?”

“About?” I asked.

“What happened here,” she said as she drove slowly around the tree.

I tamped down my panic. Did she know about Daniel and Emma?

She continued as we jostled along. “You know, the murder and all.”

She avoided as many of the holes as she could. Holes that the police said were dug the night of the attack. Were we destroying the crime scene? A quick scan of the area showed there was no crime scene tape. The investigators must have finished their work here. We bounced over exposed roots as Stephani drove to the base of the tree. It felt like we