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

said Jack owed him.” TJ shook his head. “Jack didn’t owe him anything.”

“Did Uncle Jack call the police?” I asked.

TJ shook his head. “Josh returned the tool… by lobbing it into the woods. It took us an hour to find it. What that kid needed was a father to whack some sense into him.” Anger made his face flush red.

“Okay, I get it. Not a good neighbor,” I said quickly to defuse the situation. “I’ll watch myself. Anyone else I should know?”

“His sister Stephani is no prize.”

My eyes grew wide in astonishment. “Stephani? The library intern who is helping me?” Then I shook my head.

He looked away as if trying to make a decision then he turned back. "You do know she is Josh's sister."

“Yes, but she’s nothing like her brother,” I insisted.

He shrugged. “Pardon the cliché, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. They are brother and sister, brought up in the same house.”

"I'm afraid I can't agree with you. I've worked with Stephani. She is meticulous and respectful, almost to a fault. No, maybe she was wild when she was young, but now, she has her act together. I think I'll give her the benefit of the doubt."

His mouth clamped shut, but I could see the strain on his face. I wasn't going to change his mind so, I opted not to try.

Instead, I voiced the question that was rolling around my brain. “I know I’m probably jumping to conclusions, but is this Josh any relation to the man who married Emma a century ago?” He didn’t answer right away. “Do you know? You must know.”

He cast his eyes to the floor and finally answered with one word. “Yes.”

He was embarrassed. Why? Then it hit me like a bolt. If you went back far enough, Josh, Stephani, and TJ were on the same family tree.

TJ stood up. “I gotta go. Thanks again for dinner.” He was out the door with Ghost on his heels and they were in his truck in a flash.

I leaned against my front door until it closed with a quiet click. My hands were shaking like leaves in a light breeze when I set the deadbolt.  A bad seed, I thought.  A bad seed can grow into an apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree. It was a cliché, but, in this case, a truism. I may have met a murderer, right here at the Cottage.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“When you are about to write a letter to a friend, think what you would say to him if he were at that moment with you, and then write it. We all like talking letters – good talking, of course.”

How to Write Letters

by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

I was tired and stressed by all the talk of murder. I wanted to lie down and sleep comfortably in my bed upstairs instead of on the sofa. But there was something I had to do first. With fingers crossed, I turned on the light in the writing den, and heaved a sigh of relief. There, on top of the stack of papers was a short letter from Daniel.

Dearest Emma,

I wanted to write a letter in response to your note, but the paper was gone. I panicked as I ransacked my father’s desk. There was always a fine stack of paper to be found there, but now it was gone. There was not a page or a fragment to be found.

I've been waiting quietly for someone to bring more. Again, my patience paid off. More paper appeared and I am able to write to you once again.

I pray, do not break the connection we have made. Your presence and love are all that allow me to exist in this world. Without you, I would be like the leaves of corn grown from the soil of our beloved Waterwood in autumn. Golden, but dried out. Brittle. Ready to be carried off with the next breath of wind. Scattered into the unknown.

Emma, I beg that we remain joined, even if only through written words until we are together again.

I am, my dearest friend, most affectionately and kindly yours,

Daniel

Relieved, I made my way upstairs for a peaceful night’s sleep.

The next morning, I was up with the birds, as Uncle Jack liked to say. I had time to revel in Mother Nature’s morning activities before Stephani arrived and I had to begin my human chores and errands. I stopped on my way to the kitchen and was delighted to find a long letter from Daniel. After capturing his words in photographs, I took it out to the patio with a fresh cup of coffee and sat down to read.

Dear Emma,

You are such a dear and sensitive woman. I hesitate to write of events, in fear that you might be overcome by their import. I ask that you forgive me. I send these words only because you asked. Be brave, my dearest Emma. Your strength fortifies me.

Of when I last wrote, your father and I were in Virginia. The men of the unit we joined were trying to set up batteries at Mathias Point to threaten traffic on the Potomac River that runs up to Washington, D.C. It was an area that favored us. There were dense undergrowth and tall trees that would make it hard for the U.S. forces to see what armaments we had in place, if any.

I guess the goal was to disrupt the movements of the federal government troops and supply lines in any way possible while the South organized itself.

One morning, a stiff breeze snapped the flag as it hung from its pole. It was not