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

It was hard to think of him as dead. Seeing his grave marker in the cemetery would have helped make that fact a reality. I had looked for it. It was nowhere to be found. Now, I understood. If he had fallen in battle, his body would not have been transported back to Waterwood. Like so many others, he might be in a single or unmarked grave.

It’s one thing to die at the hands of an enemy in war, but the real shock was that he died at the hand of someone he knew. Someone who claimed to be his friend.

Was there a possible connection between events of his time and what was happening today? The sages say that history repeats itself. Could that be true in this small corner of the world here on the Eastern Shore?

I reread that portion of Daniel’s letter where he recounted the attack by Joshua. Here was a written statement that Joshua Collins, who lived in the 19th century, had committed murder. His descendent, known as Josh, was suspected of another murder. It seemed that the Collins family had a stain of a bad seed that survived the generations.

I scanned the letter again for the mention of what Emma’s father had done to protect her. It read: two things that can stand between you and ill fortune ~ my admiration and that which is secret, placed under the Lone Oak by your father and me.

Whatever they had buried under the Lone Oak was meant to keep her safe. I could only imagine it was money or valuables. Why would they bury it? Why wouldn’t her father have given it into the hands of someone he trusted? Were the times too unsettled? Were loyalties in question?

Stephani would be here soon to drive me to my Pain & Torture session. Afterward, I’d ride with her to the library and do some more research in the Maryland Room. I went inside and quickly typed out a copy of Daniel’s letter. All of his letters were valuable to me, but this one most of all.

As I dragged myself upstairs to dress, Daniel’s words thundered in my mind:

Until we are together again at Waterwood.

Daniel had written those words to me—to Emma—only moments ago. This wasn’t like finding a letter written decades ago stashed in a drawer of a desk. He’d written to Emma trying to make sense of things. He didn't know what happened after Joshua had attacked him. He didn’t know anything until he was sitting at his father’s desk. My desk.

He believed that he was wounded and sent home. I didn’t understand the why’s and how’s of metaphysics, but I knew the strength of a tie forged from love. I felt it every day with Uncle Jack. I knew the power of the desire to live, survive even a most horrendous event.

Daniel’s love for Emma and Waterwood was strong. Stronger than any action Joshua could have taken against him. That’s when I came to a chilling understanding:

Daniel didn’t know he was dead.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“If, when writing letters, we would keep before our minds the question, ‘How would this look one year or ten years hence?’ we would save ourselves from writing a great many foolish things.”

How to Write Letters

by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

Somehow, I set aside that realization. I couldn’t deal with it quickly before my ride arrived. I needed the comfort of bright sunlight and a peaceful time to figure out how to proceed. As I made my way to the bottom of the stairs, I vowed not to let my mind wander down the dark corridors of What If.

Stories abounded about what ghosts did when they realized they were dead. Horrible tales of anger, retribution, retaliation directed at people who were still alive and well. How many were true, if any? I didn't know. I didn't care. I had come to Uncle Jack's Cottage for peace and healing. So far, Daniel, or should I say Daniel's ghost, had behaved, had added a surprising dimension to my new life here. I didn't need that spirit to go into a rage.

What to do? What to do?  I wondered, as I waited for my ride. Then a thought hit me and I grabbed my phone. I'd see if TJ could pick me up at the library, then we could go back to the cemetery. Stephani arrived right on time. I quietly wished she had a more accessible vehicle. While the Jeep was cute, it proved harder for me to climb into than TJ’s truck. It took some maneuvering and some muscle from Stephani, but I was finally ready to go.

At my P.T. appointment, it seemed that the exercises were getting easier. Was I getting stronger? It wasn’t worth double-thinking the question. I was glad I wasn't craving a fistful of painkillers when I was done.

Later at the library, I settled at one of the tables to resume my research. Stephani, as usual, was eager to help. I craved the freedom to wander the stacks and poke around in the file drawers where unbound local historical information was cataloged. It would be fun to thumb through the files, open one at random, and page through its contents, hoping to find a gem. I found just such a gem in one of Stephani’s miscellaneous files about the Civil War. Someone had typed out a short paragraph about money using an old typewriter with worn keys.

It was all about money.

Evidently, as tensions grew between the different political factions on the Eastern Shore, the wealthier families worried about their deposits in the local banks. The