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

— The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951

Edited and Annotated by James Dawson

TWO PORTRAITS!

I swatted him in the arm out of excitement and frustration and almost lost my balance.

He grabbed me before I could go down. “Hey, girl. Easy does it.” When I was steady again, he dramatically rubbed his arm where my weak hand had made contact. “What was that for?”

“You didn’t tell me about the portraits.”

He took off his ball cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and reset the cap. It was a gesture I now recognized as nervousness. "I didn't want to push my family on you as some people do. I didn't think you were that interested."

“Yes, yes, I’m interested. Where are the portraits?” He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “They’re at the main house, your house, aren’t they?” It was more of a statement than a question. “You could take me to see them right now.” Again, a statement.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. The house is in no shape for visitors. I still have a lot of work to do before I can have you over. After the harvest, I was planning to spend the winter working on the house. Then maybe in the spring—”

“I can’t wait that long,” I whined. “Please, where are the portraits?”

"One is upstairs.” He sighed. “The other is in the foyer by the front door."

“The foyer?! I could just slip inside the front door. I promise I wouldn’t look in any other room. I won’t even look up the stairs. Please, TJ, this is important to me.” I sounded like a brat pleading for a piece of candy, but I couldn’t help myself.

Finally, his eyes met mine. He settled his cap on his head again. "I don't know. I'm not the best housekeeper—"

“That doesn’t matter.”

A cloud crossed the sun. “My farmer instincts tell me there’s some rain in that cloud,” TJ said, as if hoping I’d forget about seeing the portraits. “I think we need to get you home.”

“No!” My resistance made him stop. “Please take me to the main house to see at least one of the portraits.”

He looked up and a fat raindrop splashed on his cheek. "All right, if we leave now."

I took off for the truck while he rushed to lock the gate and stash the key away. He whistled for Ghost, who came running. We all made it into the truck as the heavens opened. In the deluge, we drove to the main plantation house of Waterwood.

TJ’s truck navigated the wide gravel drive easily. “Now, don’t judge the house from what you see from this angle.”

"Okay," I said slowly. I didn't quite understand what he meant by this angle.

“The house is almost two hundred years old. They sited houses differently back then. Today, the front of a house faces the driveway, because people usually arrive by car or truck. In the early days here on the Shore, people usually came by boat. So, the main houses usually faced the water." He pulled up to a door and an umbrella materialized to ward off the rain. "We'll walk around the front so we can go into the foyer. Don't worry about getting muddy. There's a stone walk."

As we made our way around to the front of the house facing the river, I got my first look at the heart of Waterwood, the place that had captured my imagination. It wasn't the typical majestic plantation house with two levels of porches depicted in the Old South, but it was impressive. The large brick house with seven second-story windows across the front was built to withstand the cold winters and nor'easters that could make life challenging on the Eastern Shore. The airy porch was perfect for spring afternoons and warm summer evenings. The four chimneys rising above the slate roof confirmed that the designer set out to create a home of warmth and comfort.

We went up the front steps and through the heavy wood door painted with black enamel that I imagined had welcomed many family members and friends over centuries. It was a relief to be inside, out of the pelting rain. TJ flipped some switches. Light from a huge crystal chandelier and several wall sconces flooded the foyer.

“I need to clean the chandelier…”

His words of apology and excuse faded into the background as I quickly scanned the walls. When my eyes fell on a painting in an ornate wooden frame, I knew I'd found Emma at last. It was not a painting of a startling young beauty. This Emma had experienced life with its storms and happy moments. The hint of a soft smile on her lips suggested she had found contentment and peace. Her eyes were the color of the deep blue waters of the Chesapeake on a sunny day. Her flaxen hair was drawn up softly under a straw hat that gave her flawless pale skin a little protection from the sun. She was painted in a soft blush-pink gown. Its sleeves were full at the shoulder then drawn in tightly at the elbow. A gauzy white flounce trimmed a dipping neckline. TJ was right. She was a vision of beauty.

"And here is the other portrait. It's more of a family portrait. I don't like it as much as this one so, I keep it out of the way."

He carefully placed the painting of the family on the hardwood floor under her portrait hanging on the wall. The difference between the two was shocking. I had to look twice to be sure that it was the same woman in both paintings.