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

In the family portrait, her husband Joshua stood in a fine suit with one hand firmly planted on his hip, master of all he surveyed. A young boy and girl gathered around him. Emma sat separated from them on the other side of the painting. She had a baby on her lap. She looked worn and unhappy.

“Oh, TJ, I agree with you. It’s hard to believe it’s the same woman in these paintings.”

“I guess the artist who did the family portrait wasn’t very good,” he suggested.

"I'm no expert, but an artist is supposed to make people look even better than they do in real life."

He frowned as he looked at the two pictures again. “She must have been miserable at the time of the family portrait.”

“Do you know when they were painted?”

Grinning, he hopped into action. "Yes, thanks to my aunt's work on the family tree. She attached little notes to many of the paintings." He looked at the back of each painting. "The family portrait was done in 1871. Her portrait was painted in 1892."

I remembered the dates on a headstone. “That was two years after her husband died.”

"Guess she blossomed after he was gone. Are you done with the family portrait? I'll put it back, out of the way, where I think it belongs."

While he was gone, I quietly communed with the lovely Emma. I don’t think you ever knew what happened. But Joshua didn’t make you happy, did he, Emma? He wasn’t Daniel.

The artist had painted her walking next to a narrow span of calm water that reflected a deep blue sky with a few wispy clouds above. She stood to the right side of the frame to show some of the surrounding landscape.

I peered a little closer as TJ returned. “Is that the Lone Oak in the background?”

He looked closer, too. "Yes, I think you're right. I never noticed it before."

I took a couple of steps back so I could better take in the whole scene. "Do you think Emma is walking close to the place where the Cottage stands today? I wonder if that's significant."

He moved to stand next to me. “Again, I think you may be right.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know a whole lot about paintings. Don’t artists make up backgrounds for their portraits? After all, the subject, the person, is the important part of the picture.”

"That's often true, but this looks too familiar," I mused at the scene for a few moments while the rain beat down outside. "I think the artist did it on purpose."

“Or the subject wanted to be shown in this spot.”

“You’re on to something, TJ. Maybe this spot was important to her.” Silently, I added, as the Lone Oak was valued by the young lovers, Daniel and Emma.

I was lost in my thoughts when TJ said, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, why?” I stammered.

“You’re doing it again. You’re touching that place where your necklace used to be.”

I jumped a little when I caught my hand resting at my neck.

“I guess it’s an Emma thing,” he said. “She is wearing a locket in this painting.”

He was right. It was a beautiful locket or…? I tried to stand on my toes and squint at the oval pendant hanging from a silver chain.

“There is something unusual about her locket. Look here.” I pointed.

TJ walked up close to the painting. “It’s not clear, but it almost looks like a tiny portrait of someone.”

“Do you think it is a miniature?” I asked.

“I’m no expert, but it could be.”

Was it a product of the artist’s imagination? Or was it a valued possession from her jewelry box?

Chapter Thirty-Six

“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. Such a letter should be unstudied, free from affectation, and as nearly as possible like good conversation.”

How to Write Letters

by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

TJ leaned his long, lanky body against the wall by Emma’s portrait and folded his arms. “I think it’s time,” he said with a solemn expression on his face.

Slowly, I said, “Time for what?”

“Time for you to tell me why you’re so interested in Emma.”

I started to open my mouth, but a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, rattled the room.

“And you need to tell me about this fellow Daniel. I don’t remember anyone by that name on my family tree. I think I deserve an explanation.”

I sank onto a step of the grand staircase with a sigh. “You’re right. You do, but it’s not quite that easy.”

“Sure, it is. You only need to tell me. That’s all. Simple English. I’ll understand.”

“What if I show you?” I asked.

“Tell me. Show me. I don’t care. I just want to know what’s going on.” His voice was strained.

He deserved to know. His steely eyes bore into me. This was about family, his family, worthy of his interest, his defense. I had no choice. I had to tell him, but in a way he would believe me or, at least, give me time to prove that Daniel was real, as real as a ghost can be. I had to tell him in a way that didn't end up with me being carted away in a straitjacket…or losing my friend.

I pulled myself up on my feet. “Okay. We have to go back to the Cottage.”

His brow furrowed as if he was about to object. He glanced out the window over the front door. It was still raining. It didn’t matter. “Okay, let’s go.”

In the few minutes it