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

be a man who would threaten a woman living on her own with a letter? It was hard for me to believe. Everything and everyone suggested that I could trust him.  I opened my mouth, paused, and closed it again.

“Yes?” TJ said.

I didn’t think he was watching me that closely.  His extra attention made me uncomfortable again. Maybe his word to describe me was correct: skittish.

“What?” I snapped.  “I mean, what?” I repeated in a softer tone.

“It’s just that you looked like you were going to say something.”

“Why would you think that?” I looked away, feeling defensive.

“Well,” he said with a chuckle. “You were sitting there with your mouth open, looking more like a fish gulping air than …” He shrugged. “Maybe it was my imagination.” He put the almost-empty mug down on the counter. “I guess I’d better go and get those new locks if I’m going to get them installed today.” He pushed his hair back off his forehead and settled his hat in place. “And when I come back, I’ll honk my truck horn and knock, so you can come and let me in.”

Feeling a little foolish, but more comfortable with the arrangement, I nodded. “Thank you for coming by this morning,” I said, feeling centered again and eager to get back to my plans for the day.

He moved down the hallway. “And again, I’m sorry about the trouble.” He poked his head into the den. “It looks like you’re settling in.” His back went straight and he charged into the den. “Wow! Did you bring that with you?”

  I followed him into my new writing den. I pushed down some growing resentment that this stranger was so comfortable wandering around my house. But TJ had been a great help to Uncle Jack as he got older so it must have come naturally to the man.

Boundaries, I thought.  I need to set boundaries.  

“I found the desk in the garage. Uncle Jack must have thought it was too big for the room since he liked to watch TV in here."

“I’m not surprised. Nothing goes to waste here on the Shore.” His eyes were bright as he ran his hand over the satiny finish of the writing surface. “What a great place to work!” There were slight indentations from someone’s work long ago, but all in all, it was smooth.  “You’ve got all the cubbyholes to hold notes, a flat surface to scribble on and a view of the water.  It’s a perfect place to write a story.”

“How do you know I’m thinking about writing a book?” I demanded.

“Um, Mr. Saffire said you were going to try your hand at writing. Kind of a far cry from your old career, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean, my old career?” I was getting agitated.

TJ looked like he would rather be back in the fields than talking to me. “Mr. Saffire said something about …” He seemed to struggle to remember. “Yes, he said you were a kindergarten teacher in Philadelphia.”

“Yes, I was… and I still am.” My hackles were up. Why was I so defensive every time someone mentioned teaching? Did they know something I didn’t know? Was I that afraid that my injury wouldn’t allow me to return to the classroom I loved?

TJ’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh, sorry. I was under the impression that you’d resigned and moved down here to the Cottage permanently.”

“I love my job,” I assured him. “I’ve taken extended leave until I finish my rehab.”

“You need to get your body back in shape if you’re going to keep up with kindergarteners,” he said with a bit of admiration I thought.

“Don’t I know it.” I didn’t want to be reminded how much work I still had to do to get ready for the classroom. “I love my job. I love the children.”

“You must miss them.”

I nodded with a soft smile. “You have no idea.” I touched the hollow at my neck for the necklace. I swayed a bit and leaned on the desk for support.

TJ pulled the chair up behind me. I sank into it gratefully. Then spotted the mysterious letter where it had landed on the floor. I didn’t want the inquisitive TJ to see it so, I scooted it under the desk with my foot where I could retrieve it later. “Thanks for your help, but I really don’t need to sit down.”

He shrugged. “Moving takes a lot out of a person and I mean anybody. Might as well rest while you can.” His eyes wandered over the desk. “This desk seems perfect for writing. If you look, you might even find a hidden compartment or two.”

“You seem to know a lot about this desk,” I said.

“I recognize the design. It looks like an original desk used by a plantation manager. He’d work here to keep the books of crops planted, costs, market prices, slaves—bought and sold.”

“Slaves?” My eyes grew wide. “No!  Maryland was a Northern state, part of the Union.”

“Officially, yes. In reality, the part of the state east of the Chesapeake Bay had plantations as self-sufficient as they were in the South. They raised everything from corn and wheat to chickens, cattle for meat and dairy, even tobacco. The Eastern Shore had more in common with the rebellious South than the Union North.  The landowners had slaves who took care of it all, everything from crops to the owner’s daughter. Who knows what secrets this old desk is keeping?”

His next question caught me off-guard.  “What are you going to write?”

It was an innocent question, but my defenses went up again, stronger than ever. “I’m working on several ideas,” I hedged.

 “Maybe I can help,” he said, with a smile. “There are—

“I don’t want any help.” Boundaries.