Letters in Time by Reiss Susan (i love reading books .txt) 📕

I could handle myself in the classroom, but I was a lousy liar in social situations. I wasn’t going to tell him about Daniel and the letters. “Oh, I don’t know,” I began, hoping to sound nonchalant. “I’d like to find something out about this area and the people who lived here.” I looked away toward the passenger window so my face wouldn’t betray me.

“Well, I can tell you that this area is called the Bay Hundred. That comes from the Revolutionary War. The—"

I interrupted.  “What about the Civil War?”

Way to go, Emma. That was about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

I tried to backpedal quickly. “I mean, I was surprised to hear that Waterwood was a plantation and had slaves.  Somehow, I only equate that with the Deep South.”

“Oh, there were plenty of Southern sympathizers here. The landowners had more in common with the Confederacy than the Union. But the librarian can tell you all about that. He’ll probably load you up with all kinds of books.” He wet his lips. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” He was hesitant to continue. “You didn’t tell me about the light you saw the other night.”

“No, I didn’t think it was important,” I said, shaking my head.

“If you see anything else, anything out of the ordinary, will you let me know?”

I shrugged.  “Sure, but to be honest, I figured it was a car or truck on the road.”

"I think it's a good thing we changed the locks." His tone was lighter. "I can tell you now that the locks were old. A nudge on one of those doors could have been enough to pop it open."

I thought back to the appearance of Daniel’s first letter. I’d thought someone had broken into the Cottage and left it as a prank.  It was a good thing I didn’t know about the door locks.

“It’s all taken care of now,” he assured me.  “You’re safe.  No one can get in.”

Right. If you only knew.  

He must have sensed my thought and looked over at me. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Thanks to you,” I said quickly.

“And we have to let Mr. Saffire know that your driver didn’t show up.”

I listened to him with half an ear as I thought about how to handle the research into Daniel and Emma without revealing the truth. No ideas were popping up.

“Earth to Emma, are you still with me?” TJ called me back from my thoughts.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” I said.

“Because it’s important to stay on your weight loss program,” he added.

“Yes, good idea. Wait, what?”

"Caught ya. You're a million miles away. That's okay. You've got a lot going on. I'll pick you up after your session and take you to the library. We might even find an ice cream cone along the way."

I couldn’t help but smile. Then I groaned. “But first, I have to respond to my attorney’s emails.” I pulled out my phone and checked the bars. “At least I have service. The sooner I get this done…” Quickly, my eyes ran through his messages. More administrative stuff. I tapped out a quick response and put the phone away with a sigh. “Done.”

“Good. Why don’t we just enjoy the sights for a while? We don’t have to talk. You can think your thoughts, okay?”

“Yes, thanks.”

I wasn't sure what I was going to say to the reference librarian. I didn't want anyone to suspect anything. I made a mental note to look up information about the writing styles and writing instruments in the 1860s. The beautiful pen Uncle Jack had given me was used mostly to sign my name. I kept almost every note electronically now. It would be good to know how they wrote to one another in the Civil War era, in case I decided to assume the persona of Emma from long ago. What a strange thought. But oddly comfortable.

Chapter Ten

Farmer’s Almanac: “Useful, with a pleasant degree of humor.”

First issued in 1792 during George Washington’s first term.

It seemed like hours before I escaped the torture chamber of physical therapy. I knew that I was being unfair. The therapists were only helping me, but why did making you better have to hurt so much? I scanned the parking lot looking for TJ, only to find his truck tucked into the only shady spot, but it was so far away. For someone else, it was only some quick steps. For me, it bordered on a never-ending trail of ouch. I tried to focus on him, rather than the hurt. He was reading a small magazine propped up on the steering wheel. When I was feet away from the truck, he noticed me and jumped out to open the passenger door.

"All done?" he asked, as he helped me up to wiggle into the seat.

“Yeah, finally.” I tried hard to hide the face I knew I was making when my leg hurt.

When I was settled, he searched my face as if looking for some cosmic answer. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“Are you okay?” he asked tentatively.

“Well, other than feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck again, yes, I’m fine.”

He nodded, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. He closed my door and got into the truck. “I think you’ve earned that ice cream cone.”

His thoughtfulness brought me some comfort. "Yay! Thank you for bringing me and waiting. I'm sorry it took so long and that I'm in such a bad mood."

“No problem.  I’m glad you came in August. If you’d waited any longer, I would have been a ghost.”

Strange, I thought, that he would use that word.  I asked, “Why?”

"That's harvest time. I only eat, sleep and