Letters in Time Read online

  PRAISE FOR SUSAN REISS

  “Letters in Time is like a wonderful meal with a delicious balance of engaging characters (both sweet and bitter), a fascinating peek at history, a captivating community, and a slow-burning romance for dessert.”

  —Donna Weaver

  USA Today Best-Selling Author

  “Susan Reiss captures the magic, mystery and charm of that quintessential Eastern Shore town – St. Michaels. Secrets lay hidden for generations among the stunningly beautiful estates along the Miles River. Can’t wait for her next …”

  —Kathy Harig, Proprietor,

  Mystery Loves Company Bookstore

  “[Susan Reiss] will transport you to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, but will remind you of whatever town has a special place in your heart… It leaves me wondering what other secrets this quaint little Eastern Shore town is hiding and I’m waiting for Susan Reiss to tell us.”

  —Barbara Viniar, Retired President

  Chesapeake College, Maryland

  PRAISE FOR ST. MICHAELS SILVER MYSTERIES

  “The main characters are compelling. Foiled Silver has everything: humor, mystery, even a little romance. You keep reading as the excitement builds to a smashing and surprising conclusion!”

  —Dana Newman, Executive Director,

  Talbot County Free Library

  “Tarnished Silver is a fabulous debut novel! Abby Strickland is someone I can relate to, my kind of heroine. I admire the way she rises to the challenges thrown in her path. She’s a brave and loyal person whom I would love to call a friend (if she were real, of course). Susan Reiss is a great storyteller, and I’m really looking forward to more stories in the Silver Mystery Series.

  —Kassandra Lamb, author,

  Kate Huntington Mystery Series

  “Silver, art and murder lead to an exciting read!”

  —S. Jennifer Sugarman, artist

  “This is a series that captures the local flavor of our area – St. Michaels, the food and the quirky characters who live here and visit. The descriptions of all the real places make me feel like I’m there. The mystery kept me turning the page. This is a series I recommend to my library patrons… and to you.

  —Shauna Beulah, Branch Manager,

  St. Michaels Library

  INK & IMAGINATION PRESS

  an imprint of Blue Lily Publishers

  Copyright © 2021 by Susan Reiss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-949-8764-7-5

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, is unintentional and accidental.

  Cover Design by Rachael Ritchey, RR Publishing

  Interior Design: Jennifer Jensen

  Website: www.SusanReiss.com

  Instagram: AuthorSusanReiss

  Twitter: @SusanReiss

  Bookbub: Susan Reiss

  Goodreads.com: Susan Reiss

  Facebook: Susan Reiss

  Dedicated to

  Elizabeth Dorbin

  For your patience in answering countless questions

  For your captivating family stories and historical tidbits

  For your inspiration and steadfast support

  This one is for you.

  Chapter One

  “I hope the symbolism of the butterfly of renewal and courage works for me here at the Cottage.” —Emma’s Journal

  They sat me down in an antique dining chair and parked me in the middle of the gravel driveway leading to the Cottage. Inside, I’d take up space as the movers wrestled things in and out. Sitting here under the towering pine trees, I was out of the way. Sidelined with my crutches. Away from the action. The way I’d been since the accident that almost took my leg and my life.

  At least, I reminded myself, I’m still alive.

  But my rightful place was in the thick of things, whether surrounded by exuberant children in a kindergarten class, counseling their parents, or supervising the painting of a hallway mural. I was always dashing around on the playground or running classroom activities in the school environment I loved. My husband—my ex—said I was happiest around children and that I preferred them to adults. Maybe he was right, but things had changed.

  Now, my job was telling the moving men where to put my belongings—and which of Uncle Jack’s things they should remove from the Cottage.

  A puff of air blew off the saltwater creek. It brought a moment of relief from the August humidity and the heat of my frustration, but the tears of impatience, yearning, and self-pity threatened to come once again.

  No, this was not the time or place to cry. I decided to come to the Eastern Shore, to live in Uncle Jack’s Cottage that was now mine, to make this big step in taking back control of my life. It was better than staying in my city condo where my past life haunted me—when I could do what I wanted, whenever I wanted.

  I took in a deep breath and wiggled my body around so I could sit up straighter in the antique armchair that belonged inside as I did. Now, all I wanted was to be independent. Since I was a little girl, the Cottage was the place where exceptional things happened. In the silence of my heart, I whispered, I hope it will again.

  Thankfully, I had myself under control by the time I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. Boss, as he was called, was the big, burly man who owned the moving truck. He lumbered toward me, wiping his forehead with a red print bandana. The thick beard that covered the lower half of his face glistened with sweat.

  “Miss Chase,” he called out. “I’m sorry, but I gotta tell ya, this ain’t gonna work. There’s not enough room in that small house for everything.”

  A moment ago, I wanted something to do, a problem to solve. But I didn’t want this one. “I thought if we took out—"

  “Yes, ma’am. We already took out the furniture going to charity, but that place is packed. There’s no room for you to get around on those crutches.”

  I pushed at those instruments of torture that labeled me an invalid, at least in my own mind. My chest tightened. Panic. Another side effect of the accident that almost killed me. “What can we do?”

  “S’cuse me,” the young man who worked with Boss interrupted. He was so thin he looked like he’d blow away in a stiff wind, but he hefted furniture as if it were made of matchsticks. “During our break, I went for a walk and found an old building right over there in the woods.” He pointed toward a path through the trees.

  “The old garage,” I said. “I’d forgotten all about it. Do you think it will work?”

  "It's dry, empty, and has plenty of room. There’s a lock in the truck we can put on the door. Out there, I don’t think nobody will bother your things.”

  I started to maneuver myself to my feet, looked at the path again, and fell back in the chair. “I wish I could see it.”

  The two moving men looked at each other and smiled.

  “I think we can make that happen,” Boss said. “You’ll be fine if we do this.”

  He balanced my crutches across my lap and together, the men swooped me up in the air, chair and all. A giggle escaped my lips. This was the way to travel. I floated through the woods like a bird. At the garage, they whisked me inside and placed the chair gently on the concrete floor. The young man was right. It was big and empty and perfect for storage, except for the tall thing standing in the corner, covered by a marine blue tarp.

  I pointed. “What is hiding under there?”

  Before the words were out of my mouth, they pulled on the tarp and
uncovered a treasure. It was a desk, but not just any desk. It was massive, about three feet wide and six feet tall. The dark wood was scratched here and there, and the dull finish was thirsty for some furniture polish. The large writing surface could accommodate a laptop computer and notes. Above that surface was a large door that hid cubbyholes, slots, and shelves for everything from research books to paperclips.

  It was perfect. Just what I needed to put my secret plan into action. I hadn’t breathed a word to anyone about the lifelong dream I wanted to make come true.

  I wanted to write a book.

  A book for children that would transport them to a different world, far away from the day-to-day routine, and fire their imaginations. I’d spent the last six years teaching kindergarten, so I had a good idea what they would love. Teaching the little ones how to read was so exciting and rewarding. Of course, I didn't have the germ of an idea or characters yet, but I thought if I relaxed here at the Cottage, sat next to the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, miles away from the demands of modern life, the story would come to me. And this desk could help channel those thoughts and help me get things done.

  Boss inspected the desk. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. I think it’s an old plantation desk.”

  “A plantation desk? Here in Maryland? Don’t you mean a farmer’s desk?” I asked. “Plantations were down South.”

  “This whole area of the Eastern Shore was small farms and plantations,” Boss countered.

  “Uncle Jack probably picked up the desk in an antique auction somewhere,” I said.

  “Could be. Or maybe it’s always been here on this land.” Boss gave the desk a little shove. “It’s old and it’s solid.” He pulled out a drawer and showed me the dovetailing in the corners. “It’s well-built. Can’t figure why a good piece like this would be stored in the garage under a tarp.” He shook his head and sighed. “Well, Miss Emma, do you want to leave it here or—”

  “I want it in the house,” I declared quickly. “If it fits. The doors—”

  “We’ll make it fit. Don’t you worry,” Boss said with confidence.

  Thinking about their long drive back to Philadelphia, I added, “Once we get the extra pieces stored out here and the desk moved in, you gentlemen can be on your way.”

  “I hope you’re not leaving.” Another man with a deep voice tinged with a bit of a Southern accent spoke behind me. “You just got here.”

  Still skittish from the accident, I spun around and wobbled. One of my crutches tumbled to the floor. The stranger had scared me and he knew it. His suntanned face was full of regret.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “That’s a bad habit of mine, charging into a conversation like that. Are you all right, Emma?”

  My eyes narrowed as I stared at the stranger. “Who are you?” I challenged.

  “Whoa.” He took a step back and held his hands up, palms out, in surrender. “Easy there.” Behind him, a blur of white zoomed to his side and growled. Calmly, the man held out his hand and pointed to the floor. “Ghost. Down.” The large white dog laid down immediately. “Good girl. Friend.”

  “How can I be your friend,” I snapped. “if I don’t even know your name? And how do you know me?”

  “Well—” He ticked off each point on the fingers of his right hand. “Mr. Saffire, the lawyer in Easton, said that Mr. Jack’s niece was moving into his cottage today. There’s a moving van outside. Two big men are pushing things around. You’re a woman I’ve never seen before. You’re sitting down and supervising these gentlemen while holding on to crutches.” He retrieved the fallen one from the floor. “Ergo, you must be Emma Chase.”

  He paused, then said softly, “My condolences, ma’am. Mr. Jack was a wonderful human being. I’m going to miss him. He wanted me to look out for you.”

  I realized that this was the man Mr. Saffire had hired to help with things around Uncle Jack’s Cottage. “Then you must be Mr. T. J. Dorset.”

  “It’s TJ,” he said gently.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I go by TJ as if it’s one word, not T. J. with periods and all. I like to keep it simple.”

  I was too tired to play games. “Well, TJ without periods, thank you for coming by, but I have everything under control here.”

  “Then I’ll say good afternoon.” He nodded as he backed away. “Come on, boy.” The Labrador retriever, with fur the color of snow, bounced up and stood next to him.

  TJ touched the brim of his ball cap and was about to leave when my cell phone rang. Boss took my crutches making it easier for me to work the phone out of my pocket. I groaned when I read the caller ID: Lawyer-Heinrick.

  “Great, just what I need. If you could give me a minute…” I took a deep breath and was determined to sound friendly as I touched Accept. “Hello, is that you, Mr. Heinrick?”

  “Of course, it is, Ms. Chase. Who else would it be?” he said with a bit of a sniff.

  “Well, sometimes it’s your secretary.” I didn’t add, poor woman. “What can I do for you today?”

  “It’s more like what could you do for me…days ago. I sent an email, an important one. You have yet to respond.”

  Great, I thought, an attorney and a disciplinarian, all in one package.

  “Ms. Chase, I was given to understand that you preferred email, but I must have your prompt reply. Without it, how I am to do my job and represent you properly is beyond me.”

  I looked down at my leg and wished I didn’t need representation. I remembered running barefoot here at the Cottage. Running with Uncle Jack’s Labrador retriever Prince. Running to climb in Uncle Jack’s boat to go crabbing. Running after fireflies. The doctors still weren’t sure I’d be able to walk normally again, let alone run.

  “Ms. Chase? Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Heinrick,” I said quickly. “You are absolutely right.”

  “Well…” he said with a huff of self-satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I’m not used to being ignored, Ms. Chase.”

  “Oh, I certainly wasn’t ignoring you.” If the man hadn’t come so highly recommended as the best personal injury lawyer in Philadelphia, I would have fired him long ago for his condescending and controlling attitude. “I’ve been having some trouble with my email account, but I can assure you that I will respond soon.”

  TJ walked into my line of sight and gave me a quizzical look that bordered on comical. I waved him off, afraid I’d laugh.

  “See that you do, Ms. Chase. I can’t have my work undermined—”

  “Oh, I’d never do that.” I hoped he wouldn’t notice my supercilious attitude. “I will be in touch soon.”

  “See that you do.” And with a click, he disconnected the call.

  I looked at my phone in surprise. Did the man act like a dictator with all his clients or was there something special about me? Well, this was not the time to figure it out. I put my phone back in my pocket and stretched a little. My body ached. The day’s activities were taking a toll. I wasn’t as strong as I’d hoped, but if I let it show, everyone would bustle around, making me feel even more like an invalid. Invalid. A horrible word. Pronounced differently it meant the same thing: Invalid. Null. Void.

  Worthless.

  I caught sight of TJ giving me a cockeyed smile. I didn’t want him to read my deepest thoughts. The last thing I needed was pity. “What’s so funny?” I barked. I closed my eyes wishing I could take back my harsh words. I didn’t mean to take out my frustration on this well-meaning stranger, but I couldn’t let him or anyone else see how defenseless I was. And he was such a convenient target.

  He jerked back. “Nothing, ma’am. I was just surprised that you got cell service and held it long enough to complete a call.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head slowly, his hazel eyes smiling. “We don’t have good cell coverage down here. The phone companies won’t put up more towers. Guess some big ole cloud bounced the signal for you this time. Don’t depend on it, is
all I’m saying.”

  As he walked away followed by his dog, I noticed a small magazine sticking out of his back pocket. I wondered what he was reading. “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” he said.

  Before I could tell him that it wasn’t necessary, he’d slipped away.

  It took Boss and his helper less than an hour to swap things around and move the desk out of the garage in the woods and into my writing room. Wait, I decided to call it my writing den to remember Uncle Jack who loved his den. Virginia Woolf said it was important for a writer to have a special place to work and now, I did.

  Seeing the desk nestled in the corner by the window, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment. Not that I’d done anything really, but I did make the decision to move it into the Cottage. After everything that had happened in the past months, with all decisions taken out of my hands, I felt like I’d taken another step forward. This desk would inspire my book, I just knew it. I hoped that the decision to come to the Shore was another positive one.

  By the time the moving truck crunched over the gravel driveway out to the main road, the sun was dipping toward the horizon. The water in the creek that ran by the Cottage barely rippled as if it was exhausted by the heat. It wasn’t the kind that you waded in to catch salamanders. The creeks of the Chesapeake Bay region were sometimes wide and deep enough for a twenty-foot sailboat and the rivers were two miles across or more.

  The land on the far side of the creek was once an island but was now joined to the mainland by a one-lane road to make it easier to farm the acreage there. I was happy to see that one of my fondest things from childhood still lived on the island: a large… no, a huge oak tree known as The Lone Oak. Its stately limbs were impressive. The lower ones had welcomed me to climb, swing, even stretch out and lean against the trunk to read a favorite book. My mother was terrified that I’d fall and break my head, or at least an arm, but when she wasn’t around, Uncle Jack let me be a kid.