by Reiss Susan
“Not half bad for a farmer or anyone else.”
“It’s getting to the time I have to climb into the combine. I figured I’d better get a haircut or I’d look like a shaggy mountain man by the time I finished the harvest. Now, maybe you won’t mind being seen with me.”
I shook my head. “I never mind being seen with you. Of course, we’ve never really gone anywhere,” I said with a laugh.
He placed a hand flat against his chest. “Oh, you know how to wound a guy.”
“You’ve given me an idea,” I said, as I ran my hand over my hair. “Do you think there might be somebody available now to shape up my hair? We cut it when I was in the hospital and rehab. It was easier that way.”
“And you’ve been cutting it yourself since you were released,” he said as he turned toward one of the shopping malls.
How embarrassing. It must look worse than I thought.
“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything. You struck me as a woman who paid attention to her looks, but I can understand, with everything else going on…”
I used both hands to smooth my hair back and straighten my bangs. That’s when I noticed that my bangs were so long, they almost covered my eyes. “So, you’re saying that where there are shaggy mountain men, there might also be shaggy mountain women?” I didn’t wait for his response. “Kind Chauffeur, please drive straight to a local hair salon. I fear this might be an emergency.”
He had me wait in the truck while he ran inside the shop that advertised Walk-ins Welcome. It only took a moment for him to negotiate an appointment for me with a stylist who looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Seeing her perfect hair, makeup and cute outfit made me feel even worse.
I sat in her chair and saw a dowdy woman in the mirror. My handiwork with the scissors had only made it worse. “Can you do anything to salvage it?” I wailed.
She frowned and went to work, snipping here and combing there. Soon, she swiveled the chair around so I faced the mirror. She had performed a miracle. My hair was just above my shoulders, much shorter than I'd worn it in ages. It moved when I did but was long enough to pull back for a P.T. appointment. I looked as good as I was beginning to feel.
Back in the truck and driving down the road, TJ kept stealing looks at me. At this rate, I was afraid he was going to drive into a tree.
“Okay, okay, you were right. I must have looked a fright. Your girlfriend did a great job.”
He grinned. “Yes, she did.” He redirected his attention to the roadway. “And she isn’t my girlfriend.”
Somehow, that piece of information pleased me. Stop that! I ordered myself. It wasn’t a good time for me to get involved right now. I had too many issues, too much baggage to burden someone else. No, a new relationship could wait for a while. With that decision, the bright sunlight lifted my spirit.
TJ must have noticed the change in me. “I think you’ve kept me in suspense long enough.”
I perked up. “What do you mean?”
“When I picked you up at the library, you said you wanted to take the long way home. You never answered my question if you had a specific destination in mind.”
I appreciated the fact that this man could get me back on track so quickly. I decided to meet his playful attitude. "You are absolutely right, kind sir. I guess I got distracted by the horrible realization that I looked a fright. Now that all is right with the world, I was wondering if we could drive by your family cemetery one more time."
His face scrunched up and he said slowly. “You’re very interested in that place. Is it because you’re preoccupied with death or—”
“No, that’s not it at all. I’ve been doing a lot of research, as you know. I’m beginning to feel like I know one of your ancestors named Emma. I want to look around again if you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind taking you there at all. I might even learn something that I can share with my family. I might even surprise them.”
We headed off to the main driveway of Waterwood. He parked by the stone wall of the cemetery enclosure. Ghost jumped out and took off running and sniffing at top speed. Seeing the streak of his white coat weaving around this quiet place was a little unsettling. After all, his name was Ghost. I got out of the truck and made my way to the gate without any help, for once. I paused to take in the atmosphere of this serene spot while TJ pulled out the key to the iron gate hidden behind a loose stone.
“Are you coming?” TJ asked.
The gate swung open and again, I entered the place that held family secrets tied to Waterwood. Daniel's letters had shown me that there were connections and betrayals, masquerades, and riddles.
I headed over to Emma's grave, navigating the ground carefully. Her white marble headstone was in excellent condition, a sign of a loving family. Next to it, the gray granite headstone, marking the grave of her husband Joshua who died in 1890, was cracked and growing lichen. Neglected. What he deserved, I thought with a stab of anger.
There was a small marble block nestled close to the foot of her grave marked Baby Boy 1867. A miscarriage or stillborn child? Lost, but not forgotten by his mother.
I checked the dates on Emma’s stone:
Born May 11, 1844
Died January 10, 1895
The dates spanned the time of the Civil War. I felt sure that this was the grave of the Emma who should be receiving the letters coming through the old plantation desk. I couldn’t imagine the loneliness she must have felt as she waited, dreaming of Daniel’s return. I wondered if she ever learned the truth.
I’d found the final resting place of Daniel’s love. A shudder ran through me as I remembered that Daniel didn’t know he was dead. I couldn’t imagine how he would react when he found out that his Emma was long gone. Thinking about the strength of his love for her and how it had transcended death soothed me.
I wished I had brought something, a small bouquet, to pay tribute to this woman who had inspired such strong feelings. What a joy it would be to read letters she had written to Daniel, to learn about her the way I had gotten to know him.
“TJ, before we leave, would you look again for a gravestone with the name Daniel on it, please. It’s kind of important to me.”
Steadying myself, I reached down to remove some fall leaves from her grave. Bushes with needle-like leaves of soft blue were planted on either side of her marble headstone. It was their scent that caught my attention. Minty, yet lavender-esque. I closed my eyes and reveled in the fragrance. I broke off a twig.
TJ returned. “I didn’t find any stone carved with the name of Daniel.”
“Do you know what kind of bush this is?” I handed him the twig.
He crushed a leaf between his fingers, held it up to his nose then held out his hand so I could take a sniff. "It's rosemary, symbolizes remembrance. You'll find it in many cemeteries."
“It smells so wonderful. I had no idea it could grow to such a size.”
“The city girl speaks. I bet you’ve only seen rosemary grown in those itty-bitty herb gardens people have in the windows of their condo kitchens,” he teased.
"You're right." I held my hands up in surrender. "I bow to the farmer, master of all plants."
“You were lost in thought looking at her grave. Care to share?”
“I wish I knew what she looked like.” I caught him looking at me. “What?”
“She has really snagged your attention. Why?”
I wanted to tell him about Daniel, but I was afraid he would think I was crazy. Instead, I said, “Oh, I’ve always been interested in women, how they lived during that time in our history—Civil War. I’d like to think she was beautiful and feminine and strong to run a plantation when everybody was away fighting.”
“Not everyone went away to war,” he said with a little disgust as he pointed to the grave next to Emma’s. “The word in the family is that the only cause he believed in was himself. I have no idea how he got such a beautiful woman to marry him.”
“How
do you know she was beautiful?” I asked with a hint of humor. “Or are all the women in your family beautiful?
“I know because I’ve seen her,” he said calmly.
Was Emma’s ghost walking? Was she as unsettled as Daniel? “Where?” I breathed.
“At the main house.”
“When did you see her? Was she…?” My voice trailed off when TJ gave me a look filled with growing confusion.
“I see her anytime I want,” he answered, then a little groan escaped his lips.
“What, what is it?”
“Nothing,” he grumbled.
But it was clear, something was going on. "Tell me."
“There’s a picture.” He mumbled.
“What?”
He dropped his arms by his sides as if surrendering to the inevitable. “In the 1800s, if a family had the means—and mine did back then— it was traditional to have portraits painted of certain members of the family.”
When I realized what he was saying, I screamed. “There is a portrait of Emma.” I pointed to the grave. “This Emma, at the main house?”
He slowly shook his head. I was so disappointed. He waited another agonizing minute, then said, "There isn't one portrait. There are two."
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Florence Willis death at 16 was an especially heartbreaking loss to parents Nicholas and Susan. They lost nine other children at much younger ages. November 15, 1868” (Typhoid Fever)
— 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. 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 walki
ng 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?