Copyright @ Danielle Lee Zwissler
Emma brought the box from the closet, and the box of letters to the table and sat down. She took a deep breath and readied herself for another adventure. Smiling, she looked up toward the ceiling and said a little prayer for Charlie, and then she took one of the envelopes out of the gift box and placed it into the magical one.
A minute later, she felt her hand grasping a fountain pen and she was on some island somewhere in the South Pacific, staring at a beautiful woman.
Today, however, she’d been nervous, and Tate could tell that she’d wanted him, even though she’d probably never admit it to herself. He’d have to go slow, court her somehow—like they did in the old days, show her that he could be just as romantic as the men in those silly letters that she’s read.
He’d have to wait.
Tate was horrible at waiting.
Tate’s shoulders fell, and he looked down at his hands. “Were you with Charlie?”
Emma’s eyes widened. “What…how did you?”
“I saw the letters, Em.”
“Don’t call me that,” Emma said, her voice was biting.
“Why, is that what he calls you?”
“You know, just because I don’t want to go out with you, doesn’t mean you have to be horrible.” Emma stood up from the floor and her eyes narrowed. “You are nothing like him.”
“What do I have to be? I come here… I… I’ve never even seen this guy. Who is he?”
Emma started crying now. “He’s…he’s…” Emma could hear the sound of Kim’s voice in her head, combating with Charlie’s lovely penmanship. She closed her eyes, and tried to get her composure back. When she opened them, Tate was gone, and then she heard a door slam.
Her heart was beating a fast tempo, and the tears that she’d cried made her face all wet.
He’d seen the letters. He’d seen Charlie’s name on them, and he’d seen hers as well. The only thing he hadn’t seen was the dates—1941-1945.