Speaking to the Dead Through Love Letters

By Danielle Lee Zwissler

From Danielle Lee Zwissler, a 3 Day Novel about love, life, and everything in between.
Richard Russell hails the book as "Brilliant. Deep. Engaging.

Charlie Hayes didn't have love for himself until he was about to die, and meeting Emma Porter had everything to do with it.

Emma was moving away from her own problems, and Charlie was running toward her. Neither expected the other, but it was all working out as it should.... until Charlie died, and he left Emma with a house full of love letters and one very magical box.

Will Emma end up like Charlie, living life through other people's memories, or will she make her own with the man across the street?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firefly & Wisp Publishing
• Release date: Jul 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370640867

Danielle Lee Zwissler

Danielle Lee Zwissler was born in Dover, Ohio. A small town in North East Ohio. Her love of romance and cowboys took over in this novella. She is a big fan of William Shatner, Harry Potter, and all things Harlequin.

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© 2018 Danielle Lee Zwissler. All rights reserved.

Speaking to the Dead Through Love Letters

A 3 Day Novel

Contemporary Romance with a touch of Magic

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Interior Design: FIREFLY & WISP BOOKS

Publisher: FIREFLY & WISP BOOKS

Editor: ERIK HART

ISBN: 9781370640867

For Earl,

You’re my first sentence…

Thanks

A big thank you to the following people: Kim, Donna, Tatiana-You inspired me at work, and brought life to this novel. And, of course, you made me laugh… a lot.

I’d like to thank The Wildcat Café for feeding me and for giving me a place to bring my laptop.

Thanks to my parents for their table, the desk, and their food during the 3-day novel craziness.

I’d like to thank my kids for being so good during the sprint! I really appreciate it.

Another thank you goes out to our waitress at The Olive Garden, she was awesome, and helped me with a few dilemmas.

And last, but certainly not least, a huge thank you goes to my husband, Earl. If not for him, I’d never have finished this book. He is my everything. I love you, babe.

Speaking to the Dead through Love Letters

Danielle Lee Zwissler

Dear Sarah,

Some love stories are more complicated than others, but ours was just…easy. From the moment that we met, I felt something…some spark, some magical feeling that didn’t seem quite right with the universe, but it did at the same time. You were something different, something special something…something.

I knew right then, that we’d be married. And then, of course, as luck would have it, the war came.

I’m here without you now, but you’re with me all the same. You’re in every thought, every sound—even the bad ones. I can picture your worried lines—that little crinkle in your forehead when you get mad at me. I’m smiling right now, Sarah. I’m smiling into your eyes and holding your hand. I’m smiling as I write this letter, thinking of that little miracle growing inside of you, of me being a dad, of holding our precious baby in my arms and of you smiling across the room like it was that first time all over again.

I wish I could do that, Sarah. I wish I could be there.

This is my last letter.

Tell our son or daughter that I will watch over them, over both of you.

I will love you forever,

Your Miles.

Charlie put down the letter and stretched his arms over his head and sighed.

Charlie Hayes was Mogadore’s oldest confirmed bachelor. He was also the only man in the village that hadn’t ever been married, and he barely dated when he was younger.

He didn’t need dates—real ones. He’d had enough happily ever afters.

All he needed was ink. Ink and a pen. Not even his pen, not even his ink. He’d fallen in love all the same. He put the letter down that he was reading and lovingly put it on the kitchen counter. It was one of his favorites.

The feelings that the letter invoked would last the rest of the day. He’d have a smile on his face, and his heart would be content. He walked over to the cupboard, picked out a box of cereal and poured some of it into a bowl. After that, he made his way over to the kitchen table by the window.

He watched as a large moving van made its way into the driveway across the street. The small duplex was owned by an elderly woman who Charlie had known most of his life. She had a large family, yet not once did any of them rent the old place. It had more rent signs in the front yard than any other house that he’d ever seen. Once, Charlie had asked the owner, Ethel Hobbs, about it, as he worried about those things occasionally.

There isn’t a thing wrong with the duplex, Charles, Ethel assured him.

He hated when anyone called him Charles. It was his mother’s name for him, a name that he hadn’t heard in a long while, and thoughts of his family ambushed his mind. Charles was dead along with the rest of his family. He nodded.

I suppose you do a thorough check then? Charlie asked.

Ethel nodded. Of course. I haven’t had one mishap, except for that one time, and that will most certainly not happen again. Ethel shivered, and Charlie nodded.

Of course.

He remembered the time in which she was speaking. It was when a young punk moved in. He rode a Harley Davidson, do-rag permanently fixed to his head. He smoked Charlie’s favorite cigarettes—Marlboro Reds. Something he had to give up ages ago.

I remember.

Damn near killed us all with that…good thing you stopped, eh, Charlie? Ethel said, reminding him why the taste of his favorite brand and the memories of the fire had done their job in making him quit.

Yes, Ma’am, Charlie answered.

Ethel blushed. Ma’am? We’re the same age, Charles.

Charlie flinched. Age is just a number.

Oh, and I suppose you think you’re faring better? she said snidely.

Charlie didn’t suppose anything. No, Ma’am. His eyes twinkled. Her face reddened.

Well I’ll have you know I’ve had a great life. Two husbands, 5 children, 9 grandchildren, and two great grandchildren and another on the way!

Charlie exhaled a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. It was always the same. This was why he didn’t like conversing with people. This was why he preferred the written word. This was why he loved the letters so much, why he loved his books. The classics. He could go places he’d never been, have family, friends… He could breathe without feeling badly about himself and his life.

He looked at Ethel, and she had that same snide expression on her face. You have a good day now.

Her lips pursed, and the wrinkles around her mouth reminded him of a cat’s behind. All tight and puckered. He stifled a laugh, but smirked, and she saw the expression. Her eyes blazed fire, and she turned around abruptly, but not before showing him her middle finger.

He didn’t want some pain in the ass kid to move in and tear down his property’s value. He wished she’d just sell the damn thing; he supposed she needed the extra money as she was getting on in age, and the healthcare system just wasn’t cutting it for most.

Charlie grinned at the feint memory as he watched the young girl step out of the truck and proceed to the back where she lifted a latch and opened two doors to get out her things.

It was filled with furniture.

Old, decrepit furniture that had long reached their dates of expiration. His nose wrinkled. He tried to remember a time where he had things that looked so rough.

He never did. His parents died when he was a young man, leaving him a nice living wage, and as luck would have it, Charlie was decent with finances. His father, a banker, had taught him well, showing him how to save, how to invest, and how to stretch a dollar. It came in handy, too.

When the war had come, his father had gone away, and the house was left in his care—he took care of his mother, too. And then, when it was over, and the fear of being drafted was long gone, Charlie left the family home and set up his own place in Mogadore, and he had lived there ever since.

The woman was alone, that much Charlie was certain. She had a peculiar look of sadness on her face, a ratty flannel shirt on her body, and her cheeks were rosy, as she was probably tired from lifting a few of the boxes by herself. If Charlie were a younger man, he’d have hopped right over there and offered his hand. As it was, Charlie wasn’t, but he’d be damned if he’d let her move the things alone. Maybe just a few of the small boxes. Maybe he could do that. He looked down at his arms. They were old, near spindles now, where they once were beautifully muscled. Veins stood out like neon lights on his pale arms. Charlie, still determined, made his way to the hall closet and grabbed his hat, as well as a coat. It was fall, and quickly approaching winter.

As he got to the door, he noticed the moron that lived on the other side of where the woman was moving. He was grinning like a fool, and making his arms jump like popcorn in a hot pan of oil. He looked like an idiot, and surprisingly, the woman didn’t seem to be interested, which for some odd reason, made Charlie smile. Everyone loved the idiot, if that revolving door of his had any say in the matter.

He went to grab one of her boxes, and she looked away, and pointed to