Chapter 3 Olivia #2
It shouldn’t matter that the intellectual set would never read or appreciate her work, but she continually had to come to terms with the criticism from newspaper reviewers across the country.
She’d never win an award or be featured in the literary magazines, but God had entrusted this gift of writing to her.
For the past twenty years, she’d tried to steward it well, faithfully recording every story He inspired.
“Mrs. Belle,” another student said. “Your books always have a supernatural moment. Do you believe in the supernatural, or is this simply a plot technique?”
Olivia studied the woman, noting her stylish bob and curious gaze. Had she actually read a Via Belle book or was she ramping up for a greater critique?
“I believe God is present in our world as miracles happen every day. Sadly, I think we often overlook the miraculous as coincidental or even scientific, but whenever someone is rescued or a relationship is restored or a chick hatches from an egg, I see the hand of God. For that matter, whenever I put words onto paper, it’s miraculous. We were all created to create.”
The student smiled at her, and in that moment, Olivia realized she just might have a friend at Winfield.
She relaxed as the questions continued. All she could offer was her perspective, and she wanted to give it with a generous heart, no matter the critics, even sharing with the students how losing Graham had disoriented her and her ability to find words.
Hattie had been right. It was good for her to spend time among her peers.
The hour passed quickly, and when the panel ended, right on the hour of eight, a group of young women swarmed the stage. Olivia thought they wanted to speak with the other writers until she recognized her titles in their hands.
The first student, hugging a copy of Grace Haven to her cardigan, had asked about the supernatural. “I adore your books,” she said.
“I’m so glad,” Olivia replied, marveling that this young lady enjoyed reading a novel written for her mother’s generation.
“We begged Professor Farrow to invite you,” another student explained, tapping the open toes of her wedge sandals on the stage. “We’re pleased as punch that you came.”
So she hadn’t been an afterthought, at least not for these students. It shouldn’t have mattered, but for some reason, it did, whittling its way past her doubts. Even though not everyone liked her work, perhaps she did belong.
“Thank you for having me.”
Another student held out a copy of Sparrow Island. “Would you sign it?”
“Of course.” Olivia removed the cap from her pen. “What’s your name?”
“Isadore Brooks.” The girl giggled. “But my friends call me Izzy.”
Olivia opened the book on the table. “Should I sign it to Izzy then?”
The girl beamed, her eyes matching the sand color in her scarf. “Yes, please.”
Izzy, she wrote. May the light of your life continue to shine. Via Belle.
Izzy held open the cover to dry the ink. “I’m sorry Professor Farrow couldn’t meet you.”
Olivia glanced across the auditorium as the crowd trickled out. “I didn’t realize he was missing.”
Izzy shrugged. “Something must’ve kept him away.”
A third student approached, book in hand. “I’m Annabelle.”
Olivia froze at the sweet name of her daughter. Had she lived, Annabelle would have been the age of these students. Perhaps at a university, reading incessantly like her father and writing like her mother, talking books with friends.
She cradled Annabelle’s novel, curbing her thoughts as she wrote the most precious of names inside the cover. These students would never know her girl, but their enthusiasm for story stoked an ember deep within her. She felt the warmth of its flame coursing through this austere room.
“When is your next book coming out?” Annabelle asked.
“It’s supposed to release in December.”
“Terrific!” Annabelle clapped. “What’s it about?”
Olivia forced a smile. “I’m still working out the details.”
“You’re going to write a novel in three months?”
“In six weeks, actually. It usually takes a year to edit and print, but my publisher is expediting the process to release the book before Christmas.”
“Hopefully it will sell another million.”
She hoped it would simply make it to the presses.
Olivia signed a whole round of books, and as she handed back the last one, the student thanked her. “I want to write novels after I graduate.”
“Do you have a story in mind?” Olivia asked, slipping the pen back into her purse.
“I do.”
“Then don’t wait,” she advised. “The moment you return to your dormitory, you should start writing.”
“But I don’t know where to begin.”
“It doesn’t really matter. Just turn on the faucet of your mind and let it flow. You can tidy up the words later.”
The student looked as if she’d unwrapped a long-awaited gift. Then she scurried off with her friends to grab hold of the tail of her story before it flew away.
Sometimes all a writer needed was someone to give them permission, a mandate even, to pour the words stirring inside onto paper. A friendly nudge to step into the creative realm.
Why was it so easy for her to encourage others and impossible to find her own words?
As she watched the students leave, Olivia mulled over this question.
She had plenty of people, her publisher in particular, telling her she needed to write.
Her aunt had taken over the household chores so Olivia could work, and her devoted readers were certainly ready for a new story.
It almost felt like Graham had taken her gift of writing with him, something he never would have wanted to do. He had been her greatest support since they’d met, back when she was nineteen. Every word is like dropping a penny into the bank, he’d said. One word at a time until her bank was full.
Most of the auditorium had cleared by the time she collected her satchel from behind the stage curtain, the clock reading eight-fifteen. She needed to catch the nine o’clock train.
A man in a crisp suit climbed the short span of steps, joining her onstage. “You handled that remarkably well.”
“The signing?” she asked, scanning the room for Dr. Kinsley. Hopefully, he’d return soon to take her to the station.
“The inquisition disguised as a panel.”
“Ah.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “I thought it felt rather hostile.”
“Dr. Kinsley didn’t seem too keen on your books, but the students clearly enjoyed them.”
She studied the man’s striped wool suit and clean-shaven face, his sandy brown hair neatly trimmed, and striking blue eyes both confident and curious. “You were the one who read that horrendous review about my heroes.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “And I was pleased to hear your response.”
“I believe I’ve been fed through a wringer tonight just to see how I’d fare.”
“Your strength is enviable, Mrs. Belle.”
“It’d be misleading for me to claim any strength.” She tucked the notepad into her purse. “Are you a professor?”
“I’m Simon Farrow,” he replied. “And I’m pleased you were able to join our rather grim group. You’ve been a welcome breath of fresh air.”
Izzy must not have seen Professor Farrow enter the auditorium, but Olivia was pleased that he could attend.
She’d imagined him to be a weightier man, staunchly gray and dull from years of study, but fire sparked in the eyes of this younger gentleman, only a few years past thirty.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been wrong about things unseen.
“Apparently, it was my job to balance out the academic set.”
Professor Farrow laughed. “Sometimes scholars need to be knocked right off their balance.”
She smiled. The man before her must be wise beyond his years, an athlete with his sturdy frame as well as a scholar.
She applauded him for refusing to squander his youth, persevering with his studies through the Depression years.
So many in his generation didn’t understand the wealth of knowledge nor had they, after the violent market crash, the opportunity to pursue academia.
Pennsylvania’s economy was recovering with Roosevelt’s New Deal, men from across the state constructing the Pennsylvania Turnpike, but many families still struggled.
“Thank you for inviting me.” She eyed the clock again, anxious to be on her way. “It was a pleasure to meet you and some of your students. Their questions brushed away some of the dust in my head.”
His eyebrows arched, as if surprised that she’d enjoyed her time. Then they relaxed with a smile. “You’re not old enough to be gathering dust.”
“The flattery is appreciated, Professor Farrow, but I assure you I’ve accumulated plenty over the years.”
He scanned the empty hall. “You must be famished after that whole affair.”
She was hungry, the lunch meal long forgotten. “I’ll eat on the train.”
“If you’re able to stay a little longer”—he waved toward the side door—“would you accompany me to dinner?”
She hesitated, taken aback by the offer. No man had invited her to dinner since Graham’s death. Did the professor know she was a widow?
Then again, it was probably professional courtesy after a Winfield lecture. Perhaps the other panelists had neglected to extend her an invitation as they gathered at a local restaurant. It was thoughtful of the professor to fulfill this obligation, but she’d release him from his duty.
“It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
He looked crestfallen. “I never should have read that review.”
“It’s not that—”
“I meant to demonstrate the ineptness of the reviewer, not criticize the integrity of your work.”
“I’m rarely daunted by reviews, professor, but my aunt is ill. I need to return home right away.”
His dismay turned to concern. “I’m sorry to hear about your aunt.”
She checked her watch. “I have a seat on the nine o’clock.”
Which was leaving in a half hour.
“Perhaps I can—”
“Mrs. Belle.” Dr. Kinsley joined them, sweat pooling on his forehead. “Are you ready to leave for the station?”
“I am.”
Professor Farrow lifted her satchel. “I’d be happy to escort you.”
“Thank you, Simon.” Dr. Kinsley took the suitcase. “But it’s my responsibility to oversee transportation for our guests.”
The two men stared at each other like opponents in a fighting ring. One who had invited her to speak on the panel, the other who led the discussion.
Why were they at odds?
Professor Farrow looked like he might insist on driving, and then what would she do? She had no knowledge or authority to navigate between them.
Another student joined them onstage, cupping his hand over Dr. Kinsley’s ear to deliver a message.
“I’ll return in a moment.” Dr. Kinsley stepped away to follow the student. “Please wait for me.”
And she agreed.
Professor Farrow carried her suitcase to the side door and set it below Zeus, the stone god who wielded a lightning bolt from his hand.
“I’m sorry about Howard’s guff.”
“It’s all right,” she said, not particularly caring who drove as long as she arrived before the train’s departure. “He’s trying to be honorable.”
“Which is admirable until it disconnects from reason. When he gets something in his head, he won’t deviate from it,” Professor Farrow said. “But it’s been a tremendous honor to meet you. Perhaps you could join me another time for dinner.”
His persistence was equally admirable. And she was flattered that this younger man, as articulate and attractive as one of her imagined heroes, would want to spend time with her. To talk about literature, of course, but she appreciated his earnestness.
“My home is a few hours from Philadelphia,” she said. “It’s much too long of a journey, I’m afraid, for a meal.”
“Sometimes I travel east to speak.”
“If you are ever near Lititz, I would be glad to join you.”
His smile flashed like Zeus’s bolt, as if genuinely pleased with this news.
After the train pulled out of the station, an idea for a new story began to take root in her mind.
About a young woman, never married, whose parents died, forced to travel west when trains began connecting the States.
By an uncle, perhaps, who didn’t want to provide.
She was a stylish student, like Izzy, with a bright and courageous spirit.
A woman who grieved her loss but refused to succumb to the heartbreak.
A woman much different than her.
The college lights faded into black as the train chugged through the farmlands and then Pittsburgh, the thread of this character dangling in her head, begging to be stitched into a story.
Olivia removed the tablet from her bag and opened her Waterman pen. Then, as night settled over the car, she dusted off her brain and began to write.