Chapter 5 Olivia #2
“We’re not moving.” She never wanted to leave this place that she and Graham had built.
Hattie hesitated. “I just don’t want you to feel any pressure from me to stay.”
Olivia took a long sip of the perfectly sweetened tea. “Graham is still here.”
Her aunt patted the knot tied around her housecoat, her silent protest at Olivia’s words.
“Not like a ghost,” Olivia said. “It’s the memories of him. They’re everywhere.”
In all twelve of the rooms, on the lakeshore, in the quiet bedroom they once shared. She had loved Graham with her whole heart and couldn’t bear to say another goodbye.
Hattie reached for her hand. “I’m proud of you, Olivia. Whether or not you ever publish another book.”
The words settled in her chest. “Thank you.”
“But I know stories are important to you. I’ll be praying for the right words.”
The night hours passed swiftly, the typewriter her friend, and when sunlight ebbed again across her desk, her mind had emptied the last of its reservoir. Not the ending yet—her brain had stopped working someplace in the middle of her plot—but those final scenes would come in time.
She curled up on the sofa and pulled Hattie’s afghan over her shoulders. Sleep came in a blink, and it seemed only minutes had passed when a bell dinged in the distance.
Then Hattie appeared at her side. “You have a telegram.”
“How strange.” Olivia rubbed her eyes before elbowing her way up.
“It could be from Clinton,” Hattie said. “Maybe he granted you an extension after all.”
Afternoon light streaked across the small envelope, Western Union inscribed across the top. Outside her windows, an encampment of dark clouds signaled an oncoming storm. “If so, he would have phoned.”
Not that it was any less expensive to call, but Clinton was a model of efficiency. He would want to speak with her directly about any pressing matter.
Then again, if not Clinton, who else would send her a telegram?
Hattie tugged a small chair beside the sofa. “You’re dawdling.”
Olivia held out the envelope. “I have no mind or stomach for bad news.”
And nothing pulled her away from the bliss of make-believe like the realities in this world.
“Do you want me to open it?” Hattie asked.
“Please. And if it’s the worst of news, I’ll need a moment to prepare.”
Hattie slid her nail under the flap and unfolded the slip of paper inside, silently reading before she looked up. “It’s not an emergency.”
Olivia sank back onto the pillow, relief washing through her.
“It’s from Simon Farrow.”
“The professor?” A picture of his earnest face appeared in her mind, his kind words and warm smile along with his offer for dinner. “Why would he send a telegram?”
“It seems he has another invitation for you.”
She’d only just arrived home. Why hadn’t he asked her at Winfield?
Hattie handed over the message, and Olivia scanned it.
Next week Professor Farrow was speaking at Swarthmore College in eastern Pennsylvania, and he’d invited her to attend his afternoon lecture and then meet for an early dinner so she had plenty of time to travel home.
If she was amiable to the idea, more details would arrive via letter.
She was amiable indeed.
Hattie glanced at the clouds building between the window frames. “Swarthmore is at least two hours by car.”
But Olivia was grateful for the simplicity of an invitation instead of a crisis. “I’ll take the train again.”
“You’re considering it?” Hattie asked, clearly surprised.
“Professor Farrow was gracious to invite me to speak at his college. It seems only right that I return the favor to hear him speak.”
“That was no favor, Olivia. You were an honored and paid guest.”
She thought about the professor’s curious eyes. The ease with which he spoke of her writing and how he carried her suitcase to the door. As if he were an old friend. And she needed friends right now. Even better, a friend who loved books.
“You said I should spend more time with friends,” Olivia said. “Professor Farrow teaches literature and knows many writers.”
“I meant friends of the female sort.”
“It would be nice to have another male acquaintance and to hear him speak about his interests.”
Hattie busied herself by lifting the empty teapot. “Simon Farrow seems to have acquired quite an interest in you.”
Olivia smiled. “He was forced into inviting me to Winfield by several of his female students. It seems they like my books.”
“Is he married?” Hattie asked.
“I don’t believe so, but it doesn’t matter. He’s more than a decade younger than me.”
In lieu of her robe, Hattie patted her disagreement on the waistband of her paneled day skirt. “Age is secondary when it comes to matters of the heart.”
“My heart is in no way engaged with this man.” Olivia closed her eyes again, wanting another hour or two to recover from her night’s work. “He’s a reputable professor and colleague. Nothing more.”
And she was a forty-five-year-old widow who shouldn’t have to petition her aunt, no matter how dear, in order to accept a dinner invitation with a gentleman. Her only constraint was her deadline. She had to finish the manuscript or Clinton would be telephoning her with a sad farewell.
Then again, her time with Professor Farrow and his students had prompted the beginnings of a new story. Perhaps his lecture and then dinner, a week from now, would help her with the ending.
“I’m going to accept the invitation.”
“But your deadline—”
“I’ll be finished by October fifteenth.”
Her heart smiled that evening as she returned to Verity’s story on the train.
While she desperately missed Graham, things were getting better in her world.