Chapter 7 Olivia #2
When she began writing, even as a child, simplicity had been her goal.
And a sense of wonder at the hidden beauty in their world.
She’d wanted to relieve her mind of stories that begged to be written, and then, in turn, write books of mystery and romance that reflected her faith.
To give back this gift of writing to her Maker. Be faithful to His call.
Now, after three years, it seemed like God was giving her another story. If Clinton could sell this new one, like he’d sold her other books, she’d be able to keep her beloved home and continue visiting the cemetery and her beautiful lake. She would never have to leave Haven House.
Simon leaned forward as if he wanted to recapture her wandering mind. “Ruthie wasn’t much of one for study, but she embraced every hour that God gave her on this earth. And she happened to think that both romance and mystery were foundational to good theology.”
Olivia turned her attention back to the man in front of her. Even though he was more than a decade younger, they’d walked a similar journey. And it felt good to have someone step onto this messy path alongside her. Merge their stories for an hour of time.
“How long ago did you lose Ruthie?” she asked.
“Eight months.”
Yet he kept teaching, kept traveling even to lecture students at another college. She admired his tenacity and strength in the midst of what was clearly a heartbreak when she had struggled so hard to get back up again.
“I miss her every day.” His voice deepened with sorrow as if he’d plunged into the depths and didn’t quite know how to surface. “She was my world.”
“I understand.” Olivia had made no secret of her loss in the few articles that she wrote for The Christian Observer after Graham’s death. He had been the love of her life. The hero in all her stories. Now she wanted him to live on in book after book. Hero after hero.
If God continued to give her the stories, she never wanted to stop writing.
Simon nodded gravely. “I think you do understand, Mrs. Belle. More than anyone else in my life.”
“Please, call me Olivia.”
He crooked his head with curiosity. “Not Via?”
“That’s my pen name, but no one I love—” The word crashed like a tidal wave over the table, and she wished she could roll it right out the front door.
Talking of romance with a widowed man and now implying of her love.
Her aunt would be appalled. “It’s all confidential, of course, but none of my friends call me Via. ”
“Olivia,” he said slowly as the wave of her strange words seemed to flow right around him, not even shifting the sand. “It suits you well.”
“Thank you.”
“Would it be too intrusive to ask about your surname?”
She had used her maiden name for her first articles and kept the name Via Belle when she began publishing fiction.
She’d liked the way it sounded and how it reminded her of her daughter.
Now, all these years later, something as rudimentary as a name held the keys to her privacy, but she had no reason to withhold this information from him.
“My maiden name was Belle, and I kept it as my pen name. When Graham and I married, I wanted to keep my life as a Reverend’s wife separate from my author world.”
“Did you succeed at the separation?”
“It was a naive endeavor.” She sighed. “Graham rarely read my books, but he was exceedingly proud of them. He couldn’t resist telling the congregation about my work, and they all knew my married name.”
“I’m glad the love between you and your husband endured for so long.”
And it had. Twenty-two happy years and one daughter they’d both adored. A family that she’d wanted to love for a lifetime.
“Olivia?”
She blinked. While she was supposed to be enjoying a pleasant dinner with a new friend, a friend whose grief was much fresher than hers, she kept derailing the conversation.
“I’m sorry your years with Ruthie were short.”
“I count each one as a gift,” he said. “Or a treasure. Nuggets that I’ve locked away in a vault.”
“We are both blessed to have a trove of good memories.”
“Indeed.” The waiter poured them steaming cups of coffee, and Olivia added a lump of sugar to hers while Simon filled his with cream. “But now, let’s talk about your world today instead of the past.”
She sipped the sweetened brew. “I’m afraid my life contains little of the adventure and romance in my books.”
“What does it look like?”
She told him about her church and lake and how she loved to walk the hills and through the trees. “There’s not much going on around me, but for better or worse, there’s a whole lot going on in my head.”
“Like resolving what you’ve lost?” he asked.
“More questions than resolution in this season. There are many things I’d like to know.”
So began a lively discussion between them that resparked some of her mind’s fading flames as she marveled again at the curiosities that God allowed in their world.
As if He deeply desired them to seek with an open heart.
Ask questions with humility and grace. And, it seemed to her, the more questions she asked, the more she had.
That’s why she fervently believed that God often spoke through story.
To help people sort out their questions.
By the time the waiter delivered their food, her disappointment with missing Simon’s lecture had vanished.
While she loved talking to her aunt and friends, she’d missed conversing with a man who seemed to take seriously his study of the Holy Scriptures.
Different perspectives were one of the main reasons she’d started writing books.
So her characters could wrestle through some of the thoughts in her head.
As she sniffed the bacon, cheese, and onions in the quiche, Simon leaned forward. “Would you thank God for our meal?”
A moment passed before she answered, surprised at his request. And then she was honored. It was very modern of him to ask. Not many men would pass the torch of prayer to a woman. Perhaps he was equally as interested and intrigued in having her perspective.
After inviting God into their meal, she took a bite of quiche and declared it heavenly.
“How many books have you published?” Simon asked as they ate.
“Thirty.” About one every nine months until she lost Graham. “Book babies, my husband used to call them.”
While she’d longed to have a second child, she had indeed labored to birth every one of those stories.
“You are a marvel, Olivia.”
Her face grew warm, and she hoped he couldn’t see her blush. “I know it might sound strange, but my many wonderings are often how I experience God.” And why these years had been even more difficult when she couldn’t seem to hear His voice.
He nodded. “The mystery of God is the breath of my being.”
She stared at him, shocked to hear her heroine’s words from Raven’s Nest, one of her earlier novels.
That was a declaration she’d mined from the depths of her own heart, then set it into her character’s dialogue.
While she often forgot the details of her plots when she started the next book, that story had stuck with her through the years.
“You really have read my books.”
“I’d never lie to you about literature.”
She smiled. “But you’d lie to me about something else?”
She’d only meant to tease, but something dark swept across his gaze like the brush of a curtain. A memory, perhaps, or reflection of an old wound. Whatever the question sparked, the darkness disappeared as quickly as it came.
He leaned forward, his hand pressed against his heart, renewed steadiness capturing her in his gaze. “I would never lie to you, Olivia.”
Odd how her heart trembled at those simple words. As if it wasn’t sure how to interpret his meaning. She noted it though, just in case she ever saw him again. She wouldn’t tease him about the truth.
“More coffee?” With a twitch of her shoulders, Olivia’s eyes swung up to the man standing beside her, coffee pot in hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit jittery.”
Bells chimed from a nearby cathedral, and Olivia checked her watch. How was it possible that it was already seven? Two hours had rushed past since their hasty meeting at the restaurant’s door, her return train leaving in less than an hour.
“Actually, I think I’ll take a half cup.” For the ride ahead.
“May I visit you in Catawba?” Simon asked as he escorted her to the station. “I’ll take you out to dinner again so we can finish our discussion.”
Even if he traveled by car instead of train, it was at least a six-hour trip from Winfield. What would her aunt think having a male guest, a college professor, travel that far to finish a conversation?
“If you’re ever in my area, I would enjoy another meal.”
“I suspect I’ll be there soon.”
And he was right. Days later, he showed up with flowers at her front door.