Chapter 9 Olivia
“I don’t like him,” Hattie said as she stood beside Olivia on the front porch, her hands at her sides.
Simon waved goodbye through the open top of his roadster, the polished vehicle rumbling toward the gate. The midnight blue panels blended into the night, but not the chrome bumpers. Those gleamed in the moonlight.
Olivia lowered her hand. “You hardly know him.”
“Three visits with that man is more than enough.”
“More than enough for what?” Olivia asked, aggravated that her aunt refused to give him a chance.
“Enough to assess his character.”
Clearly Simon hadn’t measured up to her aunt’s standards, but even Graham, in those first months of courtship, hadn’t been good enough for her spinster aunt who’d stepped in as a mother to Olivia after Mrs. Belle passed away.
She should expect nothing less now if she decided to accept the attentions of another man, but Simon was merely a friend, enjoying meals and laughter with her whenever his work brought him to Pennsylvania. Which, admittedly, had been often in the past month.
“He’s respectable, Auntie. A pro—”
“A professor. I know.”
“A professor who likes to talk about books.”
Hattie tugged the belt around her housedress tighter. “I am well aware of what that man likes.”
“You make it sound so . . . juvenile.” Which was fitting, she supposed, because Olivia felt younger than she had in years.
A decade even. And why couldn’t a younger man enjoy her company?
He hadn’t crossed any lines or made any promises beyond seeing her tomorrow.
Then he’d return home to Winfield. “He’s not some charlatan that I plucked off the street. ”
“He’s Episcopalian,” Hattie said as if insulted by the thought.
“We have plenty of friends who are Episcopalian.”
“You’re not considering them as suitors.”
“I am not planning on marrying Professor Farrow!”
“The man drove all the way from Ohio to have dinner with you, Olivia. No man does that unless—”
“He drove here to celebrate the completion of my manuscript.” And they had, with a fancy dinner in Lancaster. An early meal since he would escort her to Philadelphia in the morning.
Graham used to kiss her on the cheek when she finished a novel, tell her to get some rest, but the only time they ever drove to Lancaster was for the occasional birthday brunch. She’d never once been upset by this lack, but it was nice to have someone celebrate her books too.
Simon had awakened something inside her—a longing for companionship, for love even, like she wrote for her heroines. Not with him, of course. The twelve years between them made it preposterous. Maybe God had a husband for her in the future, but for now, Simon’s friendship was enough.
Tonight he would stay at a local inn and then drive her, right after breakfast, the three hours to the office of Herring & Son.
She and Hattie should both be grateful for his goodwill as she’d been nervous about transporting her manuscript alone.
While a thief would have no value for her onionskin paper, now hidden behind the panel in her office, the stack represented much for her.
After silence that felt like an eternity, God had given her a new story, and she hoped Clinton and readers alike would be pleased with Verity’s journey.
Hattie looked back at the drive as if she could still see Simon and his fancy car. “Graham wouldn’t like him.”
“You can’t possibly know that!”
“Do you think he’d want you traipsing all around town with a man who acts like a peacock?”
A pain crept up Olivia’s shoulders, into her head.
She didn’t know what Graham would think or if it even mattered.
Why didn’t her aunt ask what she wanted?
She and Simon, age difference aside, had bonded deeply over their shared loss.
No one else, not even her beloved aunt, seemed to understand the sorrow and confusion that spilled over the banks of her heart.
The tides that roared in and out at a rapid pace, leaving everything exposed.
“Being Episcopalian isn’t a sin,” Olivia said.
“But pride is, and I love you too much to let you get caught up in that mess.”
Simon was smart, amiable, and quite open about his faith in a saving God.
The man liked showing off his fancy car, but she enjoyed plenty of things in this material world too.
Haven House, for one. The library and desk and typewriter that helped bring her stories to life.
All of it, though, she hoped she’d give up if God asked her.
Just as Simon would give up his roadster if needed.
“I love you, Aunt Hattie, but Simon is one of the humblest people I know.”
“I wasn’t talking about the professor.”
She flinched. “You think I’m proud?”
“It’s one of those creeping sins, Olivia. Coils like a snake before it strikes.”
She stared at her aunt, silenced. What did she have to be proud of? The critics hounded her. Many readers hated what she wrote. All she wanted was to stitch together another publishable story and maybe, just maybe, free the fluttering in her heart to love again. How did that classify as pride?
The telephone rang, and she whispered her thanks for the interruption as she rushed to answer in the sitting room. “Ashe residence.”
“Did you write the last page?”
She leaned against the stiff-backed sofa, the receiver cradled on her shoulder. “Hello, Clinton.”
“Please tell me that you’ll have a manuscript here tomorrow.”
“Delivered before lunch,” she said. Dog-eared and paper-clipped with hundreds of margin notes for revision. “The story is finished, but it needs a fresh type.”
“Typing is the least of my worries,” he said.
“It’ll be grand once you’ve edited it.”
A shuffle of papers before he spoke again. “I will have changes back to you within the week.”
“And I’ll make every one,” she assured him. Then Lavender Ridge would be rushed off to the printer, ready to sell before Christmas.
“Are you certain you don’t want me to send a courier?” he asked.
“I want to deliver this one myself. And say hello.”
“I’ll be delighted to see you,” Clinton said, although he sounded much more relieved that he would have the first draft in hand. “I’ll even take you to lunch.”
She hesitated. “I’m bringing a guest.”
“Your aunt?”
“No, a friend. His name is Simon Farrow. A professor from Winfield.”
Seconds of silence, money wasted through long distance wires. If Clinton questioned her about Simon, she didn’t know what she would say. Her friendships weren’t his business anyway.
“I don’t care who you bring,” he replied, “as long as that manuscript is on my desk before noon.”
“It will be.”
“Very good. After we eat, I want you to head straight home and start on your next story.”
She smiled. “I might take a day or two to breathe.”
“Right. I know you, Olivia. Now that you’ve started writing again, you’ll think of little else.”
He knew her well indeed.
“This call is eating through our profits,” he declared. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
She hung up and braced herself for a continuation of Hattie’s lecture. Instead, footsteps padded across the second floor. A retreat, it seemed.
Ever since Olivia had seen the shadow in the forest, her aunt asked that she stop her evening walks to the cemetery, but the lake called to her tonight. Her mind, void of story, had probably imagined the visitor anyway, but even if a child still roamed her hill, what harm could he do?
She swiped her coat off the peg and stepped back onto the porch.
With her shoulders curled over the typewriter, she hadn’t done much of anything else in weeks, including a visit to the family grave.
Even though she had no flowers this evening, she wanted to be outside, searching her heart in a place that offered plenty of memories if no easy answers.
Memories that brought her great joy.
As she walked the well-worn path, no keyboard demanding her attention, she churned through the past month without interruption. Out here, she could rid herself of the many distractions and remember the goodness of God.
A tangy smell, like the oil of lemons, clung to the breeze.
The scent of her remaining moonflowers as they tilted their necks, opening wide their petals to soak in a light that breathed instead of burned, oblivious to their own power as they welcomed the final days of autumn.
No other flower except this one loved these hours like she did, preferring the cool darkness to the warmth of dawn.
Devil’s trumpets, some people called these flowers that pealed their white blossoms in the darkness. But while the devil may roam after dusk, even the darkest hours had a light. She preferred to think of the trumpet blossoms as an instrument of angels.
Soon, the leaves would fold and shrivel in the approach of winter, and she’d break open the hardened thorns to collect the seeds. In the waiting over the winter months, hibernating in their jars before finding a new home in the soil, life would begin anew.
Come spring, she’d replant another generation, and then next year, their offspring would bloom and reflect again the moon.
Next year. So strange to think of the coming months with a glimmer of hope instead of sadness.
For so long she’d felt stuck, but something had shifted inside her.
A new sense of wonder. The branches might be shedding their leaves, the plants folding until spring, but it felt like she was inching out of her cave, curious again about living.
It wasn’t pride, was it? The curiosity felt more like courage.
Graham had wanted her to remarry. Told her this in a letter he’d left behind.
But she’d never considered such a thing.
Wasn’t even really considering it now. She and Simon had only shared a few meals, for goodness’ sake.
Neither of them had hinted at anything like marriage.
His attention had lit a welcome spark inside her, but anything beyond friendship wouldn’t work between them.
He needed to remarry a younger woman. Enjoy a houseful of children.