Chapter 11 Olivia
Olivia stared at her face in the oval mirror, lines billowing out from light-green eyes, rivulets of gray hair in a sea of brown. While the dressing-table mirror tried to convince her otherwise, she’d shed at least three burdened years in the past three months.
Simon’s vitality, his passion for the many facets of life, had stirred something inside her. Like she’d traveled back into her thirties instead of stepping into her forty-sixth year.
She wouldn’t tell a soul, especially not Hattie, but she’d begun to dream about what life might be like as Simon’s wife.
Not that he’d hinted at any such thing. Besides the occasional kiss on the cheek, he’d shown no expression of anything beyond friendship.
But those sweet kisses, the simplest of affection, fired through every vein.
Like hidden ashes under a mound of debris, sparked anew with fresh wood and a spring breeze. A warm, reimagined life.
Simon was the perfect gentleman, courteous and kind when he visited.
So considerate that she’d often thought the spark she felt was from a distant fire.
She didn’t know if he had any intention beyond enjoying her company as a colleague and friend, and she’d never give him a reason to suspect her interest in a future with him.
Absurd, really, for her to even entertain such thoughts.
Simon had spent the past two weekends in Catawba, driving up on Friday and leaving after church. She’d hoped Hattie would choose to be cordial after a few weeks, but—
Her aunt had holed up in her room when she found out that Simon would be returning this afternoon.
Olivia felt split between loving Hattie and expanding her heart to love anew a man who’d been generous with both of them.
It was hard for her aunt, she knew that well, to lose her only niece to a stranger, but Olivia had promised her that no matter what happened, Hattie would always have a place with her.
She only hoped her aunt’s hostility would slowly thaw like it had over the years with Graham.
A dab of lipstick, the faintest of pink, then Olivia tied an apricot-colored scarf around her neck. She could do nothing about the strands of gray, but she could choose in that moment to live again—truly live—no matter her age. With joy in this life as well as hope for the next one.
In the mirror, she caught a reflection of her wedding day.
The photograph on her bedroom wall had been taken twenty-five years ago.
Even though she had worn fancy heels, Graham had been almost a foot taller, his wide smile welcoming the entire world into his embrace.
But he didn’t just stop at compassion. He thought the greatest act of love was sharing the gospel.
As a minister, he preached far and wide about the redemptive power of Christ’s death and resurrection.
Simon was more reserved in his faith, but they’d bonded over their mutual grief, love of story, and belief in a God who was alive and involved today.
Even though Simon wasn’t a reverend like her father and Graham, he could still prompt his students in a friendly manner to think about a loving God who wanted to redeem their world.
In her mind, Winfield College was his mission field.
She added a pearl pin to her ensemble and straightened it. Twice.
It was absurd, all this overthinking when he’d never even hinted at a proposal. She would simply enjoy his company and the words he’d inspired within her.
She gathered her stole from the wardrobe and moved downstairs. It was almost half past eleven, and while she’d invited him to brunch at the manor around eleven thirty, he asked to take her out instead to a restaurant in Lititz. Given the circumstances with her aunt, she readily agreed.
Before he arrived, she crossed the dining room and kitchen to check on the food she’d left last night on the stoop.
The nameless boy stopped by regularly now.
While Olivia hadn’t spoken with him since that evening last month on the lake, she sometimes saw his frame in the shadows as he retrieved a plate of Hattie’s food.
The roasted chicken, dumplings, and marshmallow brownies had disappeared. In its place was the plate and empty milk bottle with a scribbled note on a stained slip of paper.
Yor bronees r delishus. Thank u.
Who had taught the boy to write? Atrocious spelling, but she concurred with the sentiment. Hattie’s desserts were renowned across Lancaster County.
After leaving that message, he would probably get a slice or two of freshly baked pie tonight.
Olivia washed the dishes and arranged them on the drying rack. Then she propped the note beside the sink for Hattie.
A bell shrilled through the kitchen. The front door, she thought, until she realized the telephone was ringing. Perhaps Simon had to change his plans. Disappointing, of course, but she could spend her afternoon writing.
She skirted between the French doors to the sitting room filled with an eclectic mix of Ashe family furnishings including a wooden horse that Graham’s mother had collected from a dismantled carousel. Olivia lifted the receiver on the sixth ring.
“My Belle!” Clinton exclaimed as if he were the jovial sort.
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t acknowledge her shock. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite author?”
“I don’t believe you have.” Olivia sat on the haircloth sofa, the senior Mr. Ashe’s favorite piece since company, he’d once said, would never stay long on its stiff seat. “Did you already raid the liquor cabinet this morning?”
He laughed. “I will drink to you the moment we hang up.”
“And why would you do such a ridiculous thing?”
“Because you’ve given me the greatest of Christmas gifts.”
She glanced out the window to see if Simon had arrived, but the circular driveway remained empty. “Lavender Ridge must be selling well.”
He’d edited and printed the book in record time, his small team distributing thousands to bookstores across the Eastern Seaboard. Then they’d transported shipments south and west via train. Sort of like Verity, she thought, traveling west, not knowing where she would call home.
“It’s selling clean off the shelves. Bookstores are begging us for more.”
“That is fine news.” With more than three years between books, she’d worried that many of her readers had forgotten her by now.
“We have to head back to the presses right away to meet the Christmas demand. And then another run the first of the year. It’s like printing money.”
Money so she and Hattie could keep their house. Money to continue writing.
If she were a teacup, her sides would spill over.
“Thank you for calling,” she said quickly, knowing he was counting the cost. No matter how much her books profited him, the telephone ate up a portion with no return.
“I didn’t telephone you about the sales.”
What could possibly top that? He sounded much too happy for it to be poor news, but Clinton never ceased to surprise her.
She leaned forward as if she could capture his news. “Are you calling to inquire about my holiday plans?”
“I’m calling to tell you that MGM is moving ahead with the filming of Silver Summer.”
“Filming . . .”
“They’re going to make a moving picture out of it.”
Her bottom lip dropped open but nothing came out, her breath damming in her lungs.
“Olivia?”
“I don’t even go to the movies.”
“You’ll be at this one.”
“Is MGM the company that optioned it ages ago?”
“Four years in January. They want to start production the first of the year. Before their option runs out.”
She leaned forward, stunned. “They’re going to make an actual movie from one of my books?”
Clinton laughed as if he were Jolly Ole St. Nick himself, spreading Christmas cheer. “They are, and because you’re the expert on this story, they want you on set as a consultant.”
“I don’t know anything about movies.”
“They’ll teach you all you need to know. And they’re paying for everything. Your plane ticket. Hotel. A chauffeur for transportation.”
Her head began to swell like she was a star, not a care in the world except to see her film in theaters. “I might have to celebrate this.”
“You better celebrate, maybe with that new fella of yours.”
“I’m much too old to have a fella.”
“Dr. Farrow didn’t seem to notice any age difference when we had lunch.” Clinton paused. “You wouldn’t happen to be working on another manuscript, would you?”
“I just might be.”
“This phone call costs too much for you to be coy, Olivia.”
This time, she laughed. Grateful her books were earning him an income again. “It’s a manuscript about a college professor who travels abroad each summer to London until the Germans begin dropping their bombs.”
“It better have a romantic sort of thread.”
“He falls in love with a former student whose apartment was bombed, but her body was never found. Now he’s determined to locate her.”
Soon, Olivia would also discover where the student went.
“Does your professor know you’re writing about him?”
“I’m not writing about him!” And she would tell Simon that very thing if he read this story. Her ideas might be inspired by real life, but the fiction promptly took over.
“Think you can have it to me by March?”
She opted for coy again. “Depends on how long I’ll be in Hollywood.”
He huffed. “Don’t let that Hollywood mess go to your head.”
“I’m quite certain you will keep me humble, Clinton. Between you and Hattie—”
“I’ll mail you the air ticket when I get more details.”
The doorbell rang, and she glanced toward the foyer. “Speaking of the professor.”
“Now don’t you go off and do something silly, Olivia.”
“I don’t have a silly bone in me.” Even the giddiness that came in waves petered out before it reached shore.
“Fame can do nasty things to one’s bones,” he warned.
“Don’t worry another moment about me.”