Chapter 25 Olivia
Olivia unscrewed a glass jar filled with water and dozens of the moonflower seeds she’d collected in November. Last night, she’d gently nicked each seed with her metal file, soaking them to coax the new growth from their shells before she brought them down to the lake this morning.
“Aren’t they glorious?” Warm sunlight glinted through the glass as she lifted the jar for Eli, some of the seeds sinking in their bath, others swimming to the top.
On the window ledge in her tower, she had nearly a dozen of these jars with seeds harvested over the years, but one jar was more than enough for a plentiful moon garden.
Eli squinted at her cache. “They’re just a bunch of seeds.”
“True, but if we treat them well and the sun does its job, the most beautiful flowers will blossom in the fall.” The seeds only needed a scratch, the smallest of wounds, to wake them from their sleep and prompt them to grow. Then they’d bloom boldly in the moonlight.
“Are they the night flowers?” he asked, a bit of wonder in his voice.
“Most people call them moonflowers, but I like the name angel’s trumpet since they look like they’re worshipping our Maker.”
“Your flowers used to keep me company at night. When I was alone.”
She smiled. “Me too.”
The boy had grown at least four inches since the Lambs invited him to join their family.
She’d wanted to adopt him, but Simon thought they should start their marriage without any children.
She agreed at the time, but if she’d known that he would return to Ohio a week after they married, visiting only a handful of times in the past five months, she would have adopted Eli on her own.
Then again, Eli was thriving with the Lamb family. Garrett and Jillian were the best of parents, and the thought of him having siblings, the five children attending school together, gave her much joy.
He would never have to be alone again.
“I brought you a trowel.” Olivia rummaged through the canvas bag before handing it over. “And a pair of gloves.”
“A little dirt ain’t gonna hurt me.”
“Maybe not, but these seeds are just as toxic as the flowers.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s toxic mean?”
Leaning down, she whispered the answer like it was a secret. “It means they can kill you.”
That caught his attention.
“The toxins would probably just irritate your hands, but if you have a scrape on your skin or you rub your eyes, it could really hurt.”
He stepped back from the jar. “You’d die?”
“Hopefully not. Unless you decided to eat them.”
Eli grabbed the offered gloves. “I ain’t eating anything that could kill me!”
“Good. If we respect these flowers, they’ll shine for us later this year.”
Each bloom glowing like a royal jewel on display, shining for a single night under the moon before fading away.
“I’ll take a whack at it.” Eli dug a small hole near the water’s edge and carefully, almost reverently, placed a seed inside, mounding dirt over it like he understood the promise of new life. Come September, they would experience a magnificent harvest. A whole chorale of trumpeters.
Their world desperately needed beauty and the hope that clung to its hem.
In December, Japan had dropped bombs on a harbor filled with American ships.
Then Germany declared war on the United States.
As the draft expanded, the turmoil had flooded into Catawba with local men aged eighteen to forty-five being called up to fight.
So far, Simon hadn’t been drafted. She prayed his position at the college would keep him stateside.
While she could do nothing to battle the evil overseas, she could bring peace through her flowers. Grow. Build. Create. Write. Love others who had no family.
Eli, she hoped, would keep these flowers blooming long after she was gone.
As she knelt beside him, they planted seeds together, life brewing just under the surface of the lake and the dirt. Although she and Eli wouldn’t see any growth for months, the roots would anchor themselves before shooting up toward the light.
Much happened below the surface.
Every moment she spent with this young man was a gift.
Roots deepening between them as they shared both tragedy and the wonder of nature.
They’d buried Eli’s grandfather in the Ashe family plot last year, and Eli often visited the cemetery with her, then stayed for the weekend when Simon was in Winfield.
As they enjoyed the forest and lake, Haven House was a refuge for both of them.
During the weekdays, words continued flowing out, some of the best she’d ever written.
Simon had gifted her a second typewriter and set it up on a new desk in the sitting room, right beside the Ashe carousel horse.
He thought it would help her be more productive if she could work whenever inspiration struck, and he was right.
Inspiration often hit her, she discovered, during the meal hours.
Random pieces of a story would converge right in the middle of her toasting bread or opening a can of peaches, and she’d dash to the sitting room, typing sometimes for hours.
Admittedly, writing sprees of that sort could be dangerous, especially when she forgot the boiling teapot or scorched her skillet on an open flame, but so far, she’d only done minor damage to the kitchen.
She and Simon had been married for five months, but their relationship was pretty much the same as it had been before their marriage except now, whenever he visited, he shared her bed.
That brought an entirely new tangle of emotions, not as pleasant as she’d hoped.
Instead of dwelling on the disappointment each time he left for Winfield, she threw herself back into the safe embrace of story.
Things with Simon weren’t bad, just not what she’d imagined.
Then again, her expectations had been impossibly high, especially considering she’d been the one to suggest keeping two homes.
How was a relationship supposed to flourish when a husband and wife spent most of their time in separate states?
Simon had celebrated Christmas at Haven House, and while she’d yet to visit him in Winfield, she was determined to spend Easter weekend with his family.
“Why did God make some flowers toxic and others safe?” Eli asked.
“That’s an excellent question.” While he was still catching up on his reading and writing, his mind was as sharp as a thistle and growing just as fast. He was naturally intuitive, and if he continued to learn, his keen intuition matched with intelligence would serve him and others well.
She staked the trowel like a flagpole into the dirt before standing.
“I don’t presume to understand the mind of God, but the poison in this flower actually protects it.
People like us who want to cultivate and grow the moonflowers know how to appreciate their beauty without harming ourselves.
We simply learn to care for them with respect. ”
Eli studied the ground as if the seeds might begin sprouting upward. “I think God likes to grow stuff.”
“I agree.” Like in the ancient days with Adam and Eve, walking alongside the first man and woman in His garden. “He sends plenty of sunshine and rain to nourish the flowers, but I think He especially likes to partner with us to grow all manner of things.”
Eli buried another seed in the ground, his trousers covered in dirt. “Maybe I’ll be a farmer like Pops when I grow up.”
“If you set your mind to it, Eli, you have the smarts and stamina to do just about anything you want.”
Those words seemed to settle over him, and she prayed they would root and grow. That this young man would do great things with the dreams God had planted inside him.
“After you go to college—”
“I ain’t going to no college.”
“Yes, you are,” Olivia said. “Then you earn enough money to buy your own farm.”
He shrugged.
“After you attend college,” she repeated, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
He glanced up at her with curious eyes, and she saw something great in him. A glimpse, perhaps, of the man he would become.
“Neither of us knows what the future holds, but if you decide to grow old in Catawba, would you take care of my flowers?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why can’t you do it?”
“I won’t be around forever,” she said. “And you’re so good with them.”
He considered her words before responding. “I’ll do my best.”
Olivia glanced up the hill, at the house packed with memories that were hers alone. She didn’t want this young man to see her property as a burden. “See the world if you’d like, Eli, or move to a different town, but if you happen to find your way back . . .”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Ashe,” he said, and she didn’t correct him or anyone else when they used her former surname. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Not me,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just the flowers.”
But in his mind, perhaps they were the same.
She fed him well that night—roasted poultry and warm gingerbread—before he slept in Hattie’s old room.
The next morning, as she prepared an early breakfast, the telephone rang.
She flipped a buckwheat pancake on the stove and reached for the receiver, thinking that Jillian might be calling to check on Eli before church.
Or that Simon wanted to finalize their Easter plans.
But the operator said she had a call from Clinton Herring.
Her publisher never called on a Sunday. Not even with the best of news.
Before he came on the line, she retrieved a kitchen chair and sat on it for good measure.
“Olivia?” he asked as if someone else might answer her phone.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m very sorry . . .”
She curled her fingers around the receiver, bracing herself. “Whatever for?”
“We’ve had such a good relationship for all these years, always patched things up if we had trouble.”
“Of course we have.” And she knew of no trouble now. Had she missed a deadline? Or had someone filed a lawsuit over one of her books? The problem must be grave for Clinton to call before church.
“We’ve always worked out our differences,” he said.
She leaned forward. “Did I do something wrong?”
“All these years, I’ve dealt directly with you. Mr. Ashe never once contacted me.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to sort out what she’d missed. “You are talking in riddles, Clinton.”
“No matter what Dr. Farrow says, I can’t give you another loan.”
“What Dr. Farrow says?” Her head felt like it was about to explode. “What exactly did Dr. Farrow say?”
“That you are desperate for money.”
Desperate for—that was ludicrous!
Clinton must have misheard Simon. After they married, she and Simon had kept their finances separate, each responsible for their own income and property. With her recent advance, she had plenty for Haven House, and Simon’s salary paid for his home in Winfield.
The pancakes began to smoke, but she didn’t move. “This sounds like a terrible misunderstanding.”
“Not on my end.”
“But my finances are intact.”
A pause as if Clinton needed to collect his thoughts. “I’m relieved to hear that, Olivia, but why does Dr. Farrow keep calling me?”
“Just one moment.” She pulled the skillet off the burner and flung open the back door. She couldn’t answer Clinton’s question, because she had no idea why Simon was contacting him. How could she admit that to her publisher? It was humiliating.
She lifted the receiver again. “I will speak to him right away.”
“Thank you.”
“Exactly how much did you loan Dr. Farrow?”
When he told her, she gasped. “That’s the entire advance for my next book.”
“I informed him of that very thing.”
“Why didn’t you call me earlier?”
“He said he was acting as your agent,” Clinton said. “It’s not for me to question what happens between you and your husband.”
“Unless I notify you otherwise, I will continue acting as my own agent,” she said. “Please don’t loan him or anyone else money on my behalf.”
“I won’t.”
Clinton sounded relieved when they hung up, but Olivia didn’t move.
Why had Simon called him without consulting her first? If he needed cash, why hadn’t he simply asked her?
No one answered when she called his house, so she rapidly packed her satchel and joined Eli and the Lamb family at church.
After service, she turned her Plymouth west.
Easter might still be a week away, but it was time for her to visit Simon’s home.