Chapter 29 Harper
“How can I help?” the woman who answered the phone at Winfield Funeral Home asked warmly, practiced and prepared to comfort any caller.
Harper introduced herself. “I’m trying to track down an obituary, but I don’t know when the man died.”
“A relative?”
“No.” The honking from a flock of geese drowned Harper’s voice.
Even though Harper was sitting on the Suttons’ screened-in porch, the roar overhead was deafening.
She tried to block the sound with her hands before she spoke again.
“He taught at Winfield College and I believe he was married to a novelist named Via Belle.”
Ingrid didn’t seem to know the first name of Eli’s mentor or if Professor Farrow was related to Simon Farrow, but with the same surname, Harper thought the best place to begin searching for Olivia’s husband was in Winfield.
“Our funeral home has been here for a hundred and some odd years, the only one in the whole county, so I should be able to find the info.” She tapped on a keyboard. “What was the husband’s name?”
“Simon Farrow.”
“Oh, I remember Dr. Farrow.”
Harper straightened in the patio chair, the geese gone. “You knew him?”
“Well, not personally, but his funeral was unforgettable. He died sometime in the 1960s.”
Fortunately, the woman kept talking, because Harper wasn’t certain how to respond to the many detours in her head. First, the woman remembered Simon, so either he hadn’t vanished like Olivia or somehow she’d managed to hide away with him in Ohio.
Second, how strange it was, the thought of this woman caring for hundreds after their life departed, not ever hearing their voices or knowing their quirks or being able to ask them a single question.
Did she wonder about their stories? Harper would create a journey for every one of them from childhood until their last day on this earth.
Third—was Olivia’s husband the same professor who mentored Eli in the late 1940s? If so, did she introduce them?
“Dr. Farrow was well regarded in Winfield. Standing room only at his service.” More clicking in the background. “Sadly, we don’t always get that, and I think . . . well, it doesn’t really matter what I think. It won’t take me long to check our files. Can you hold on?”
“I sure can.” The engraved piece from Ashe Lake flickered in her mind.
Had Simon returned to Haven House before or after Via disappeared?
If he died twenty years after her disappearance and his obituary mentioned his wife and perhaps a child or two, she wouldn’t need Finn Sterling to discover what happened to Olivia.
Two minutes later, the woman was back on the line. “Found it!”
“That’s impressive.”
“All part of my job.” The woman laughed. “The owners here are meticulous about our records. You want me to send the obituary to you?”
“If it’s not too long, would you mind reading it now?”
“How ’bout I give you the highlights and then mail you a copy?”
“Perfect.”
“Let’s see.” A blue jay swooped low in front of the porch screen and sailed over Marcia’s flower beds as the woman began to read. “Simon Clarence Farrow was born in Mansfield.”
Simon Farrow. He must be the same man that Olivia married.
“Born in 1882 and died in Cincinnati in 1968,” the woman continued. “Apparently he wanted to be buried in Winfield.”
Harper tried to crunch the numbers. A birth year of 1882 meant he would have been about sixty when he married Olivia.
“Dr. Farrow was the professor of theology and literature at Winfield College for fifty of his years and quite active in his church. Married to Ruth Farrow from Cleveland.”
Harper stopped her. “Are you certain her name was Ruth?”
“That’s what the obituary says.”
“Does it say anything about a second wife?” Harper asked.
“No, just Ruth. Looks like she died in 1939 at the age of fifty-five, after almost forty years of marriage. A marvel, really. And . . .” A long pause. “No mention of kids, but it says he had two grandchildren.”
“What about the names of those grandkids?”
“It doesn’t list them.”
Another roadblock. “Do you have an obituary for Olivia Farrow or Via Belle?”
Another moment passed while the woman searched. “I’m afraid there’s no record for either name.”
Harper gave the woman her address in Catawba and thanked her profusely. After the many roadblocks, it was nice to have someone help.
Her phone chimed, and she looked down at a text from Kelsey. Last Harper checked, her friend was still drinking gallons of ginger tea.
I’m so sorry, Harper!
She read the text twice, wondering what Kelsey had to be sorry for.
Are you feeling better?
I was until I saw The Hollywood Reporter.
I’m afraid to ask . . .
My dad—
When the text stopped, Harper’s stomach plunged, a myriad of possible endings to “my dad” dangling in her head. Had Evan and Marlo’s marriage already blown up? Poor Kelsey. She had everything going for her except her dad’s whims.
She started typing again.
Are you still in the Maldives?
Yes.
What happened to your dad?
Instead of another message, Kelsey called. “I can’t text this.”
Harper braced herself. “What happened?”
“My dad just announced his next movie.”
“Okay.” She was curious, of course, but Evan announced a new movie every year. Why was Kelsey stressing over this one? “Is something wrong with it?”
A weird sound crossed the continents, something between a gulp and groan. And an anvil crashed in Harper’s gut. He wouldn’t have— “What’s the movie, Kelsey?”
“I don’t think I can say it.”
“Please tell me.”
“It’s called . . .” Kelsey’s voice shrank to a whisper. “Oh, Harper.”
She gritted her teeth, waiting for the worst of news.
“It’s called Before I Sleep.”
Fireworks exploded in her head. “He stole my idea!”
“Technically, Tony Bates did. He’s the producer.”
“But when I told Tony my idea, he ridiculed Miles and all things sleeping.”
“A distraction, I think. After you left, Tony put his own spin on your pitch. The Hollywood Reporter says the story is about a man running from the ghosts of his past. Part drama. Part supernatural.”
Harper wanted to scream. “He’s turning it into a horror flick?”
“I don’t know.”
She flung open the screen door and rushed toward the acres of garden. Her story was about Miles crossing the country to find himself, not running away from the past, but the concept was still hers. She had pages upon pages to show for it. “We have to tell your dad.”
“I already did.”
“And he doesn’t care . . .”
“It’s a good idea, Harper. Evan will make his millions, and you’ll write an even better script for Sissie or someone else.”
“They can’t do this!”
“Did you show Tony or my dad your script?” Kelsey asked.
“No,” she moaned. “It wasn’t finished.”
“Then, sadly, they can write their own screenplay with Miles as the main character.”
“I know.” Harper had pitched her idea in good faith, and Tony made it his own. Story ideas weren’t copyrighted like an actual script. “I never should have told them my idea until the script was ready.”
And she should have asked permission to send her script when it was finished.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Kelsey said.
“It’s not your fault.” And she meant it. Kelsey had only wanted to encourage her writing. Tony was the thief. “Do you think Sissie knows?”
“Probably, but she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.” A confidentiality agreement probably protected Tony and team.
“Is that why Sissie is giving me a chance?”
“She’s giving you a chance because she wants to make a good movie, and she sees a gold mine of potential in you.”
Maybe later that would help her feel better, but right now she still wanted to scream. “Thank you for telling me.”
“It’s only a ding, Harper.”
“More like a smash.” Catastrophic, but she didn’t want Kelsey to feel worse than she already did.
“Please don’t let this stop you from working with Sissie on your next story. She’ll do the right thing.”
When they finished, Harper flipped off her ringer and released a rather pathetic shriek. More of a yelp, really. Then she collapsed on a wooden bench in the garden. Her hands felt numb, her chest empty, her mind a frightening dull. Like she couldn’t imagine a new story if she tried.
Even during the hardest seasons of life, she’d always had her stories. Every idea had been a gift to her, the characters forming and percolating in her mind until she was ready to share them. Miles and his long walk were supposed to be hers to complete, not Tony and his need for explosives.
Tony had access to some of the greatest screenwriters in the world, but instead of working with one of them, he’d taken what little she had, the seeds of an idea, and not only took credit, he’d twisted it into a story she never intended.
He stole Miles from her and probably never gave his thievery another thought.
That man would never let poor Miles sleep.
Was Sissie going to steal her idea about Via’s work? Make it into a comedy instead of a heartwarming drama. Harper may not officially own her ideas, but it sure felt personal.
Perhaps the stories in her head weren’t meant to be shared.
She could search for full-time work on a production team to support herself, then write privately on the side.
The characters in her head, their dreams, desires, and downfalls, would be hers alone to consider. No one would ever betray her again.
The shimmer of hummingbird wings whirred past with a flash of emerald and blue.
The gentle creature bobbed in front of her, searching for nectar until it found the sugary mix swinging from an iron hook.
Closing her eyes, the sun warming her face, Harper listened to the hum of tiny wings and then the echoes of Finn’s voice in her head, calling her name as she bolted to the truck this morning.
Only hours had passed since she’d enjoyed coffee on Ingrid’s patio, trying to get information about Eli and then Simon Farrow, but it seemed like days.
Was she acting like Tony now? Trying to steal Olivia’s story from the Lamb family. She’d pushed so hard, wanting to write about Olivia for her own good since Ingrid and Finn didn’t seem the least bit interested in selling more of Via Belle’s books.
Opening her eyes, she looked down at the reflection of her face in a garden pool, framed between two lily pads.
She didn’t understand how Finn and his family obtained the rights to Olivia’s books and story, but that was their business, not hers.
Even if Olivia had died, even if anyone could film her story today, Harper wouldn’t keep pushing.
While she still wanted to know how her mom ended up with a Via Belle book, find out if their lives had somehow merged in 1943, she refused to steal someone else’s story.