Chapter 33 Olivia
The telephone trilled up the steps, ruining Olivia’s focus. Clinton had returned the carbon copy of her manuscript with a mound of revisions, almost four hundred pages filled with clips, folds, scribbles, and the occasional coffee splash in the margins.
The first draft had taken longer to write than expected, but she was determined to spit and polish every sentence. Clinton agreed, slowing down production instead of rushing it to press.
The work had been good for her after so much unraveling in the past year. Healing, really, in its demands. A novel, she could maneuver and tweak. Rein in characters when they spiraled out of control. She could edit until satisfied with beginning, middle, and end.
Others in Catawba received letters from their loved ones fighting overseas but not her.
If Simon had mailed her a letter since he left basic training, the correspondence had been lost. Jillian said he could have died in battle, but Olivia suspected he’d opted to end their marriage from afar since he no longer had access to her money.
Then again, she hadn’t received any divorce papers or petition for an annulment, if such a thing was possible after almost two years of marriage.
The phone rang again, and she lowered her pencil, eyeing the open panel where she kept her latest manuscript. For the past year, she’d stored her work while she slept, but there was no need to hide it to answer the phone.
Skirting around her desk, she rushed down the steps, knowing that by the time she reached the kitchen the caller probably would have given up.
But the phone was still ringing when she answered. “Ashe residence.”
“This is Mr. McLean, from the Savings & Loan.”
“Hello, Mr. McLean.” She took a long breath. “I must admit, I’m afraid to ask the reason for your call.”
“Dr. Farrow returned to the bank this afternoon.”
With that announcement, the appliances began swirling. She didn’t even bother with a chair as she slid to the floor.
Simon had returned.
Not that she wanted him at Haven House, but after more than a year overseas, how could he return to Catawba without even the courtesy of a visit?
“Did he ask for what was left in my savings account?”
“Yes,” Mr. McLean said. “We told him you would need to visit our bank together for any future transactions.”
She released the air trapped in her lungs. “Thank you.”
“I thought you should also know . . .”
She pulled her knees toward her chest. “What is it?”
“He asked to take out a loan against your house.”
“Oh, no—”
“We declined his request, of course. He wasn’t happy about being turned away.”
“I appreciate your calling.”
“Mrs. Farrow?”
“Please,” she said. “Mrs. Ashe.”
“Could I give you some advice?”
Another breath, trying to calm the flurry. “I’m always open to advice.”
“You might be able to obtain a legal separation from Dr. Farrow even without his consent. A court might allow it on grounds of abandonment.”
“How would that help?”
“A judge would divide your property and finances. Then you would have no fears.”
“I’ll look into it,” she said. “Thank you.”
She stood slowly before hanging up the receiver.
If only the legal system would alleviate her concerns.
She could petition the court, like Mr. McLean suggested, but if Simon fought the separation, a judge might award him, a war hero perhaps, half her property.
And if he lost his position at Winfield, half of her income.
Either way, a legal separation could take months, and since she’d blocked access to her accounts, she feared Simon wasn’t going to leave her alone.
Parting the front curtain, she glanced out the window, afraid to see his convertible, but the only car in the drive was her Plymouth.
If he returned to Haven House tonight, what would she do?
She didn’t care if he took half of everything she owned. Didn’t even care if he took Haven House. She wanted Simon Farrow out of her life.
Instead of climbing back up her tower, she placed a call to Clinton.
“I need your help,” she said.
“Take your time on the edits. There’s no—”
“Not with the edits. I just found out that Simon has returned to Catawba.”
He paused. “You’re not welcoming him with open arms?”
“Things are in a difficult place, Clinton. I don’t trust him.”
“Are you safe?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Olivia.” His voice escalated. “You need to spend the night with one of your church friends.”
She hated having to flee her own house, but Clinton was right. She shouldn’t stay alone in this place that had once been a refuge, at least not before she changed the locks. Until then, she’d ask Jillian and Garrett if she could borrow their sofa.
“Are you still there?”
She glanced toward the front window. “Simon is trying to take my house and who knows what else. With the increase in my royalty income . . .”
“Please tell me you have a will,” Clinton said. “And it doesn’t name him as beneficiary.”
“I have a will, but it hasn’t been updated since Graham passed away.”
He groaned. “Do you have any other living relatives?”
“No.” And Simon knew that Hattie was the last of her family.
“Then Pennsylvania law would award him everything.”
She mirrored his groan. “I’m becoming more valuable to him dead than alive.”
“You need an attorney.”
The only lawyer she knew was a shark. “I hope you have a recommendation.”
Clinton gave her the name of a man in Philadelphia. “Tell him you want to create an irrevocable literary trust. As long as Simon’s not the beneficiary—”
“He won’t be.”
“Then he can’t touch your money.”
“Thank you, Clinton. You’ve been a friend and the best of publishers.”
“Leave your house right now,” he ordered. “And don’t look back until Simon is long gone.”
But she placed a call to the attorney’s office first, wanting her intentions to be clear.
If anything happened to her, she explained, she wanted Clinton Herring to oversee her trust with a portion set aside for the education of Elijah Lamb.
Once Elijah turned twenty-five, he would have the option of managing her literary and personal estate.
If her income continued to grow, she wanted him to use it for good.
After she explained her urgency, the attorney agreed to draft her documents tomorrow. Hopefully, she would continue writing for years to come, but if something happened to her, Elijah would be provided for and her books would continue being published through Herring & Son.
Jillian told her to come straight over. Instead of sleeping on the sofa, Olivia could share a room with the two girls.
She didn’t need much tonight. Just a change of clothes, pajamas, and some basic toiletries. Olivia tossed it all into a satchel and drove away from Haven House.
If she’d waited a few more minutes, she would have seen a worn Chevrolet coupe rumble up her lane. Heard the ring of a young woman and two children at her door.
If she’d waited a bit longer, she might have remembered the manuscript she left behind on her desk.