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.
30:Olivia
SEPTEMBER 1942
Olivia blanched when the Catawba Savings & Loan manager showed her the bottom line in his ledger. Her savings account, once in the thousands, hovered only a few dollars above zero.
She fell back against her seat. “What happened to my money?”
“Your husband has been withdrawing five hundred dollars almost every month.”
“But that’s impossible,” she said. “My husband was called up earlier this year.” His last letter from Kentucky, mailed in August, said he was preparing to board a ship. To England, she surmised, but he couldn’t say. Only that it would be months before he could write again.
“Your husband’s name is Simon Farrow?”
“That’s correct, but he isn’t on any of my accounts.”
Mr. McLean flipped the page so she could see Simon’s signature on several lines. Instead of asking Clinton for another loan, he had emptied her savings.
“How long has he been taking out money?”
“The first time he tried, you weren’t married.” Mr. McLean tapped the ledger. “He said, as your fiancé, that you had an urgent need for funds while you were in California.”
She leaned back against the chair, stunned. That was a lie. She and Simon weren’t even engaged when she traveled to Los Angeles, and the studio had covered all the expenses during her stay. She hadn’t any need of money. “When was that first visit?”
Mr. McLean skimmed the register. “February of last year. I explained that you needed to telephone me with the request so I could wire money directly to you in Los Angeles.”
“But then you gave him money...”
“Not until after your wedding. He returned with your marriage license and said you’d taken ill. I asked a few questions and phoned your house, but no one answered. I had no reason to doubt him.”
How could she explain that her husband had deceived them both? It was humiliating, just like the conversation between her and Clinton. Why did Simon need her money now? He already had a new car, a reputable position, and a comfortable home.
“He wasn’t supposed to have access to my account.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Farrow. Reverend Ashe often made withdrawals. I just assumed—”
“This is different.” For one, she’d trusted her first husband. “When was Dr. Farrow’s last visit?”
He turned a page. “In July.”
Heat flooded her face, a mixture of embarrassment and fury. July was months after she’d asked Simon not to contact Clinton again about a loan. He’d written that she couldn’t visit him at Fort Knox, but he must have taken leave to visit her bank. He just hadn’t stopped by Haven House to spend time with her.
