Harper stared down at the stark stone, marveling at Olivia’s legacy. Her many books and all the readers she’d impacted in the past eighty years and now the women and children at Haven House—an incredible gift from this one writer who’d been faithful with her words. “Did your grandfather receive her book income?”
“A portion of it was allocated to him in her original trust, and he invested the money well. After Olivia died, her publisher contacted him so she could be buried beside Reverend Ashe.”
“The publisher and attorney kept it all a secret,” she said slowly. “And then you and your family did the same.”
“It’s what she wanted,” he explained. “She lived quietly as Olivia Ashe for the rest of her life, but somehow managed to keep tabs, I’m told, on my grandfather.”
Finn handed Harper the final bouquet. She kissed her hand first, placing it on the cold stone, then she added the flowers on top of the many Finn had brought over the summer, glad that Olivia had finally found her way home to her daughter and husband.
“Do you know what happened to her in 1943?” she asked, stepping away from the grave.
“No, and if my grandfather knew, he didn’t tell us. But one thing keeps nagging at me.”
She waited.
“Before my grandfather handed over the trust, he told me about his visit in Cincinnati with the couple who’d cared for Olivia in her later years.”
“I bet they had some stories!”
“I don’t remember any stories but—”
“What is it?”
“I do remember their names.” He paused. “Peter and Isadore.”
Peter and—“Izzy?” she exclaimed.
“Maybe,” he said. “Their last name was Delve.”
Izzy, the name autographed inSparrow Island, already linked Olivia and Angeline.
What if Isadore Delve knew what happened to Harper’s mom?
Her imagination bloomed, no use trying to dampen it. Not when the dots were all there. She just had to connect them.
“One last thing,” Finn said as he lowered his flashlight and moved toward the gate, the moon edging its way upward.
Her imagination usually knew few bounds, but... “I think this might be enough.”
He stopped on the path outside the trees, but this time several of the plants were glowing like jewels, crowning the lake.
Stepping closer, she watched a blossom slowly unfurl and then pierce the sky with its arrow-shaped bloom. “Finn—”
He grinned. “Moonflowers.”
“Like in Via’s book...” She stared in wonder before glancing back at him. “One I’m assuming you’ve never read.”
“Why would I read it?” He laughed. “I heard the ending is all wrong.”
She stepped toward the flowers, then bent down to examine the bold blossoms reflecting the light. “Are they really poisonous?”
“Very.”
“And they’re annuals?”
“Yep.”
“So poisonous flowers that someone continues to plant each year.”
