“They were Olivia’s favorite flowers.” He shrugged. “Perhaps, in some way, because they protected their beauty.”
She took a seat in the grass, mesmerized by the parade of trumpets serenading the moon. “If you ever decide to readMoonflower Lake, you’ll find a place much like this.”
He sat beside her. “What was wrong with the ending?”
Harper sighed. “Everything.”
“Can you break downeverything?”
A breeze stirred the blossoms, swirling their honeyed lemon fragrance around her and Finn. How could she explain to him the vital importance of those final scenes? The ache of an ending that didn’t justify the journey? “You really want to know?”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Okay.” She turned toward him in the moonlight, collecting her thoughts. “Near the end, Laurel is about to stand up to the man who abused her and stop the evil in her life. Then she does nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Jude dies in a car crash which essentially wrecks the entire climax.”
“Thousands of people bought the book after Olivia disappeared,” Finn said. “It stayed onThe New York Timesbestsellers list for more than a year.”
“But none of her characters were truly changed.” And while only a few characters took the offer, Olivia always gave her cast an opportunity for redemption. In this story, Laurel didn’t even grow in her faith. “In the last chapter, Laurel is paddling out on the lake, relieved that Jude is gone. The end. After all she went through, the poor girl never found healing or love.”
“But she was free.”
“True, but she was quite alone in her freedom. I wanted more happily ever after for her.” Harper paused. “I guess I wanted her to find a place to belong.”
Finn glanced across Ashe Lake as if Laurel might still be paddling. “Reviewers said it was Olivia’s most poetic novel.”
“And it was beautifully written, but her loyal readers must still have been disappointed.”
He turned back to her. “I guess people change along with their stories.”
Harper plucked a blade of grass and wound it around her finger. “Did Olivia write any more novels afterMoonflower Lake?”
“If she did, she published them under a pseudonym.”
“But she lived with Peter and Isadore and then...” She paused. “What about Simon Farrow, the dad?”
“What do you mean?” Finn asked.
“His obituary said he died in Cincinnati.”
“That’s coincidental.”
“Or providential.” She hopped to her feet, a new idea taking hold. “Do you think a member of the Lamb family could cat sit for a day or two?”
“Hold on.” He stood beside her. “Why do you need a cat sitter?”
She clasped her hands together. “Because we’re going to Cincinnati.”
“We?”
“As director of the Via Belle Literary Foundation, you have to go with me.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Delve may no longer live there,” he said. “For that matter, they might not even be alive.”
“But we have to try.”
