The wood creaked as Hattie crossed the floor with another pot of tea. “It’s getting dark.”
Just minutes ago, it was morning, and now... Olivia glanced at the shadows crossing her desk. She’d spent the entire day lost in her story.
“I didn’t even notice.” Olivia placed the newly typed page atop the stack. “How are you feeling?”
“Perfectly well again.” Hattie poured a cup of tea, eyeing the pages. “It seems your words have been flowing.”
“It’s like a storm.” And she was so relieved. For herself and Clinton and the entire staff at Herring & Son.
Hattie dropped a sugar cube into Olivia’s cup. “I don’t suppose the next bit can wait until tomorrow.”
“I don’t believe it can.”
The soft wrinkles around Hattie’s lips deepened with her smile. “Very well.”
Olivia smiled back at the dear woman who’d lived with her for the past five years. The woman who’d kept her upright after her world collapsed. In hindsight, God had graciously used them to save each other.
“I’ll probably sleep through the morning hours.”
“I suspected as much,” her aunt said. “I’m glad you’re writing, Olivia, but you don’t have to work so hard on my account. We can find a smaller house, much simpler, or I can—”
“We’re not moving.” She never wanted to leave this place that she and Graham had built.
Hattie hesitated. “I just don’t want you to feel any pressure from me to stay.”
Olivia took a long sip of the perfectly sweetened tea. “Graham is still here.”
Her aunt patted the knot tied around her housecoat, her silent protest at Olivia’s words.
“Not like a ghost,” Olivia said. “It’s the memories of him. They’re everywhere.”
In all twelve of the rooms, on the lakeshore, in the quiet bedroom they once shared. She had loved Graham with her whole heart and couldn’t bear to say another goodbye.
Hattie reached for her hand. “I’m proud of you, Olivia. Whether or not you ever publish another book.”
The words settled in her chest. “Thank you.”
“But I know stories are important to you. I’ll be praying for the right words.”
The night hours passed swiftly, the typewriter her friend, and when sunlight ebbed again across her desk, her mind had emptied the last of its reservoir. Not the ending yet—her brain had stopped working someplace in the middle of her plot—but those final scenes would come in time.
She curled up on the sofa and pulled Hattie’s afghan over her shoulders. Sleep came in a blink, and it seemed only minutes had passed when a bell dinged in the distance.
Then Hattie appeared at her side. “You have a telegram.”
“How strange.” Olivia rubbed her eyes before elbowing her way up.
“It could be from Clinton,” Hattie said. “Maybe he granted you an extension after all.”
Afternoon light streaked across the small envelope,Western Unioninscribed across the top. Outside her windows, an encampment of dark clouds signaled an oncoming storm. “If so, he would have phoned.”
Not that it was any less expensive to call, but Clinton was a model of efficiency. He would want to speak with her directly about any pressing matter.
Then again, if not Clinton, who else would send her a telegram?
Hattie tugged a small chair beside the sofa. “You’re dawdling.”
Olivia held out the envelope. “I have no mind or stomach for bad news.”
