And nothing pulled her away from the bliss of make-believe like the realities in this world.
“Do you want me to open it?” Hattie asked.
“Please. And if it’s the worst of news, I’ll need a moment to prepare.”
Hattie slid her nail under the flap and unfolded the slip of paper inside, silently reading before she looked up. “It’s not an emergency.”
Olivia sank back onto the pillow, relief washing through her.
“It’s from Simon Farrow.”
“The professor?” A picture of his earnest face appeared in her mind, his kind words and warm smile along with his offer for dinner. “Why would he send a telegram?”
“It seems he has another invitation for you.”
She’d only just arrived home. Why hadn’t he asked her at Winfield?
Hattie handed over the message, and Olivia scanned it. Next week Professor Farrow was speaking at Swarthmore College in eastern Pennsylvania, and he’d invited her to attend his afternoon lecture and then meet for an early dinner so she had plenty of time to travel home. If she was amiable to the idea, more details would arrive via letter.
She was amiable indeed.
Hattie glanced at the clouds building between the window frames. “Swarthmore is at least two hours by car.”
But Olivia was grateful for the simplicity of an invitation instead of a crisis. “I’ll take the train again.”
“You’re considering it?” Hattie asked, clearly surprised.
“Professor Farrow was gracious to invite me to speak at his college. It seems only right that I return the favor to hear him speak.”
“That was no favor, Olivia. You were an honored and paid guest.”
She thought about the professor’s curious eyes. The ease with which he spoke of her writing and how he carried her suitcase to the door. As if he were an old friend. And she needed friends right now. Even better, a friend who loved books.
“You said I should spend more time with friends,” Olivia said. “Professor Farrow teaches literature and knows many writers.”
“I meant friends of the female sort.”
“It would be nice to have another male acquaintance and to hear him speak about his interests.”
Hattie busied herself by lifting the empty teapot. “Simon Farrow seems to have acquired quite an interest in you.”
Olivia smiled. “He was forced into inviting me to Winfield by several of his female students. It seems they like my books.”
“Is he married?” Hattie asked.
“I don’t believe so, but it doesn’t matter. He’s more than a decade younger than me.”
In lieu of her robe, Hattie patted her disagreement on the waistband of her paneled day skirt. “Age is secondary when it comes to matters of the heart.”
“My heart is in no way engaged with this man.” Olivia closed her eyes again, wanting another hour or two to recover from her night’s work. “He’s a reputable professor and colleague. Nothing more.”
And she was a forty-five-year-old widow who shouldn’t have to petition her aunt, no matter how dear, in order to accept a dinner invitation with a gentleman. Her only constraint was her deadline. She had to finish the manuscript or Clinton would be telephoning her with a sad farewell.
Then again, her time with Professor Farrow and his students had prompted the beginnings of a new story. Perhaps his lecture and then dinner, a week from now, would help her with the ending.
“I’m going to accept the invitation.”
“But your deadline—”
