“No,” he said slowly. “What about you?”
“We had a girl named Annabelle. She died before her first birthday.”
“No mother should ever lose her child.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Annabelle took part of my heart to the grave, like Graham did, but hearts have a tendency to expand. I think of her whenever I write the heroines in my stories, and with every book, every time these women overcome their hardest struggles, I imagine Annabelle overcoming with them.”
A breath of time as he seemed to consider her words. How quickly they’d rolled off her tongue tonight. Like the doubts, the secrets she’d guarded for years, were safe with him.
“That’s a lovely sentiment,” he finally said.
“Annabelle was part of every story I wrote over the last eighteen years.”And she clung to the hope that one day she’d see her daughter again. That God, who’d graciously given her a child, would reunite them.
When Simon smiled at her again, his blue eyes lit up. “I actually wanted to talk about your books.”
“Really, there’s not much to talk about.”
“Did your husband read all your stories?”
“Oh, no.” She smiled. “He stuck to Calvin and other theologians like Charles Hodge. He would have enjoyed your article about the themes of destiny and free will in Shakespeare’s work. Hamlet and Macbeth and—”
“I wrote that article a long time ago,” Simon said. “Many of the details escape me now.”
She understood. “Whenever I start a book, I’m so immersed in creating the new story that I can barely remember my past characters or plotlines.”
“Novel writing requires a genius of its own.” He sipped his tea, and she wondered at this man before her who thought deeply about God and books. “My Ruthie loved reading your stories.”
That picture of his wife warmed her. Perhaps that’s why he’d sought her out. Her books reminded him of the dear woman he’d lost. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Mrs. Belle is brilliant,she’d say.” Another sip. “And I would agree with her assessment.”
“You’ve read my books?”
“Of course.” The smile sparked his eyes again. “A handful of them, at least, when I’m not reading Shakespeare. Although if you ask me that question in front of my fellow professors, I’m afraid I would take the well-traveled path of a coward and say that I don’t read romance.”
She returned the smile. “You wouldn’t be the first person who pretended not to read my work.”
“After my bout of cowardice, I’d like to think I would admit to my indulgence.”
“You’d really say that you read romance?”
He stroked his clean-shaven chin as if the act might help formulate words. “I’d say I was reading your stories to study the components of mystery and how you simplify complicated theology for your readership.”
Her eyebrows climbed in mock dismay. “Are you saying I’m a simpleton?”
“Of course not. It’s extremely difficult to portray complicated ideas for the masses.”
“My masses are some of the most delightful people in the world,” she said. “Intelligent women with a heart for truth, although most of them are also exhausted with childrearing and maintaining their homes. In the evening hours, they want nothing more than to escape into someone else’s world where they don’t have to solve all the problems.”
It was Olivia’s job to solve them so they were quite satisfied with the results.
“You’ve done your job well,” he said.
Why had she put Simon Farrow in such a tight box? She’d been nervous about meeting him for dinner, worried that he would see her as flighty or irrelevant, but he continued to be just as witty and down-to-earth as the man she’d met at Winfield. They hadn’t even begun eating, and she was enjoying their time immensely. “I suspect your answer about the mystery and theology in my books is a respectable one among the men in your scholarly circles.”
“And probably the women,” he said, “since none of my female colleagues would admit to reading romance.”
Yet she’d corresponded with a number of professional women over the years who told her in confidence that they’d appreciated the keen insight in her stories. How, like Simon said, she simplified terms and concepts for an easy read.
