“We have plenty of friends who are Episcopalian.”
“You’re not considering them as suitors.”
“I am not planning on marrying Professor Farrow!”
“The man drove all the way from Ohio to have dinner with you, Olivia. No man does that unless—”
“He drove here to celebrate the completion of my manuscript.” And they had, with a fancy dinner in Lancaster. An early meal since he would escort her to Philadelphia in the morning.
Graham used to kiss her on the cheek when she finished a novel, tell her to get some rest, but the only time they ever drove to Lancaster was for the occasional birthday brunch. She’d never once been upset by this lack, but it was nice to have someone celebrate her books too.
Simon had awakened something inside her—a longing for companionship, for love even, like she wrote for her heroines. Not with him, of course. The twelve years between them made it preposterous. Maybe Godhad a husband for her in the future, but for now, Simon’s friendship was enough.
Tonight he would stay at a local inn and then drive her, right after breakfast, the three hours to the office of Herring & Son. She and Hattie should both be grateful for his goodwill as she’d been nervous about transporting her manuscript alone. While a thief would have no value for her onionskin paper, now hidden behind the panel in her office, the stack represented much for her.
After silence that felt like an eternity, God had given her a new story, and she hoped Clinton and readers alike would be pleased with Verity’s journey.
Hattie looked back at the drive as if she could still see Simon and his fancy car. “Graham wouldn’t like him.”
“You can’t possibly know that!”
“Do you think he’d want you traipsing all around town with a man who acts like a peacock?”
A pain crept up Olivia’s shoulders, into her head. She didn’t know what Graham would think or if it even mattered. Why didn’t her aunt ask what she wanted? She and Simon, age difference aside, had bonded deeply over their shared loss. No one else, not even her beloved aunt, seemed to understand the sorrow and confusion that spilled over the banks of her heart. The tides that roared in and out at a rapid pace, leaving everything exposed.
“Being Episcopalian isn’t a sin,” Olivia said.
“But pride is, and I love you too much to let you get caught up in that mess.”
Simon was smart, amiable, and quite open about his faith in a saving God. The man liked showing off his fancy car, but she enjoyed plenty of things in this material world too. Haven House, for one. The library and desk and typewriter that helped bring her stories to life. All of it,though, she hoped she’d give up if God asked her. Just as Simon would give up his roadster if needed.
“I love you, Aunt Hattie, but Simon is one of the humblest people I know.”
“I wasn’t talking about the professor.”
She flinched. “You think I’m proud?”
“It’s one of those creeping sins, Olivia. Coils like a snake before it strikes.”
She stared at her aunt, silenced. What did she have to be proud of? The critics hounded her. Many readers hated what she wrote. All she wanted was to stitch together another publishable story and maybe, just maybe, free the fluttering in her heart to love again. How did that classify as pride?
The telephone rang, and she whispered her thanks for the interruption as she rushed to answer in the sitting room. “Ashe residence.”
“Did you write the last page?”
She leaned against the stiff-backed sofa, the receiver cradled on her shoulder. “Hello, Clinton.”
“Please tell me that you’ll have a manuscript here tomorrow.”
“Delivered before lunch,” she said. Dog-eared and paper-clipped with hundreds of margin notes for revision. “The story is finished, but it needs a fresh type.”
“Typing is the least of my worries,” he said.
“It’ll be grand once you’ve edited it.”
A shuffle of papers before he spoke again. “I will have changes back to you within the week.”
“And I’ll make every one,” she assured him. ThenLavender Ridgewould be rushed off to the printer, ready to sell before Christmas.
