“Are you certain you don’t want me to send a courier?” he asked.
“I want to deliver this one myself. And say hello.”
“I’ll be delighted to see you,” Clinton said, although he soundedmuch more relieved that he would have the first draft in hand. “I’ll even take you to lunch.”
She hesitated. “I’m bringing a guest.”
“Your aunt?”
“No, a friend. His name is Simon Farrow. A professor from Winfield.”
Seconds of silence, money wasted through long distance wires. If Clinton questioned her about Simon, she didn’t know what she would say. Her friendships weren’t his business anyway.
“I don’t care who you bring,” he replied, “as long as that manuscript is on my desk before noon.”
“It will be.”
“Very good. After we eat, I want you to head straight home and start on your next story.”
She smiled. “I might take a day or two to breathe.”
“Right. I know you, Olivia. Now that you’ve started writing again, you’ll think of little else.”
He knew her well indeed.
“This call is eating through our profits,” he declared. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
She hung up and braced herself for a continuation of Hattie’s lecture. Instead, footsteps padded across the second floor. A retreat, it seemed.
Ever since Olivia had seen the shadow in the forest, her aunt asked that she stop her evening walks to the cemetery, but the lake called to her tonight. Her mind, void of story, had probably imagined the visitor anyway, but even if a child still roamed her hill, what harm could he do?
She swiped her coat off the peg and stepped back onto the porch. With her shoulders curled over the typewriter, she hadn’t done much of anything else in weeks, including a visit to the family grave. Even though she had no flowers this evening, she wanted to be outside, searching her heart in a place that offered plenty of memories if no easy answers.
Memories that brought her great joy.
As she walked the well-worn path, no keyboard demanding her attention, she churned through the past month without interruption. Out here, she could rid herself of the many distractions and remember the goodness of God.
A tangy smell, like the oil of lemons, clung to the breeze. The scent of her remaining moonflowers as they tilted their necks, opening wide their petals to soak in a light that breathed instead of burned, oblivious to their own power as they welcomed the final days of autumn. No other flower except this one loved these hours like she did, preferring the cool darkness to the warmth of dawn.
Devil’s trumpets, some people called these flowers that pealed their white blossoms in the darkness. But while the devil may roam after dusk, even the darkest hours had a light. She preferred to think of the trumpet blossoms as an instrument of angels.
Soon, the leaves would fold and shrivel in the approach of winter, and she’d break open the hardened thorns to collect the seeds. In the waiting over the winter months, hibernating in their jars before finding a new home in the soil, life would begin anew.
Come spring, she’d replant another generation, and then next year, their offspring would bloom and reflect again the moon.
Next year. So strange to think of the coming months with a glimmer of hope instead of sadness. For so long she’d felt stuck, but something had shifted inside her. A new sense of wonder. The branches might be shedding their leaves, the plants folding until spring, but it felt like she was inching out of her cave, curious again about living.
It wasn’t pride, was it? The curiosity felt more like courage.
Graham had wanted her to remarry. Told her this in a letter he’d left behind. But she’d never considered such a thing. Wasn’t even really considering it now. She and Simon had only shared a few meals, for goodness’ sake. Neither of them had hinted at anything like marriage. His attention had lit a welcome spark inside her, but anything beyond friendshipwouldn’t work between them. He needed to remarry a younger woman. Enjoy a houseful of children.
Her aunt may be wrong about Simon’s character, but maybe she was right to question the dangerous path that Olivia’s mind was wandering. Her only focus should be on delivering the manuscript tomorrow to Philadelphia. Then she’d take Clinton’s advice and return to her typewriter. Maybe, after she turned inLavender Ridge, a new story would emerge.
The breeze rippled across the lake, misting her skin. She didn’t mind the cold. It meant she was still alive and ready for a new season.
What did God have in store for her now?
She tucked her hands in her pockets and waited, but all she heard was the croaking of bullfrogs.
