Despite their age difference, she didn’t feel old when she was with Simon. In fact, he made her feel quite young again. Like she was worth knowing beyond the words she put on a page.
The best thing about writing fiction was that she could rework and revise, retell her stories until all the strands wove neatly together and tied into a perfect knot at the end. So different than the realities of life. Now that her story was done, thoughts of Simon flooded her mind—his grief over losing his wife, his many thoughtful questions. He’d read her work. Liked it, even. And he seemed to enjoy her company as much as she enjoyed his.
What was wrong with that?
Instead of walking to the cemetery, she sat in the rowboat on the shore. It probably wasn’t seaworthy any longer, but she and Graham used to paddle out on the lake and picnic together. She couldn’t imagine Simon in this rickety old vessel, not with his freshly pressed trousers and tailored sports coats. He would much prefer riding in his convertible.
Simon was much different than Graham, and for that, she was grateful. It would be much too painful to spend time with someone whoreminded her of the man she’d married at nineteen. Simon intrigued her. He wasn’t intimidated by her success nor did he disdain her as an ignorant hack. Instead of treating her like a celebrated author or a literary fraud, he regarded her as a woman and friend.
She felt special in his presence. Cherished, even. Although, at times, she wondered if he might be pretending there was more between them when he thought nothing of the sort. That was her deep-rooted and most unwelcome insecurities flaring. The worry that he was mocking her in some strange way with his attention or being dismissive, irreverent even, when she spoke of her faith. Doubts propagated by her aunt’s concern.
She couldn’t quite work it all out in her mind, but Simon wasn’t perfect. No one was. And no matter his church background, his faith in God was strong. She’d read articles he’d written in past years including reflections on the journey of Christ in books likeBen-Hur. His counterarguments to her ideas weren’t meant to ridicule, only to sharpen her mind.
This was the problem with ending a story before she had another one lined up to write. She’d already created enough drama from her crumbs of doubt. If she wasn’t careful, she would become her own villain.
A shift to one side, and the boat followed her sway, the simple movement transporting her back to those days with Graham as they sat in the silence, marveling at the expanse of stars, the screech of an owl, the rustle of leaves, the—
Another sound. A snap of a twig and the squelch of mud. Turning, she watched a child wander out of the trees in the moonlight, leaves rattling over his head. A boy in denim overalls and a crooked cap. Not an invention to fill the deficit in her mind.
She waited silently as the boy knelt on the bank, hands cupping lake water to wash his face before taking a long drink. Then he reached toward her moon garden as if he was about to pick one of the flowers.
She jumped from her seat. “Don’t touch that!”
The boy spun around, startled. While she couldn’t see his face, she felt his surprise.
“Gloves,” she blurted. “You need gloves. Those flowers will burn you.” Especially if he had a cut, or heaven forbid, rubbed it into his eyes or mouth. At his age, the moonflowers could kill him.
He didn’t speak as he backed away.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, knowing she had only seconds to capture his interest.
No answer, but at least he didn’t run back to the forest.
“I have ham in my icebox, up on the hill. Ham and biscuits and a quart of fresh milk that’ll spoil before I can drink it.”
He spoke then, the pitch of a boy on the brink of manhood. “We don’t take charity.”
We?She wanted to ask about his family, but an inquiry might send him hotfooting it into the trees.
“I’m glad to hear it, because I’ve got no charity to offer. Just some old food I’m putting out for trash.”
“You’re throwing it away?” The timid voice rose, incredulous.
“No one else is going to eat it.” She shrugged. “I’ll just put it on my back stoop for the birds. Or maybe a hungry coyote will wander by. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to it. I hate to waste food.”
His frame hardened like a statue on the shore. “No food should be put out for trash.”
“I agree.” When he stepped away from the water, she decided to take another risk. “What’s your name?”
But her question was too much. A threat, even. He spun on his heels and disappeared behind the curtain of wood.
Instead of continuing to the cemetery, Olivia slipped into her kitchen and placed a slab of ham and several biscuits on a plate, draped the food in cheesecloth, and placed it on the stoop with a fresh quart of milk. Thenshe hurried upstairs and laid one of her nicest outfits—a mauve dress with a ruffle on the collar and sleeves—over the chair, set out her matching gloves, and packed her bulky manuscript into a case for the trip.
In the morning, as the honk of Simon’s car rattled through her front window, she peeked out the back door. The plate remained, but the ham, biscuits, and bottle of milk were gone.
10:Harper
“Where can I find your Via Belle books?” Harper asked a saleswoman at The Book Barn whose name, according to her badge, was Deidre. The woman’s ebony hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore dazzling diamond earrings and a polka-dot summer dress with sandals.
