Before he arrived, she crossed the dining room and kitchen to check on the food she’d left last night on the stoop. The nameless boy stopped by regularly now. While Olivia hadn’t spoken with him since that evening last month on the lake, she sometimes saw his frame in the shadows as he retrieved a plate of Hattie’s food.
The roasted chicken, dumplings, and marshmallow brownies had disappeared. In its place was the plate and empty milk bottle with a scribbled note on a stained slip of paper.
Yor bronees r delishus. Thank u.
Who had taught the boy to write? Atrocious spelling, but she concurred with the sentiment. Hattie’s desserts were renowned across Lancaster County.
After leaving that message, he would probably get a slice or two of freshly baked pie tonight.
Olivia washed the dishes and arranged them on the drying rack. Then she propped the note beside the sink for Hattie.
A bell shrilled through the kitchen. The front door, she thought, until she realized the telephone was ringing. Perhaps Simon had to change his plans. Disappointing, of course, but she could spend her afternoon writing.
She skirted between the French doors to the sitting room filled with an eclectic mix of Ashe family furnishings including a wooden horse that Graham’s mother had collected from a dismantled carousel. Olivia lifted the receiver on the sixth ring.
“My Belle!” Clinton exclaimed as if he were the jovial sort.
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t acknowledge her shock. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite author?”
“I don’t believe you have.” Olivia sat on the haircloth sofa, the senior Mr. Ashe’s favorite piece since company, he’d once said, would never stay long on its stiff seat. “Did you already raid the liquor cabinet this morning?”
He laughed. “I will drink to you the moment we hang up.”
“And why would you do such a ridiculous thing?”
“Because you’ve given me the greatest of Christmas gifts.”
She glanced out the window to see if Simon had arrived, but the circular driveway remained empty. “Lavender Ridgemust be selling well.”
He’d edited and printed the book in record time, his small team distributing thousands to bookstores across the Eastern Seaboard. Then they’d transported shipments south and west via train. Sort of like Verity, she thought, traveling west, not knowing where she would call home.
“It’s selling clean off the shelves. Bookstores are begging us for more.”
“That is fine news.” With more than three years between books, she’d worried that many of her readers had forgotten her by now.
“We have to head back to the presses right away to meet the Christmas demand. And then another run the first of the year. It’s like printing money.”
Money so she and Hattie could keep their house. Money to continue writing.
If she were a teacup, her sides would spill over.
“Thank you for calling,” she said quickly, knowing he was countingthe cost. No matter how much her books profited him, the telephone ate up a portion with no return.
“I didn’t telephone you about the sales.”
What could possibly top that? He sounded much too happy for it to be poor news, but Clinton never ceased to surprise her.
She leaned forward as if she could capture his news. “Are you calling to inquire about my holiday plans?”
“I’m calling to tell you that MGM is moving ahead with the filming ofSilver Summer.”
“Filming...”
“They’re going to make a moving picture out of it.”
Her bottom lip dropped open but nothing came out, her breath damming in her lungs.
