Olivia looked back toward the sitting room, but she didn’t see Eli. “He looks so much younger...”
“We’ll have to find an institution for him so he can return to school.”
“I don’t think he’s ever been in school.”
“I can call the Lititz Children’s Home,” he suggested, but she didn’t want Eli placed into an orphanage or any institution.
“He can live here for now.” She had plenty of space, and she’d welcome his company. “I’ll enroll him in Catawba.”
After Dr. Blackwell left, she called the grocer and milkman, ordering enough food to fill her refrigerator. Perhaps Eli would help her remember to eat more than the occasional milk toast for dinner.
Eli took a warm bath, and then he insisted on sleeping beside his grandfather. She made him a second bed on the floor, this one a mound of pillowsand blankets, and it felt right to entertain good people in her home again, once a refuge for many. She loved working on her stories, needed them to provide an income, but tonight, for the first time in many months, she wouldn’t be alone. Perhaps she’d sleep well, her body as tired as her mind.
After fixing herself a cup of chamomile, she found both guests soundly asleep in the sitting room. She’d only tried to telephone Simon twice in the past year, the first time when she was in Los Angeles to tell him about Hattie. The first call went unanswered, but the second time, a man picked up, saying he didn’t know when Simon would return.
But she wanted to try again tonight. Tell Simon about the unexpected guests. Soon enough, people in Catawba would know about Eli, and she wanted to talk first with someone who she knew cared. Someone who wouldn’t judge her for taking in a child instead of sending him to the children’s home.
She lifted the receiver from the kitchen wall. With her growing royalties, she had enough for the extravagant expense of long distance.
“A call for Simon Farrow,” the operator said when a woman answered Simon’s line.
“Father or son?” the woman asked.
Olivia leaned back against the refrigerator, the edge of her apron balled in her hands. And her heart stuttered with her own question. Who was answering Simon’s phone?
“The professor,” Olivia said.
“He’s not—”
“I’ll take that,” a voice said in the background, and the operator disconnected from the call.
“Simon?” she asked, a tremble of question in that word.
“Stay on the line,” he said. “I’m going to pick up in another room.”
Olivia waited a full minute on the dead line, the charges adding rapidly, but she couldn’t hang up now. She wanted to know who had answered his phone.
If he was entertaining a female guest, what right did she have to protest? Last month, when he’d mentioned again the prospect of marriage, she asked him to wait a little longer. He could rightly move on. Probably should by now. But in those seconds of waiting, contemplating the thought of him with another woman made her feel even more alone.
Simon finally picked up the phone again. “Is that you?”
“If you’re meaning Olivia, it’s me.”
“Hello, love.” The warmth returned to his voice. “I was surprised to hear from you.”
A moment passed as she wondered—did she even want to know the truth? But she did, even if it stopped the painstakingly slow progress of this new life that she’d begun to build. “Who answered your phone?”
“My housekeeper,” he said. “Isadore. She usually answers it.”
The housekeeper. Of course. He’d mentioned one before.
“She said something about your father.”
“He’s staying with me for the week. I’m sure I told you.”
“I don’t remember,” she said slowly. “I’m sorry I haven’t met your family. I should have taken a train to Ohio months ago.”
“It’s been a difficult year.” He paused as if contemplating his next words. “Did you call for a particular reason?”
