She heard the hope in his voice. That she would finally give him an answer to the question that had begun to drive a wedge between them. She hadn’t meant to encourage him when her mind was still awash. So she told him quickly about Eli and his grandfather.
“Oh, Olivia.” He sighed like he was disappointed in her. “An urchin?”
“He’s a thirteen-year-old boy.”
“You can’t care for everyone,” he said sharply.
“I’m not.” Nor had she taken care of anyone in the past year. Even Hattie had done most of the chores before Olivia left for Los Angeles.
“You can hardly care for yourself.” He spoke the truth, even if itpained her, but she couldn’t allow Mr. Manning and Eli to live in that wreck of a cabin in the trees.
She was doing this for them. And for herself.
“I’ll get along fine,” she said, wishing she hadn’t phoned. “I just wanted you to know.”
Wanted to talk with someone besides the cast of characters in her head. Someone she’d hoped would understand.
“I’ll drive down tomorrow,” Simon said. “To help you sort it out.”
“There’s no need. I’ve already hired a nurse.” The woman said she’d care for Mr. Manning and make them all an occasional lunch and pot of tea.
“I don’t want anyone taking advantage of your kindness, love.”
Her shoulders tensed at that sentiment. “The boy has asked for nothing except milk toast for his grandfather.”
“I’m more concerned about the old man.”
“He’s dying, Simon. He asks for nothing at all.”
“You can’t take in strangers, Olivia. It isn’t safe.”
“Eli isn’t a stranger.”
A long breath of waiting before he spoke again. “Which one is Eli?”
“The boy.”
“I’m coming.”
“Not until next week,” she insisted. “To watchSilver Summer.”
He paused as if she might change her mind, but she wouldn’t. This was something, it seemed, she needed to sort out on her own.
20:Isadore
“Who was on the phone?” Izzy asked Simon again from behind a well-worn copy ofScreenlandthat she’d found on a park bench, her head propped on a pillow. Greta slept in a crib at the foot of their bed.
The first two times she’d asked about the caller, Simon pretended not to hear, intent on drinking his tumbler of whiskey. The last time, he turned off his bedside lamp and feigned sleep.
“An associate in Cleveland,” he finally muttered like she was a child to be pacified. “She had good news about one of my properties.”
What kind of good news agitated him so? After hanging up, he’d paced the hallway for a good half hour, matting a trail in the carpet.
At least Louie hadn’t come sniffing around again. Months ago, Simon said he’d dealt with him.
Izzy lowered the magazine. “Did it sell?”
“She has a prospective buyer,” he replied. “We’re working out the final details.”
