“Neither of us knows what the future holds, but if you decide to grow old in Catawba, would you take care of my flowers?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why can’t you do it?”
“I won’t be around forever,” she said. “And you’re so good with them.”
He considered her words before responding. “I’ll do my best.”
Olivia glanced up the hill, at the house packed with memories that were hers alone. She didn’t want this young man to see her property asa burden. “See the world if you’d like, Eli, or move to a different town, but if you happen to find your way back...”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Ashe,” he said, and she didn’t correct him or anyone else when they used her former surname. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Not me,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just the flowers.”
But in his mind, perhaps they were the same.
She fed him well that night—roasted poultry and warm gingerbread—before he slept in Hattie’s old room. The next morning, as she prepared an early breakfast, the telephone rang. She flipped a buckwheat pancake on the stove and reached for the receiver, thinking that Jillian might be calling to check on Eli before church. Or that Simon wanted to finalize their Easter plans.
But the operator said she had a call from Clinton Herring.
Her publisher never called on a Sunday. Not even with the best of news.
Before he came on the line, she retrieved a kitchen chair and sat on it for good measure.
“Olivia?” he asked as if someone else might answer her phone.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m very sorry...”
She curled her fingers around the receiver, bracing herself. “Whatever for?”
“We’ve had such a good relationship for all these years, always patched things up if we had trouble.”
“Of course we have.” And she knew of no trouble now. Had she missed a deadline? Or had someone filed a lawsuit over one of her books? The problem must be grave for Clinton to call before church.
“We’ve always worked out our differences,” he said.
She leaned forward. “Did I do something wrong?”
“All these years, I’ve dealt directly with you. Mr. Ashe never once contacted me.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to sort out what she’d missed. “You are talking in riddles, Clinton.”
“No matter what Dr. Farrow says, I can’t give you another loan.”
“What Dr. Farrow says?” Her head felt like it was about to explode. “What exactly did Dr. Farrow say?”
“That you are desperate for money.”
Desperate for—that was ludicrous!
Clinton must have misheard Simon. After they married, she and Simon had kept their finances separate, each responsible for their own income and property. With her recent advance, she had plenty for Haven House, and Simon’s salary paid for his home in Winfield.
The pancakes began to smoke, but she didn’t move. “This sounds like a terrible misunderstanding.”
“Not on my end.”
“But my finances are intact.”
