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Today's Reading

The Ashe family plot was more than a resting place. It was a library, really, with each tomb memorializing a collection of stories. Some had been forgotten over time, others celebrated for generations.

The gate creaked as she opened it, a sound she loathed. The scent of pine and chatter of cicadas welcomed her into this private place but not the guardian disguised with wrought iron. The gate had never liked her.

Many of the stones, draped with lichen, were illegible. She regretted not writing down the Ashe stories when Graham had told them to her, in the days after they decided to build their home on this inherited land. For that matter, she wished she'd done a lot of things while Graham was alive.

His parents rested at the eastern edge of the cemetery beside a number of Graham's ancestors, their graves surrounded by a fortress of weeds. She'd buried Graham, the dearest of men, by the fence closest to Haven House. Closest to her.

Graham's story was chiseled in stone. His life marked by dates, then words that would honor him always: A servant of God.

As reverend of the Catawba Presbyterian Church, Graham had served her and their community well. And she had loved him from the moment they'd met, back when she was a student at Elmira College in New York. He'd just begun working for a local church, and her service attendance, three times a week, had been impeccable. When he finally proposed marriage on her nineteenth birthday, along with a move south to Lancaster County, she'd gladly accepted. They'd had a remarkable twenty-two years together.

She laid the first bundle of fresh lilies and phlox on a pile of dried bouquets. Like with every visit, she pressed her fingers to her lips and touched the granite. Though Graham was no longer in this world, the memories were fresh. His unwavering kindness and unfaltering faith. The steadfast calm whenever she stormed. All of it lived on.

A whole chorus of cicadas trilled in the trees. The cemetery might feel like a lonely place for some, frightening even in the dark, but here with her memories of the past and prayers for the future, she found strength.

Stepping back from the stone, coolness brushing over her arms, Olivia continued her conversation with Graham as she often did on her evening visits, always a whisper as if she might disturb those who'd gone before her.

"The words are still stuck," she whispered. Lodged somewhere between her head and fingers. Clinton Herring, her publisher for the past twenty years, said she needed to dig deeper, find the source again—the muse, he called it—that had produced thirty novels. Graham hadn't taken the words with him, Clinton said, she just needed to find where they'd been hiding.

Clinton, bless him, was quite pragmatic about things like love and loss. But he was brilliant at business. Just because Graham was gone, he'd said, didn't mean she had to stop writing.

Sales had dipped during the Depression years but remained steady enough for Herring & Son to continue releasing her books. Readers today needed stories, he'd said, that spoke to their heart. They needed her.

And Clinton needed her books to support his company's bottom line.

Before Graham died, she'd reached her first million in sales, and the royalty payments, on top of her advance income, provided enough money to build Haven House. But without a new book to promote, her income was dwindling. She wasn't destitute—she could still provide for herself and her aunt—but she couldn't sustain their home much longer.

It usually took her six months to write a novel, but last October, Clinton had given her another extension—an entire year to finish her next story. The time hadn't helped. With two months left before the extended deadline, a whole ream of paper remained blank on her desk. She had no story to fill the pages, and not enough time, she feared, to finish one if an idea finally struck. Even the words she'd managed to write were nothing more than drivel.

A good beginning was what she needed, then the rest of the story would pour out.

If Graham were still alive, they would dream up the first chapter together. Something urgent and compelling. Something strong enough to captivate her attention and that of her readers.

But she couldn't think of a new beginning and certainly not a middle when she was solidly stuck in the dreaded middle of her personal life, not sure which direction to turn now that Graham was gone.

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Today's Reading

The Ashe family plot was more than a resting place. It was a library, really, with each tomb memorializing a collection of stories. Some had been forgotten over time, others celebrated for generations.

The gate creaked as she opened it, a sound she loathed. The scent of pine and chatter of cicadas welcomed her into this private place but not the guardian disguised with wrought iron. The gate had never liked her.

Many of the stones, draped with lichen, were illegible. She regretted not writing down the Ashe stories when Graham had told them to her, in the days after they decided to build their home on this inherited land. For that matter, she wished she'd done a lot of things while Graham was alive.

His parents rested at the eastern edge of the cemetery beside a number of Graham's ancestors, their graves surrounded by a fortress of weeds. She'd buried Graham, the dearest of men, by the fence closest to Haven House. Closest to her.

Graham's story was chiseled in stone. His life marked by dates, then words that would honor him always: A servant of God.

As reverend of the Catawba Presbyterian Church, Graham had served her and their community well. And she had loved him from the moment they'd met, back when she was a student at Elmira College in New York. He'd just begun working for a local church, and her service attendance, three times a week, had been impeccable. When he finally proposed marriage on her nineteenth birthday, along with a move south to Lancaster County, she'd gladly accepted. They'd had a remarkable twenty-two years together.

She laid the first bundle of fresh lilies and phlox on a pile of dried bouquets. Like with every visit, she pressed her fingers to her lips and touched the granite. Though Graham was no longer in this world, the memories were fresh. His unwavering kindness and unfaltering faith. The steadfast calm whenever she stormed. All of it lived on.

A whole chorus of cicadas trilled in the trees. The cemetery might feel like a lonely place for some, frightening even in the dark, but here with her memories of the past and prayers for the future, she found strength.

Stepping back from the stone, coolness brushing over her arms, Olivia continued her conversation with Graham as she often did on her evening visits, always a whisper as if she might disturb those who'd gone before her.

"The words are still stuck," she whispered. Lodged somewhere between her head and fingers. Clinton Herring, her publisher for the past twenty years, said she needed to dig deeper, find the source again—the muse, he called it—that had produced thirty novels. Graham hadn't taken the words with him, Clinton said, she just needed to find where they'd been hiding.

Clinton, bless him, was quite pragmatic about things like love and loss. But he was brilliant at business. Just because Graham was gone, he'd said, didn't mean she had to stop writing.

Sales had dipped during the Depression years but remained steady enough for Herring & Son to continue releasing her books. Readers today needed stories, he'd said, that spoke to their heart. They needed her.

And Clinton needed her books to support his company's bottom line.

Before Graham died, she'd reached her first million in sales, and the royalty payments, on top of her advance income, provided enough money to build Haven House. But without a new book to promote, her income was dwindling. She wasn't destitute—she could still provide for herself and her aunt—but she couldn't sustain their home much longer.

It usually took her six months to write a novel, but last October, Clinton had given her another extension—an entire year to finish her next story. The time hadn't helped. With two months left before the extended deadline, a whole ream of paper remained blank on her desk. She had no story to fill the pages, and not enough time, she feared, to finish one if an idea finally struck. Even the words she'd managed to write were nothing more than drivel.

A good beginning was what she needed, then the rest of the story would pour out.

If Graham were still alive, they would dream up the first chapter together. Something urgent and compelling. Something strong enough to captivate her attention and that of her readers.

But she couldn't think of a new beginning and certainly not a middle when she was solidly stuck in the dreaded middle of her personal life, not sure which direction to turn now that Graham was gone.

What our readers think...