“I’d hoped you’d want a monthly column.”
Mr. Graves ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, perhaps. Let’s see how this article is received first.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m guessing we’ll get positive feedback from the ladies. Who knows? Maybe the men, too.” He tapped the paper. “You have a gift for words.”
Slowly a smile took over his face. “Would you be my dinner guest Saturday evening?”
Adelaide blinked. Had he asked her to dinner? She gulped. “Dinner? Saturday?”
“If that isn’t a good night…”
He must think I’m an idiot. “Saturday will be fine.”
A strange tightness seized her throat. How long since she’d shared a meal with a man? Years. And never with a man this attractive, this intelligent. A man, who had only to smile in her direction to set her heart hammering.
Evidently from his calm, easy demeanor, Mr. Graves often asked a woman to share a meal. Something she’d best remember, lest she make too much of the invitation.
“I’ll call for you at seven,” he said.
“Seven,” she repeated.
“I thought we might go to the Becker House.”
She nodded, recovering her wits and her manners. “The Becker House would be lovely.”
“When I arrived in town, I stayed there, so I speak from experience. The food is great.”
The door rattled shut. A rotund gentleman dropped the briefcase he carried, then shoved his hat back on his head and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Whoo-ee, it sure is hot for April. Never thought I’d complain about the heat after the winter we had, but this day is an oven, and I’m the hog roasting inside.”
Charles crossed to the stranger. “May I help you, sir?”
“You can indeed. I’m looking for Mr. Charles Graves.”
“You’ve found him.”
“Excellent! Saves me a trip back into the sun.” He stuck out a palm. “I’m Spencer Evans, your father’s attorney. My condolences for your loss.”
Adam Graves had died? Adelaide’s gaze darted to the editor. Mr. Graves gave a curt nod. She hadn’t seen anything about it in the paper. Nor did his son act grieved, but from her limited experience, she realized men didn’t carry their feelings on their sleeves.
“I’m sorry about your father, Mr. Graves.” Rising, Adelaide tucked her spectacles into her bag. “I’d best be going.”
“I’ll see you Saturday evening, Miss Crum.”
“Did you say Miss Crum?” Mr. Evans turned toward her. “Could you be Adelaide Crum?” When she nodded, the lawyer slapped his hands together. “It’s a piece of luck finding you here. A sure piece of luck.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“Of course you don’t. I apologize for being obtuse. This unseasonable heat must be muddling my brain, what there is of it.” He chuckled. “As I said, I’m Adam Graves’s attorney. If I locate all the heirs before I melt, I’d like to read his will at one o’clock this afternoon. If you both are available, that is.”
Adelaide looked at Mr. Graves, then back to Mr. Evans. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t know Adam Graves.”
The editor frowned. “Are you certain of your facts, Mr. Evans?”
“I make it a point to be certain of my facts.” Mr. Evans gave a nod toward the stack of newsprint. “I’m sure in your business, you do the same. Adelaide Crum is one of Adam Graves’s heirs, as is one Mary Graves. Do you know where I can find her?”
Mr. Graves nodded. “Mary lives on South Sixth Street between Maple and Conner. If you’d like, I can take you to her place right now.”
Filled with unspoken questions, the editor’s gaze locked with Adelaide’s. Baffled by the turn of events, she looked away.
“I’d appreciate it.” The lawyer turned to her. “We’ll meet in the private dining room of the Becker House this afternoon at one o’clock, Miss Crum. That way I can take the morning train back to Cincinnati tomorrow.” He shoved his hat back in place.
Adelaide looked at the clock on the wall. “In less than an hour, Mary will be coming to my shop to quilt.”
“Wonderful. That’ll give me time to speak to her before she leaves. Whoo-ee, it is indeed my lucky day!” Mr. Evans turned toward Adelaide. “And yours, too, Miss Crum.” He gave her a jaunty wave. “See you this afternoon.”
Then he and Mr. Graves were gone, leaving Adelaide with an uncomfortable feeling that this was not her lucky day. Not her lucky day at all.
Adelaide laid out scissors and thread, and then prepared a sandwich for lunch. While thinking about the odd meeting with the lawyer, she layered ham and cheese on two slices of bread. With so much on her mind, she had no interest in food or quilting. But company might take her mind off the one o’clock appointment.
At exactly ten o’clock, the “Snip and Sew” quilting group, carrying lunch pails and sewing baskets, pushed through the shop door, the four women clumped together as if they’d been stitched at the hips. They chattered and laughed, except for Mary, who gave Adelaide an encouraging smile.
Tension eased from between Adelaide’s shoulder blades. At least, Mary didn’t appear disturbed that she’d be at the reading of Adam Graves’s will.
Bringing up the rear came a fifth woman, the one person Adelaide had least expected to be interested in quilting.
Fannie Whitehall.
Sally pulled Fannie forward. “Fannie’s joining our group. She’s not a quilter, but she can stitch a fine hem.”
“How nice of you to help, Fannie,” Laura said.
The others greeted Fannie, friendly as birds on a branch.
The news thudded to the bottom of Adelaide’s stomach. From seeing Fannie at The Ledger, Adelaide knew the girl hankered to play husband archery, and Mr. Graves was the target. Still, money raised from the sale of the quilt would buy supplies for the Sunday school. Only a selfish woman would resent another pair of helping hands. She swallowed her reservations and offered a smile. “Welcome, Fannie.”
“Well, shall we get started?” Laura said.
Adelaide led the ladies to where she’d assembled her frame and had attached the Dresden Plate quilt. The pastel petals and yellow centers looked pretty enough to attract bees.
Adelaide grabbed a chair for Fannie, then she and Mary put away the ladies’ lunches.
“Charles brought Mr. Evans by,” Mary said in a low voice. “He told me you’re one of the heirs.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Adelaide’s stomach knotted. Whatever happened at the reading of the will, there’d be consequences.
By the time Mary and Adelaide took their places around the frame and threaded their needles, the chatter had ebbed and all heads bent over their work.
Fannie sewed beside Adelaide, taking each stitch with care, surprising Adelaide, who’d expected the girl’s workmanship to be shoddy. At the thought, Adelaide’s needle pierced the layers of fabric, pricking both her finger and her conscience.
Pausing in the middle of a stitch, Fannie looked at Mary with