Courting Miss Adelaide (15 page)

“Would you care for coffee?” Adelaide asked, avoiding Charles’s probing gaze.

“Please.”

She quickly cleared the dishes and then poured two cups from the pot on the stove.

“Your father never contacted you in all those years?” Charles asked.

“My only contact came through his attorney after he died. He left me his money, the little he had.”

She wouldn’t tell him the reason her parents had married. Still, Adelaide knew she should stop talking so much, but his warm gentle eyes made her want to share her past. “I can’t blame my father entirely. Mama was a critical, aloof woman.”

Charles’s brows knitted. “My father put her on a pedestal.”

“She must have changed. I could never please her. I wasn’t pretty enough, smart enough. I suspect she resented me.” Her lower lip trembled. No one had loved her. And now Charles knew that, too. She covered her mouth with her hand, dropping her gaze to the contents of her cup.

“Aw, Addie, something must have been wrong with your mother’s eyesight.” He took her chin in his hand, lifting her gaze to his. “You’re a talented, intelligent, caring woman.”

She soaked up his words, leaning in to the comfort of that hand. “I wasn’t asking for a compliment.”

“I mean every word.” He studied her, his gaze tender. “After your childhood, I’m amazed you want a child.”

“Why? I’m not like my mother.”

“How can you be sure?” He grew remote, pulling inward.

The question pestered at her. If she ended up alone without a husband, without a child to love, would the disappointment turn her bitter?

Aside from the faraway sound of a barking dog drifting through the open window and the muted one-sided conversation between Emma and her doll, the kitchen grew silent.

Adelaide shook her head. “I could never be like my mother.”

Charles raised a skeptical brow. “If pushed far enough, you can’t tell what a person will do.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m offended you think I could treat a child unkindly.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m merely saying we don’t know ourselves until we’re trapped and desperate.” His mouth thinned. “I’m a newspaperman. I’ve seen mankind’s depravity.”

“Then you should understand my concern about Ed Drummond.”

“You could be reading things that aren’t there.”

She sighed, refusing to argue with him. “I want to protect those children.
And
hopefully initiate some change, so Emma can grow up in a world where her opinions matter.”

“Those are lofty goals.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Here, let me do this. You did the cooking. I’ll do the cleaning.”

She swished around some soap in the pan of hot water, then handed him the dishrag. He scrubbed a plate and sloshed it through the rinse water, handing it to her to dry. For a second, their fingertips touched and the plate almost fell to the floor.

“That was a close one,” Charles said with a laugh. “Don’t want to break the dishes. I may not be invited back.”

Adelaide’s heart thumped in her chest.
He wants to spend more time with me.
But wouldn’t that risk everything she’d worked to build—a life dependent upon no one but God.

Besides, if God had brought a man into her life, wouldn’t he be a church-going man? Or did God want her to bring Charles to worship? If so, she’d failed.

With all these confusing feelings, she knew one thing for certain. If she let herself, she could care about this man.

She excused herself to look in on Emma and found the little girl with her doll in her arms curled on the settee, asleep. Gratitude brought sudden tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away and returned to the kitchen.

Soon side by side, she and Charles chatted about nothing, about everything. Keenly aware of his every move, the rise and fall of his broad chest as he breathed, his large hands slipping over the surface of her plates, the hair on his forearms wet and curling from the water, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

Even wearing a dishtowel tucked into his waistband, every inch of Charles looked male. The evening was a fantasy of what married life could be. Yet he distanced himself every time she got close. Charles didn’t want permanence, nor did she.

They scrubbed and dried all the dishes. Charles removed the towel and laid it on the counter. Without thinking, Adelaide picked it up and hung it on a knob to dry.

“Cleaning up after the cleanup man?” He chuckled and she smiled, unperturbed by his teasing. But then his expression grew sober and he put his hands around her waist. “We’re a good fit, you and I.”

He lifted a hand to her hair. “You’re a beautiful woman.” He took a step back and rested his forehead on hers. “I’d best be going,” he said in a husky voice.

The thought of Charles leaving made her feel lonelier than she’d ever felt in her life. “You can’t go,” she said, smiling. “I made a cream pie.”

He shook his head. “Sounds delicious. But—”

“It’s one of my grandmother’s recipes,” she cut in before he could decline. “Sweet and yummy.”

“Ah, Addie, I can’t stay.” He cupped her face in his palm and kissed her lightly on the temple.

Before she could say anything, he snatched his jacket off the chair. “Thank you again for dinner,” he said, and then walked out of the room. She heard his footfalls on the stairs and a second later, the bell echoed his goodbye.

Charles had no interest in a future with her. Had she been thinking she could trust a man? If she was ever going to take a chance on love, it would have to be with a special man who shared her beliefs, shared her trust in God.

A man who wanted to do more than give a child a legal name, the only thing her father had given her.

In the meantime, there would be no trusting these wild feelings. She descended the stairs to lock the door to the shop, locking Charles and all those head-spinning thoughts outside.

The next morning, Adelaide woke with the memory of Charles’s presence at her table. She knew the Scripture about being unevenly yoked. Charles had told her he believed in God. Perhaps he refused to go to church because he blamed God for his childhood.

Yawning from a restless night, Adelaide trudged to Emma’s room. For once, Emma got out of bed on Adelaide’s first call, chock-full of questions about the evening with Charles.

In the kitchen, Adelaide cut Emma a piece of pie for breakfast, hoping the treat would distract her from the subject.

Emma scrambled into her chair. “Did you have fun?”

Adelaide set the plate in front of her. “Yes.”
More fun than I care to admit.

Emma took a bite of pie. “He didn’t like the food?”

Adelaide rubbed her temples. “Why do you say that?”

Her gaze darted to the pie, with only one piece cut out of the circle. “’Cause he didn’t eat pie.”

“Guess he was full.” Adelaide took another sip of coffee, wondering why Emma couldn’t be a sleepyhead today.

Emma licked her fork clean. “Did you play games?”

“Uh, no.”

Emma rested her chin on a palm. “Then what
did
you do?”

Adelaide met her earnest, perplexed eyes. “We talked.”

“That’s
all?
That sounds boring.”

“Grown-ups like to talk.” Adelaide rose from her chair and took her cup to the stove. “Better hurry or you’ll be late.”

After scraping the last bite of pie from the plate and downing her glass of milk, Emma ran to her room, leaving Adelaide alone with the memory of what
had
transpired between her and Charles last night.

They’d shared their pasts and that had forged a deeper bond between them. But then, he hightailed out of here as if the kitchen had caught fire.

Since they’d met, her life had been turned upside down. Now she desired things—a voice, family. Things she couldn’t have. Within minutes, she and Charles went from connection to conflict to connection. She’d never felt more alive, nor more miserable. She wouldn’t let him keep her off-kilter. Nothing good could come from this silliness, nothing except trouble.

She wouldn’t give up trying to have a voice in the community. He’d said good cooking made a path to his heart. Maybe food would forge a path to his brain, too. If she took him a piece of pie from dinner, in between bites she could talk to him about writing a column on an issue important to her. And take back the reins of her life.

Charles took the slice of sugar cream pie from Addie and laid the plate on his desk. The way he’d taken off last night, he’d expected her to be mad, not to be bringing homemade goodies. He admitted he was glad to see her. “Thanks. I’ll have that with lunch.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And thanks for dinner, too.”

“Even with burned biscuits?” She laughed. “That’s my comeuppance for bragging.”

“Anytime you want to give those biscuits another try, I’m available.”

She smiled and he drank it in like a thirsty man. “You’re a glutton for punishment,” she said.

“No, I’m merely a glutton.” Why was he asking for another invitation? Hadn’t he already vowed to stay away? He eyed the pie. “I may have to eat a bite to see if the crust is burned.”

“The pie is perfect, as are all of my bribes.”

Ah, there was more to this visit than his stomach. “Why are you trying to bribe me?”

“I’m hoping the pie might sweeten your reaction to a proposal.” She took a deep breath. “I’d like to express some of my views in the paper.”

“On topics besides fashion?”

The lines around her mouth tightened. He’d known her long enough to recognize her annoyance.

“I do hold opinions that have nothing to do with hats.”

Addie had a great deal of opinions and many conflicted with his. “I expected as much. You’re an intelligent woman.”

“I’m not here for a compliment. I want you to take me and my views seriously.”

He shoved back from the desk. “What views do you wish to express exactly?”

Eyes shining with the light of an evangelist, she smiled. “I want to write about issues important to women.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Like what?”

She lifted her chin. “Getting the vote, for one.”

When Addie tackled a topic, she picked a mountain not a molehill. Thus far, even he’d steered clear of women’s suffrage, the kind of subject that lit tempers and canceled papers.

“I don’t see how you can work women getting the vote into a fashion column.”

Her brow furrowed. “Did I say I wanted to combine the two? I want two spaces in the paper. What I want is a voice.”

Why must she get involved with the paper? Wasn’t it enough to run her shop and let him handle what was rightfully his? “A voice?
Two
columns?”

“Unless you’d prefer I express my views in editorials.”

He parked his arms across his chest. “You can express your views in letters to the editor, like any citizen of Noblesville. But I’m the editor. I write the editorials.”

“I own half of the paper. That gives me a right to the editorial page. Along with anything else I’d like half of. Like this desk.” She cast a dismayed glance at the towering mess. “At least then there would be a few cleared inches of space.”

She’d gone too far. Addie might have integrity, but she wanted too much from him. This was
his
paper.
His
desk.

Well, it might not be totally his, but once the two months were up, it would be. Until then he didn’t need her “voice” in his paper or anywhere else. He knew what his readers liked.

“Stick with things you know, Addie.”

“What? Birds and fruit on hats?” She glared at him. “Is that all you believe I think about?”

He reached out a hand to her, to still the rough waters between them. “As a businesswoman, you know more than the average wife and mother. Still, with your shop, you have enough to deal with. No reason to waste your time in politics.”

She looked as if he’d slapped her. Though he’d only meant to compliment her, too late he realized his wife and mother comment had cut her to the quick. He couldn’t take it back without making it worse.

Addie’s blue eyes flashed. “No reason? No
reason,
Charles? The selection committee you sat on, a committee comprised of men, denied me a child.”

“We were merely following Children’s Aid Society rules.”

She stood.

“Yes, but who comprises that group?
Men
are making the decisions in the Children’s Aid Society, in the entire country.”

He put his elbows on the desk and made a steeple with his fingers. Addie’s delicate appearance seemed incompatible to her tough-minded opinions. He’d remain calm and she’d see reason. “Men have the best interests of their womenfolk at heart. They aren’t trying to harm you.”

“Perhaps not. But why must a woman rely on a man to fight for her? Why can’t I speak up for what matters to me?” She strode to the window, pivoting back to him. “The committee turned me down. You don’t want my editorial input. Well, here’s a news story for you, Charles Graves. I am the only one, besides God, who knows what’s best for me. I should have the right to make those decisions. So should every woman.”

“I’m not trying to—”

She pointed at him, cutting him off. “Do you want to know what’s ironic?
Your father
is the first man in my life who opened a door for me. Now you’re standing in the middle of that door, arms spread wide, trying to keep me out. Well, I own half of this paper, and I won’t be denied a voice in this town.”

Charles jerked to his feet, sending his wheeled desk chair rolling into the wall. “My father wasn’t opening a door for
you.
He was slamming one in
my
face! This paper is my life. Having the freedom to run it, to see it grow and prosper are all I have. I don’t appreciate you trying to take that from me.”

Her blue eyes turned stormy. “I’m sorry my ownership of the paper is such a burden, but you’re stuck with me. Be glad I have a shop to run so I don’t have time to work here, but I won’t be an owner in name only. That’s not how I’m made.”

“Relinquishing control of the paper isn’t how I’m made.”