Courting Miss Adelaide (6 page)

He wasn’t going to let any woman walk in here and, with one disapproving glance, change the way he ran his office. If he did, next thing he knew, she’d be running his life.

Tousling the paperwork, he restored the desk to its original state and for good measure, dumped the cup of pencils. Slumping into his chair, he eyed the mess with grim satisfaction, promising to steer clear of Miss Crum.

Yet loneliness washed over him, leaving him hollow. Empty. Unlike Fannie, unlike any woman he’d known, Miss Crum captivated him. Though he fought it, he craved substance. Biscuits instead of jam. But that meant letting someone get close. Even a woman like Miss Crum, whose guileless blue eyes tugged at the rusty hinges of his heart, needed to be held at arm’s length.

For her sake, more than his.

Chapter Four

T
hat morning, Adelaide awakened with a sense of anticipation. How much did her excitement have to do with seeing Mr. Graves that day? Everything. That realization scared her more than horses, more than tornadoes—her worst fears…until now.

No, spending her life alone terrified her more than anything.

With God only a whisper away, shame lapped at her conscience. A Christian could never be alone. Still, hadn’t God intended His children to walk two by two?

Forcing her mind away from the editor, she picked up her Bible and opened it to the pink crocheted bookmark, a bookmark she hadn’t moved in weeks. She had a lot of catching up to do. “Forgive me, Lord,” she whispered, then began to read.

The clock struck nine. Adelaide jumped, then closed her Bible, amazed she’d read for an hour. Within these pages, pages she’d neglected, she found peace and comfort and strength. No matter what happened, she would never again make the mistake of neglecting Scripture.

She donned gloves and her latest hat, harboring butterflies in her stomach instead of the peace her Bible reading had given her, all because of Mr. Graves.

Minutes later Adelaide walked through the door of
The Ledger.
Mr. Graves and Teddy leaned over the boxes of type, selecting and then sliding them into place on narrow racks. When the door shut behind her, Mr. Graves’s gaze met hers.

Teddy threw up a hand. Adelaide waved back, excited to be in this fascinating world of words. Until Mr. Graves’s friendly smile put a flutter into the rhythm of her heart.

They met at his desk, a desk with less clutter and no stale food or empty coffee mugs. Adelaide bit back a smile.

The editor stuck his hands into his pockets and tipped forward on the toes of his shoes. “You look festive today.”

“Thank you.”

Amusement warmed his chocolate eyes as he viewed her hat with its nested bird. “Looks like some baby birds are about to hatch in that bonnet of yours.”

Laughter bubbled up inside Adelaide. She pressed her lips together, trying to keep her mirth inside, but a most unbecoming giggle forced its way out. Heavenly days, she sounded like Fannie. “I like birds.”

“Hopefully that fruit is
fake
or the birds you so admire might put your hat on the menu.”

“I’ll have you know my hat is in vogue,” she said, the hint of a tease in her voice. “What you need is someone to teach you and your readers style.”

He smirked. “I can’t see farmers reading it.”

“Well, no. But farmers’ wives spend money in town—”

“On birds for their heads,” he said.

She raised her chin. “Are you poking fun at me, Mr. Graves?”

His gaze sobered, something deep and mysterious replaced the mirth and sent a quiver through Adelaide. “Not at all, Miss Crum. Not at all.”

She glanced away from that look and the unspoken words it contained. “Good because I’d like to write a fashion column for the paper.” She covered her mouth with her hand, but the half-baked idea she’d been considering had already escaped. Being around this man scrambled her orderly mind.

Considering her proposal, Mr. Graves tapped a finger on his chin, very near the cleft. “I couldn’t pay much—”

“One free ad per column will do.”

“You’re a shrewd businesswoman. A fashion column isn’t a bad idea. Could you give me a sample? Say, by Monday?”

She beamed, barely able to keep from hugging him for this opportunity. A column would give her shop publicity. Perhaps increase sales, something she needed badly. An article would also give her a voice—granted one about style, but still a published voice. “It’ll be exciting to see my name in print.”

“You and I seem to be kindred spirits.”

He cleared his throat, pivoted to his desk and grabbed a piece of paper. “I have your ad right here. Have a seat.”

Adelaide glanced at the chair across from his desk, pleased to see it cleared of books and crumbs. She shot him a grin. “It appears you’ve made a few changes.”

“Nothing of consequence.” His mouth twisted as if he tried not to smile. “It merely made sense to have one chair fit for subscribers.”

She cocked her head at him. “That’s very astute of you.”

“Under that proper demeanor, you have a feisty side, Miss Crum, a side that keeps a man on his toes.”

Adelaide lifted her chin and reached for the ad. “Stay on your toes if you like, but I prefer to be seated.”

His laugh told Adelaide the editor had gotten her attempt at humor. How long had it been since she’d made a joke? Felt this alive?

She tamped down her unbusinesslike feelings. After putting on her spectacles, she read the ad, and with an approving nod, returned it to him. “This is perfect.”

Mr. Graves sat on the edge of his desk. He leaned toward her, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Something about this man made her feel content, like she did in church, but had never experienced in her home growing up. She hardly knew him, so the thought made no sense. And Adelaide prided herself on being a sensible woman.

“I’ll run this in the next edition,” Mr. Graves said.

“And I’ll deliver my column personally. On Monday. If you print it, the column should take care of the bill.”

He nodded. “Are you always this efficient?”

“I take my work seriously.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

He’d called them kindred spirits, declared her to be a woman after his own heart. The words ricocheted through her and left a hitch in her breathing and a huge knot in her stomach. Dare she hope for something too important to consider?

On Monday Adelaide once again sat across from the editor, this time with her fashion column clutched in her palm. When she handed it over to Mr. Graves, her heart tripped in her chest. Why had this column become so important?

“Neat, bold strokes, a woman not afraid to share her mind.” He grinned, settling behind his desk to read.

Across from him, Adelaide fidgeted like a student waiting outside the principal’s office while Mr. Graves bent his head to read. After he finished, he smiled. “Your assessment of women’s fashions is written with the wit and flair I’d only expect from a professional journalist. I’ll run it in the next edition.”

“I loved writing it.”

“If you want another article, let me know.”

“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 big, innocent eyes. “I’m hoping you can help me, Mary.”