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.