Norah pulled up a stool and sat across from her. “I don’t know. He believes he talked with Mom and that’s what’s important, don’t you think?”
Steffie wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She’d once been confident that she knew what she wanted in life. Then everything had fallen apart. But the time she’d spent in Italy had helped her regain a perspective on her own life…hadn’t it?
It suddenly occurred to Steffie with a sense of horror that she’d spent three years studying and traveling in Italy, and her primary purpose had been to impress Charles Tomaselli when she returned.
She’d impressed him, all right, by making an even bigger fool of herself than before.
“Dad’s been talking about his grandchildren all afternoon,” Norah continued, breaking into Steffie’s thoughts. Steffie was grateful for the intrusion.
“Grandchildren,” she repeated softly. “From you, naturally?” She couldn’t imagine Valerie as a mother, and she herself had no intention of marrying. When her father was well enough to come home, Steffie intended to find herself an apartment in Portland and to apply for a fellowship and begin her doctorate. She’d completed her master’s in Italy after an intensive language program, and in her last year there, she’d also taken several advanced courses. It was hard to believe someone so well educated could be so dismally unaware of her own motives, she mused unhappily.
“Dad claims I’m going to present him with six grandchildren,” Norah said, barely restraining a smile. “Can you imagine me with six children?”
“Which means Valerie’s going to be responsible for another six.”
“No, three. According to Dad’s ramblings, you’re going to have three of the little darlings yourself.”
Steffie grinned, in spite of her depression. The picture of her married and with a brood of children was somewhat amusing. She’d only loved one man in her life and the experience had been so painful that she was determined never to repeat the mistake.
“I guess we’ll see,” Steffie said, sliding off her stool to carry her now-empty plate to the sink.
“I guess we will,” Norah concurred.
Although she’d slept for a good part of the afternoon, two hours later Steffie was yawning. Making her excuses, she returned to her bedroom, showered and got into bed, savoring the crisp, clean sheets.
Sitting up, her knees tucked under her chin, she pondered her conversation with Norah. In the years since she’d moved away, a number of her friends had married. She’d gotten wedding invitations, passed on by Norah, every few months. And several of her high school and college friends were already mothers, some two times over.
While she was in Italy, Steffie hadn’t allowed herself to think about anything more pressing than her studies, which had occupied most of her time. She’d traveled and studied and worked hard. But at odd moments, when she received a wedding invitation or a birth announcement, she’d occasionally taken a moment to wonder if her life was missing something. Or when she was with Mario, the adorable young son of her landlady in Rome, she’d imagined, more than once, how it would feel to have a family of her own…. She’d usually managed to suppress the yearning quickly.
And now she was experiencing it again, and more sharply than ever before. All this talk of weddings and children troubled her. She felt excluded, somehow. In the end, Valerie would probably marry her Dr. Winston, and there’d be a wonderful man for Norah, she was sure of it.
But for her? She found she couldn’t believe in the same kind of happy ending.
Three
Although she was exhausted, Steffie couldn’t sleep. After tossing about restlessly and tangling her sheets, she sat on the edge of the bed and pushed the long hair away from her face.
She’d prefer to think the nap she’d taken that afternoon was responsible for this inability to sleep.
But she knew better.
She couldn’t sleep because her thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone. The memory of what a fool she’d made of herself with Charles hounded her until she wanted to scream.
With graphic clarity she recalled the first time she’d heard of Charles Tomaselli. She’d read his introductory column in the Clarion and had loved his wit. No matter what she thought of him now, she could never fault his talent as a writer. Charles had a way of turning a phrase that gave a reader pause. He chose his words carefully, writing in a clear, economical manner that managed to be both clever and precise. And he had a wide range of subjects, covering everything from social trends to the local political scene.
When she’d read his first few columns, she’d assumed he was much older, because the confidence of his observations and his style suggested a man of considerable experience. It wasn’t until several weeks later that she actually met him. At the time she’d been so dumbstruck she could barely put two words together.
She’d tried to tell him how much she enjoyed his editor’s column, but the words had twisted on the end of her tongue and came out sounding jerky and odd, like something a preschooler might say.
She’d been terribly embarrassed, but Charles had responded graciously, thanking her for the compliment.
It wasn’t just the fact that he was in his late twenties—and not his fifties—that had taken Steffie by surprise. Nor was it the fact that he was strikingly handsome, although he was. What struck Steffie like a fist to the stomach was the instant and powerful attraction she felt for him.
Unlike Valerie, who’d gone out on only a handful of dates through high school and college, Steffie had had an active social calendar. She’d always been well liked by both sexes—popular enough to be voted Prom Queen her senior year of high school. But although she had lots of friends who happened to be boys, Steffie had never been in love. She’d thought, more than once, that she was, but she’d been wise enough to realize she was only infatuated, or in love with the idea of being in love.
Although she was twenty-one, going on twenty-two, she’d never been involved in a serious relationship. She hadn’t considered herself ready for one—until she met the newly hired editor of the Orchard Valley Clarion.
When she met Charles, she knew immediately that she was going to love this man. How she could be so certain was unclear, even to her, but to the very depths of her young heart, she was absolutely convinced of it.
After that initial meeting, Steffie had driven home in a daze. She didn’t tell anyone, including her sisters, what she felt. She didn’t know how she could possibly explain her feelings without sounding silly. Love at first sight was something reserved for movies and romance novels.
She’d been filled with questions, wondering if Charles had felt it, too; she soon persuaded herself that he had.
He was older—twenty-seven, she discovered—amazingly mature and sophisticated, while she was an inexperienced third-year college student.
Steffie lived for the next edition of the Clarion, ripping open the newspaper until she found his column, and devoured each word Charles had written. Occasionally he wrote a feature article, and she read those just as avidly. She soon discovered that other people were equally taken with his work. He’d been in town for less than two months and had already become a source of pride and pleasure to the entire community.
Steffie straightened and reached over to turn on her bedside lamp. Obviously she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and sitting in her room, dredging up memories of Charles, wasn’t helping.
The house was dark and silent, which meant Valerie and Norah were both asleep. Not wanting to wake either of her sisters, Steffie slipped quietly down the dimly lit stairs.
She thought about making herself a cup of tea, then decided against it. Instead, she tiptoed into her father’s den. She turned on a soft light and reached for Sonnets from the Portuguese—an especially lovely edition her father had given her mother years ago, before they were married. Steffie cuddled up in his reading chair, already comforted.
The leather felt cool against her skin. An afghan her mother had knitted when the girls were still young lay neatly folded on the ottoman. Valerie must have brought it in with her, since it hadn’t been there the night before.
Steffie reached for the rose-colored afghan and tucked it around her, then turned to one of her favorite poems.
She made it through two pages before her mind drifted back to Charles. Back to that first year…
He hadn’t noticed her. Hadn’t shared the instant attraction. In fact, he hadn’t even remembered her name. Steffie was stunned. She’d dreamed of him every night since the day they met. Wonderful dreams of laughing and loving, of strolling hand in hand through the apple orchard, sharing secrets and planning the rest of their lives. Her heart was so full of love that it was all she could do not to tell him outright.
Getting a man to notice her was a new challenge for Steffie. Until then, it had always been the other way around. The men—no, boys—had been the ones to seek her out. For the first time in her life, Steffie found herself at a disadvantage in a relationship. Clearly the only option open to her was to let Charles know as subtly as possible that she was interested. It shouldn’t be such a difficult task for a former Prom Queen.
Except that it was…
The first thing Steffie did was to write him a letter commending his writing ability and his opinions. She’d agonized over every word, then waited nearly two weeks for a reply.
There hadn’t been one.
Charles hadn’t printed her letter and didn’t respond, either. Steffie had been crushed. Never one to quit, though, she’d visited the newspaper office with suggestions for a wide variety of stories. As she recalled, she’d managed to come up with 150 such ideas. Admittedly some were better than others.
Charles had been polite, but had made it plain that although he appreciated her suggestions, he already had an enthusiastic staff whose job it was to come up with regional stories.
Her plan had been for Charles to be so awed by her concern about local issues and her invaluable ideas that he’d invite her to dinner to discuss her interest. Although, in retrospect, it sounded terribly naive, she’d actually believed this would happen.
Apparently, she spent more time than she realized hanging around the newspaper office over the next few months because Charles unexpectedly asked her out for coffee one morning.
Steffie had been so excited that she could barely sit still. She was further encouraged when Charles chose a booth in the farthest, most private corner of the local coffee shop.
Even now, more than three years afterward, Steffie could recall how thrilled she’d been. She’d slid into the red vinyl seat across from him, sure he could read all the love and adoration in her eyes.
The encounter, however, proved to be a bitter disappointment for Steffie. Charles had been kind, but firm. He couldn’t help noticing, he’d said, how much time she spent at the newspaper office, and was sure her studies must have been suffering. He’d also gotten her letter and the other notes she’d sent him, and although he was flattered by her attention, he was much too busy with the paper to become involved in a relationship.
