“Yup. I suppose you’re going to act like your sister and suggest I see some fancy doctor with a couch in his office. I did talk to your mother. She sends her love, by the way.”
Steffie didn’t know how to respond. Should she ask him to convey a message for her? “What did Mom…tell you?” she ventured instead.
“Quite a bit, but mainly she said I had quite a few years left in me. She promised they’d be good ones, too.” He paused, chuckling softly. “Your mother always did know I had a soft spot for babies. And there’s going to be a passel of them born in this family within the next few years.”
“Babies?”
“An even dozen.” The first sign of color crept into his cheeks. “Can you believe it? My little girls are going to make me a grandfather twelve times over.”
“Uh…”
“I know it sounds like I’ve got a screw loose, but…”
“Daddy, you think whatever you like if it makes you happy.”
“It’s more than thinking, Princess. It’s a fact, sure as I’m lying here. But never mind that now. Let me get a look at you. My goodness,” he said, grinning proudly, “you’re even lovelier than I remembered.”
Steffie beamed with pleasure. She knew very well that she was no raving beauty, but her looks were nothing to be ashamed of, either. Her dark hair was straight as a clothespin, reaching to the middle of her back. She wore it pulled away from her face, using combs, a style that accentuated her prominent cheekbones and the strong lines of her face. Her eyes were deep brown.
Steffie had just started to regale her father with the adventures of the past week when the same nurse who’d escorted her in to see him reappeared, ready to lead her back to the waiting area.
Steffie wanted to argue. They’d barely had five minutes together! But she forced back her objections; she wouldn’t do anything that might upset her father. She kissed his leathery cheek and promised to return soon.
Valerie was waiting for her, but Norah was nowhere in sight.
“Well?” Valerie asked, glancing up from her magazine. “Did he say anything about talking to Mom?”
Steffie nodded, secretly a little amused. “He seems downright excited about the prospect of grandchildren. I hate to see him disappointed, don’t you?”
“Hmm?” Valerie muttered.
“Since you’re the oldest, it makes sense you should be the first,” she teased, enjoying her sister’s blank look.
“For what?” Valerie asked.
“To produce a grandchild for Dad. The last time you wrote, I seem to remember you had quite a lot to say about Rowdy Cassidy. Might as well aim high—marry a multimillionaire—even if he is your boss.”
“Rowdy,” Valerie repeated as though she’d never heard the name before. “Oh…Rowdy. Of course there’s always Rowdy. Why didn’t I think of him?” With that, Valerie returned to her magazine.
Baffled, Steffie shook her head.
She wandered over to the coffeemaker, poured herself a fresh cup and sat down near her sister. She picked up the newspaper she’d brought with her and opened it to the front page, reading each article in turn. She was relieved to recognize several names; obviously not much had changed while she was away.
Folding back the second page of the weekly paper, she found that her eyes were automatically drawn to the small black-and-white photograph of Charles Tomaselli. For a wild second her heart seemed to stop.
He looked the same. Still as attractive as sin. No man had the right to be that good-looking. Dark hair, gleaming dark eyes. But what bothered her the most was the impact his picture had on her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She should be free of any emotional entanglement. She should be able to stare at that photograph and feel nothing. Instead she was swamped by so many confused, uncomfortable emotions that she could hardly breathe.
Determined to focus her attention elsewhere, she started on an article with Charles’s byline. He’d written an investigative feature, clearly one of a series, about the unhealthy and often unsafe conditions under which many of the migrant workers lived and worked in the community’s apple orchards.
Two paragraphs into the piece, Steffie had to stop reading. She’d come to her father’s name, along with the name of their orchard. Obviously Charles hadn’t done his research! Steffie knew how hard her parents had worked to ease the plight of the migrant workers. Her mother had set up a medical clinic. And unlike certain other orchard owners, her father had built them decent housing and seen to it that they were properly fed and fairly paid.
Steffie tried to continue reading, but the red haze of anger made it impossible. Her stomach twisted in painful knots as she rose to her feet, tucking the paper under her arm.
“Valerie,” she demanded. “What was Dad doing when he suffered his heart attack?”
“I think Norah said he was sitting on the porch. What makes you ask?”
“He was reading the newspaper, wasn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know for sure, but I don’t think so.”
“He must have been!” Steffie declared, walking toward the elevator. She stabbed the button with her thumb, seething at the sense of betrayal she felt. All the evidence pointed to one thing. She’d found the paper spread open in his den. Her father had picked up the Orchard Valley Clarion, read the article and then in shock and dismay had wandered onto the porch.
“Steffie, what is it?”
“Have you read this?” she asked, thrusting the newspaper in front of her sister. “Did you see what Charles Tomaselli wrote about our father?”
“Well, I skimmed it, but—”
“Look at the date,” she said, folding back the front page.
“Yes?” Valerie asked, still sounding confused.
“Isn’t that the day of Dad’s heart attack?”
“Yes, but—”
“You’d be upset, too, if you’d worked half your life improving the conditions of migrant workers only to have your efforts ridiculed before the entire community!”
“Steffie,” Valerie said, gently pressing Steffie’s arm. “Charles is Dad’s friend. He’s called several times to ask about him. Why, he was even here the night of Dad’s surgery.”
“He was probably feeling a large dose of guilt.” It seemed perfectly obvious that Charles knew what he’d done. Her father’s heart attack had happened the same day the article was published. So Charles must have known, must have figured it out himself. And that was why he’d come calling—she was sure of it.
But it was going to take a whole lot more than a few words of concern to smooth over what he’d done. Once Steffie had confronted Charles, she intended to stop at Joan Lind’s office. Joan might be as old as a sand dune, but she was a damn good attorney and Steffie meant to sue Tomaselli for everything he ever hoped to have.
The elevator arrived and she stepped briskly inside.
“Where are you going?” Valerie asked as the doors started to close.
“To give Tomaselli a piece of my mind.”
The doors blocked Valerie from view, but her sister’s words came through loud and clear. “A piece of your mind? Are you sure you have any to spare?”
By the time Steffie reached Main Street and located a parking spot, the anger and hurt actually made her feel ill. Her cheeks were feverishly hot. Her stomach churned.
Charles disliked her, and he was taking it out on her father. Well, she couldn’t let him do it.
She entered the newspaper office, then hesitated. There was a reception desk and a polished wooden railing; it separated the public area from the work space, with its computer terminals and ringing phones. Beyond it several desks occupied by reporters and other staff lined each side of the room, creating a wide center aisle that led directly to the editor’s desk.
She noticed Charles immediately. As the Clarion’s editor, he had a work area that took up the entire end of the room. He was on the phone, but his eyes locked instantly with hers. There’d been a time when she would have swooned to have him look at her like this—with admiration, with surprise, with a hint of pleasure. But that time was long past.
Undaunted, she opened the low gate and walked purposefully down the center aisle until she got to his desk. She could hear the gate swinging back and forth behind her, keeping time with her steps. By now, Charles clearly understood that this wasn’t a social call.
“Brent, let me get back to you.” He abruptly replaced the receiver. “Well, well, if it isn’t Stephanie Bloomfield. To what do I owe this visit?”
His casual insouciance infuriated her. Steffie slapped the newspaper down on his desk. “Did you really think you’d get away with this?” she asked, astonished by the calmness of her own voice.
Charles’s eyes steadily held hers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You published this…piece, didn’t you?”
“What piece do you mean? I publish lots of pieces.”
His attitude didn’t fool her. “The one about living conditions among migrant orchard workers. Now, I ask you, who owns the largest apple orchard in three counties? The first paragraph is filled with innuendo, but then you get right down to brass tacks, don’t you—by naming my father!”
“Stephanie—”
“I’m not finished yet!” she shouted. In fact, she was just warming up to her subject. “You didn’t think any of us would notice, did you?”
“Notice what?” He crossed his arms over his chest as though he’d grown bored with her tirade.
“The date of the article,” she said, gaining momentum. “It’s the same day as my father’s heart attack. The very same day—”
“Stephanie—”
“Don’t call me that!” Tears rolled down her face. “Everyone calls me Steffie.” Roughly, she wiped them away, hating this display of weakness, especially in front of Charles. “I—don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“If you want the truth, I don’t have much of a problem.”
“I didn’t think your sort would,” she muttered contemptuously. “Well, you’ll be hearing from Joan Lind.”
“Joan Lind retired last year.”
“Then I’ll hire someone else,” she said, turning on her heel. She marched through the office, slamming the low gate, which had only recently recovered from her entrance.
To her surprise, confronting Charles hadn’t eased her pain.
When she pulled out of the parking space, the tires spun and squealed. She felt suddenly embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to make such a dramatic exit. Nor was she pleased when she glanced in her rearview mirror to find that Charles had followed her outside.
Two
With the hurt propelling her, Steffie raced home. In her present frame of mind, she didn’t dare go back to the hospital. Now wasn’t the time to make polite conversation with her sisters, or to meet her father’s doctor. Not when she desperately needed to vent this terrible sense of frustration and betrayal.