and I still managed to get a husband.”
Adelaide gasped. “You do not look like a possum!”
“I do,” Sally said, stitching along a rose-sprigged petal. “Small beady eyes, long nose, gray hair. Why, with my sons toting guns everywhere, I rarely venture out after dark.”
Chuckles bounced off the high ceiling. “You’re making fun, but I’m serious,” Fannie moaned. “What am I doing wrong?”
Laura rose and stepped around the frame, then tilted Fannie’s face to hers. “You’re too eager. Let the man take the lead.”
“I’m only being friendly,” she said dismissing the comment. “What I need is a new hat, maybe a new way to style my hair. You always look fashionable, Adelaide. Will you help me?”
Adelaide thought of telling Fannie to leave the editor alone, but that wasn’t her place. Nor did she care who he courted, though she had questions about the man. Even more about Adam Graves’s will.
Sally gave Fannie a wink. “Play possum more, Fannie.”
“Play possum?”
Sally nodded. “When you chase the men like a hound dog after a fox, why, you take all the fun out of it. Pretend you don’t care. Pretend you wouldn’t feed them a biscuit if they were the last to arrive for the fishes and loaves.”
Fannie turned to Adelaide. “You’re the best possum I know. Would you help me become more…?”
“Demure,” Laura provided.
“Demure?” Fannie smiled wide. “I like the sound of that.”
Had Fannie compared her to a wild animal that hung from a tree by its tail? Adelaide worked up a smile before she injured Fannie with her needle. As much as Fannie grated on her nerves, if she refused, the ladies might decide she had an interest in Mr. Graves. “It would be my pleasure.”
“With your help, Adelaide, Charles Graves will fall in love with me, and I’ll soon be a married lady.”
As Adelaide listened to Fannie chatter on about his virtues, she realized her help meant trying to get Fannie a husband and children. She had to wonder—
What kind of bargain had she struck? And what would it cost her in the end?
Charles paced the private dining room at the Becker House. His sister-in-law, wearing her best finery, sat watching him, her expression wistful. Could she be thinking Sam should be sitting beside her, instead of lying in Crownland Cemetery?
He’d wanted to rip into Mr. Evans’s briefcase to look at the terms of his father’s will. When it came to legalities, the gregarious attorney kept a tight rein on his mouth and skillfully sidestepped every question Charles had slung at him, giving no hint why Adam had mentioned the milliner in his will.
At exactly one o’clock Mr. Evans ushered Miss Crum, looking as perplexed as he felt, into the room. She glanced at him, her eyes filling with sympathy, probably for his loss. She couldn’t know grief was the last emotion his father’s death elicited.
She still wore the bird nest hat. On her, the silly hat looked good. Every hair in place, her clothing spotless, Miss Crum appeared serene. Only a heightened color in her cheeks suggested either the heat or an inner turmoil bothered her.
Well, she wasn’t the only one stirred up by the chain of events. His father was no philanthropist. He’d never cared about the financial problems a woman might have either running a business or raising two children alone. He’d never cared about anyone.
Mr. Evans stepped forward. “Miss Crum, I believe you said that you and Mary Graves quilt together.”
Miss Crum smiled. “Yes, and we attend the same church. Mary’s father is my doctor.”
“This is indeed a small town.” Mr. Evans grinned, motioning to the table. “Well, since we’re all here, let’s take seats and get down to business before we roast and find ourselves on the hotel bill of fare.” He chuckled, but no one else laughed.
Miss Crum took a chair across from Mary. Charles strode to the other side of the table and sat beside his brother’s widow.
After sitting at the head of the table, Mr. Evans unlocked his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. “I have here Adam Graves’s last will and testament.”
Charles shifted in his seat.
“‘I, Adam Graves, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath to my son, Charles Andrew Graves, and to Mary Lynn Graves, my son Samuel Eugene Graves’s widow, my house in Cincinnati and its contents.’”
Apparently his father had kept his boyhood home. Nothing could ever make him step inside that place.
Mr. Evans glanced at him and Mary. “If neither of you want to move in…”
Both Mary and Charles shook their heads.
“Then I suggest the house and belongings be sold at auction. My assistant can ship personal items you might want.”
“Sell them all,” Charles said, his tone filled with bitterness.
“If Mary agrees, I can do that, except for this.” He took a silky pouch from his briefcase and removed a gold pocket watch, the fob hanging from a thin chain. “When Adam made out his will, he asked me to give this watch to you personally.”
Taking the watch, Charles felt the weight of it in his palm and took in the intricate engraving on the lid. His gaze dropped to the fob. He pictured Grandpa Graves, a large man with a hearty laugh, dangling the fob from callused hands, coaxing Charles and Sam onto his lap. His grandparents’ rare visits were peaceful times. He tucked the watch in his pocket.
“‘I bequeath Charles Graves the sum of two thousand dollars,’” Mr. Evan continued, “‘and fifty percent ownership of The Noblesville Ledger.’”
Charles’s jaw tightened. Leaving half ownership of the paper to him and half to Mary wasn’t good business, but at least Charles knew his sister-in-law wouldn’t interfere at the paper.
Mr. Evans handed over the bank draft. “In a moment, I’ll go over the ownership papers.” Evans turned to the will. “I hereby bequeath to Mary Graves the sum of five thousand dollars.”
Charles squeezed Mary’s hand, pleased his father had realized she needed money more than he. The money would come in handy in the years ahead, raising Sam’s boys. And would give Mary the security she lacked since his brother had died. Weeping silent tears, she took the bank draft with trembling fingers.
Mr. Evans focused on the page in front of him. Charles’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“‘I hereby bequeath to Adelaide Crum, daughter of Constance Gunder Crum, fifty-percent ownership of The Noblesville Ledger.’”
Constance Gunder? Air whooshed out of Charles’s mouth and his gaze settled on the woman across from him.
“Me? Why? I don’t understand any of this,” Miss Crum said. “Why mention my mother?”
Constance
