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“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?”