Youâll need to sign.â
Hard to do with Charlie on his back, but he managed. âSurprised you could find me in this mess of people.â
âSomeone pointed you out. Most of the rest of the building will have to wait for their mail âtil tomorrow. Fire truckâs blocking the mailboxes.â
Logan glanced at the manila envelope. Maple Valley address. A law firm?
âGlad I could at least deliver this, though. Certified usually means important.â The mailman winked at Charlie and moved away.
Afternoon warmth tinged with coastal humidity curled around Logan as he tore open the envelope and pulled out the packet of papers. Skimmed what looked like a cover lettercrowded with legalese until his attention hooked on Freddie Fitzsimmonsâs nameâthe old owner of his hometown paper, his one-time mentor.
And the words last will and testament .
âWant to tell me why weâre sitting out here in the cold? Is there a reason we couldnât talk at your office?â
Amelia winced at the impatience huddled in C.J. Cranfordâs voice. The woman rubbed her hands together, breath forming clouds of white and heels tapping against the shoveled sidewalk underneath the park bench.
âJust wait.â Amelia dipped her chin into her scarf. âYouâll see.â
âWill I? Or will my eyeballs get frostbite first?â
So maybe this hadnât been the best plan everâthe short trek around the block toward downtown. Wasnât it enough Amelia had already blown any chance at a good first impression with the woman who might be her new boss?
But if C.J.âs presence in Maple Valley meant what it had toâthat Freddie had indeed signed all the documents before heâd died, gone and sold the News âthen there was only one thing to do: Convince Cranford the paper was worth salvaging.
Forget the flood-damaged equipment. Forget the paltry advertising numbers. Forget all the reasons print publications in small towns were folding around the country. The News could be the exception.
Because it wasnât just any old newspaper. And Maple Valley wasnât any old town. In about five minutes, C.J. would see for herself.
The downtown fanned in front of them like a quiet audienceâquaint storefronts brushed with the peachy-pink hues of anambling dusk. The shadows of bony trees and globe-topped lampposts patterned the blanket of white covering the town square.
C.J. glanced over. âYou do know eventually weâre going to have to talk business?â
âI thought thatâs what we did back at the office.â After begging Owen to cover her scheduled photo, Amelia had given C.J. a quick tour of the Newsâs domain. Sheâd recited recent headlines and rattled off newspaper historyâlike the fact that this summer the News would celebrate its 100th year. An effort at damage control that may or may not have done any good. Because all C.J. had done after Amelia ran out of words was tilt her head and say, âCoffee?â
âThat wasnât talking business,â C.J. said now. âThat was a tour. A very . . . perky, tinsely one.â
Because sheâd overdone it, hadnât she? Pumped too much cheer into her voice and brown-nosed it. âSorryââ
âYou like your job. Nothing wrong with that.â C.J. crossed one leg over the other. The zigzag stripes of her tights were the one standout feature of her attireâblack blazer over black pencil skirt. Black heels. Black purse.
âI do like my job.â
âWhich is why youâve been avoiding my calls.â
Couldnât argue that. Across the square, Mr. Baker locked the front door of his antique shop under a flapping awning. He turned, caught Ameliaâs gaze, waved, and then hunched his way toward his station wagon. âI did mean to get back to you.â Eventually.
The first light in the park flickered as Mr. Bakerâs engine
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley