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You’ll need to sign.”
    Hard to do with Charlie on his back, but he managed. “Surprised you could find me in this mess of people.”
    â€œSomeone pointed you out. Most of the rest of the building will have to wait for their mail ’til tomorrow. Fire truck’s blocking the mailboxes.”
    Logan glanced at the manila envelope. Maple Valley address. A law firm?
    â€œGlad I could at least deliver this, though. Certified usually means important.” 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 Fitzsimmons’s name—the old owner of his hometown paper, his one-time mentor.
    And the words last will and testament .

    â€œWant to tell me why we’re sitting out here in the cold? Is there a reason we couldn’t talk at your office?”
    Amelia winced at the impatience huddled in C.J. Cranford’s voice. The woman rubbed her hands together, breath forming clouds of white and heels tapping against the shoveled sidewalk underneath the park bench.
    â€œJust wait.” Amelia dipped her chin into her scarf. “You’ll see.”
    â€œWill I? Or will my eyeballs get frostbite first?”
    So maybe this hadn’t been the best plan ever—the short trek around the block toward downtown. Wasn’t 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.’s presence in Maple Valley meant what it had to—that Freddie had indeed signed all the documents before he’d died, gone and sold the News —then 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 wasn’t just any old newspaper. And Maple Valley wasn’t any old town. In about five minutes, C.J. would see for herself.
    The downtown fanned in front of them like a quiet audience—quaint 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. “You do know eventually we’re going to have to talk business?”
    â€œI thought that’s what we did back at the office.” After begging Owen to cover her scheduled photo, Amelia had given C.J. a quick tour of the News’s domain. She’d recited recent headlines and rattled off newspaper history—like 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, “Coffee?”
    â€œThat wasn’t talking business,” C.J. said now. “That was a tour. A very . . . perky, tinsely one.”
    Because she’d overdone it, hadn’t she? Pumped too much cheer into her voice and brown-nosed it. “Sorry—”
    â€œYou like your job. Nothing wrong with that.” C.J. crossed one leg over the other. The zigzag stripes of her tights were the one standout feature of her attire—black blazer over black pencil skirt. Black heels. Black purse.
    â€œI do like my job.”
    â€œWhich is why you’ve been avoiding my calls.”
    Couldn’t argue that. Across the square, Mr. Baker locked the front door of his antique shop under a flapping awning. He turned, caught Amelia’s gaze, waved, and then hunched his way toward his station wagon. “I did mean to get back to you.” Eventually.
    The first light in the park flickered as Mr. Baker’s engine