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CHAPTER ONE

Home.

Stephanie Bloomfield lugged her heavy suitcase up the porch steps of the large white-pillared house. She moved quietly, careful not to wake her two sisters, although it occurred to her that they might be at the hospital.

She herself had spent the best part—no, the worst part—of the past two days either on a plane or standing at the counter in a foreign airport. Or was that three days? She couldn’t tell anymore.

Norah, her younger sister, had managed to call her in Italy nearly a week ago about their father’s heart attack. The connection had been bad and she’d had difficulty hearing, but Norah’s sense of urgency had come clearly over the wire. Their father was gravely ill, and Steffie needed to hurry home—something that turned out to be much easier said than done.

Steffie had been living just outside Rome, attending classes at the university. She’d been participating in a special program, learning Italian and studying Renaissance history, culture and art. For three years she’d traveled effortlessly from one end of the country to the other. Now, when she desperately needed to fly home, the airports were closed by a transportation strike that paralyzed Italy. It didn’t help that she’d been staying in a small, relatively isolated village hundreds of miles from Rome. She’d gone on a brief holiday, visiting a friend’s family.

It had taken her several days and what felt like three lifetimes to arrange passage home. Days, when it should’ve been a matter of hours. This past week had been the most stressful of her life. She’d been in touch with her sisters as often as possible, and at last report Norah had said that their father was resting comfortably. Still, she’d heard the dread in Norah’s voice. Her youngest sister had never been much good at hiding the truth. Although she’d tried to sound reassuring, Steffie was well aware that her father’s condition had worsened. That was when she’d undertaken the most daring move of her life. She’d made contact with some men of questionable scruples, sold every possession of value and, at a hugely inflated price, obtained a means out of the country, by way of Japan, with layovers in places she’d never expected to visit. It was decidedly an indirect route to Oregon, but she was home now. Heaven only knew how much longer it would have taken if she hadn’t resorted to such drastic measures.

After a whole day of waiting at the Tokyo airport, fighting for space aboard any available flight to the States, and then the long flight itself, Steffie was frantic for news of her father. Frantic and fearful. In some ways, not knowing was almost better than knowing….

She opened the front door and stepped silently inside the sleeping house. She’d adjusted her watch to Pacific time, but her mind was caught somewhere between Italy and Tokyo. She was too exhausted to be tired. Too worried to be hungry, although she couldn’t remember the last meal she’d eaten.

Setting down her impossibly heavy suitcase, she stood in the foyer and breathed in the scent of polished wood and welcome.

She was home.

Her father’s den was to her right, and she immediately felt drawn there. Pausing in the doorway, she flipped on the light switch and stood gazing at the room that was so much her father’s. A massive stone fireplace commanded one entire wall, while two other walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

She looked at his wingback chair, the soft leather creased from years of use. Closing her eyes, Steffie breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of old leather and books and the sweet pungency of pipe tobacco. This was her father’s room, and she’d never missed him more than she did at that moment.

His presence seemed to fill the den. His robust laugh echoed silently against the walls. Steffie could visualize him sitting behind the cherrywood desk, the accounting ledgers spread open and his pipe propped in the ugly ceramic ashtray—the one she’d made for him the summer she turned eleven.

The photograph of her mother caught her eye. David Bloomfield could leave his daughters no finer legacy than the love he’d shared with their mother. He’d changed after Grace’s death. Steffie had noticed it even before she left Orchard Valley. She’d guessed it from his letters in the years since. And she’d been especially aware of the changes when he came to visit her in Italy last spring. The spark was gone. The relentless passion for life that had always been so much a part of him was missing now. Each month his letters were more painful to read, more lifeless and subdued. Without his wife at his side, David Bloomfield was as empty as…as that chair there, his old reading chair, standing in front of the fireplace.

Steffie’s gaze slipped to the newspaper spread across the ottoman. It felt as though, any minute, her father would walk through the door, settle back into his chair and resume reading.

Only he wouldn’t.

He might never sit in this room again, Steffie realized, her heart constricting with pain. He might never reach for one of his favorite books and lovingly leaf through its pages until he found the passage he wanted. He might never sit by the fireplace, pipe in hand. He might never look up when she entered the room and smile when he saw it was Steffie—his “princess.”

The pain in her chest grew more intense and the need to release her emotions burned inside her, but Steffie ignored it, as she had a thousand times before. She wasn’t a weeper. She’d guarded her emotions vigilantly for three long years. Ever since that night with Charles Tomaselli when he’d—

She brushed the memory aside with the efficiency of long practice. Charles was a painful figure from her past. One best forgotten, or at least ignored. She hadn’t thought of him in months and refused to do so now. Sooner or later she’d be forced to exchange pleasantries with him, but when she did, she’d pretend she had trouble remembering who he was, as though he were merely a casual acquaintance and not the man who’d broken her heart. That seemed the best way to handle the situation—to pretend she’d completely forgotten their last humiliating encounter.

If he did insist on renewing their acquaintance, which was unlikely, she’d show him how mature she was, how sophisticated and cosmopolitan she’d become. Then he’d regret the careless, cruel way he’d treated her.

There was a sound in the hallway, and Steffie moved out of the den just as Norah reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Steffie? My goodness, you’re home!” Norah exclaimed, rushing to embrace her.

And then, with a small cry of welcome, Valerie, the oldest of the three, bounded down the stairs, her long cotton gown dancing about her feet.

“Steff, I’m so glad you’re home,” Valerie cried, wrapping her arms around both sisters. “When did you get in? Why didn’t you let us know so we could meet you at the airport?”

“I flew standby most of the way, so I wasn’t sure when I’d land. I caught the Air Porter and then a cab.” She took a deep breath. “I’m just glad I’m here.”

“I am, too,” Valerie said with an uncharacteristic display of emotion, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Normally Valerie was a model of restraint. Seeing her this shaken revealed, more plainly than anything she could’ve said, how desperately ill their father was.

By tacit agreement, they moved into the kitchen. Valerie set about preparing a pot of tea. According to the digital clock on the microwave, it was a little past three. Steffie hadn’t realized it was quite that late. She could hardly recall the last time she’d slept in a bed. Four days ago, perhaps.

“How’s Dad?” It was the question she’d been yearning to ask from the moment she’d walked in the door. The question she was afraid to ask.

“He’s doing just great,” Norah said, her soft voice rising with delight. “We came really close to losing him, Steffie. Valerie and I were in a panic because things looked bad and Dr. Winston couldn’t delay the surgery. And Dad pulled through! But…”