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“In other words, they’d both have to compromise—and they can’t?”

“Exactly,” Norah said again. She sighed. “No one ever told me love could be so complicated. I feel sorry for them both. They couldn’t be more miserable.”

Steffie finished off the last of the small red potatoes, not wanting her sister to guess how curious she was about her father’s “chat” with her mother. “What do you think of all this talk about Dad’s…experience?”

Norah pulled up a stool and sat across from her. “I don’t know. He believes he talked with Mom and that’s what’s important, don’t you think?”

Steffie wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She’d once been confident that she knew what she wanted in life. Then everything had fallen apart. But the time she’d spent in Italy had helped her regain a perspective on her own life…hadn’t it?

It suddenly occurred to Steffie with a sense of horror that she’d spent three years studying and traveling in Italy, and her primary purpose had been to impress Charles Tomaselli when she returned.

She’d impressed him, all right, by making an even bigger fool of herself than before.

“Dad’s been talking about his grandchildren all afternoon,” Norah continued, breaking into Steffie’s thoughts. Steffie was grateful for the intrusion.

“Grandchildren,” she repeated softly. “From you, naturally?” She couldn’t imagine Valerie as a mother, and she herself had no intention of marrying. When her father was well enough to come home, Steffie intended to find herself an apartment in Portland and to apply for a fellowship and begin her doctorate. She’d completed her master’s in Italy after an intensive language program, and in her last year there, she’d also taken several advanced courses. It was hard to believe someone so well educated could be so dismally unaware of her own motives, she mused unhappily.

“Dad claims I’m going to present him with six grandchildren,” Norah said, barely restraining a smile. “Can you imagine me with six children?”

“Which means Valerie’s going to be responsible for another six.”

“No, three. According to Dad’s ramblings, you’re going to have three of the little darlings yourself.”

Steffie grinned, in spite of her depression. The picture of her married and with a brood of children was somewhat amusing. She’d only loved one man in her life and the experience had been so painful that she was determined never to repeat the mistake.

“I guess we’ll see,” Steffie said, sliding off her stool to carry her now-empty plate to the sink.

“I guess we will,” Norah concurred.

Although she’d slept for a good part of the afternoon, two hours later Steffie was yawning. Making her excuses, she returned to her bedroom, showered and got into bed, savoring the crisp, clean sheets.

Sitting up, her knees tucked under her chin, she pondered her conversation with Norah. In the years since she’d moved away, a number of her friends had married. She’d gotten wedding invitations, passed on by Norah, every few months. And several of her high school and college friends were already mothers, some two times over.

While she was in Italy, Steffie hadn’t allowed herself to think about anything more pressing than her studies, which had occupied most of her time. She’d traveled and studied and worked hard. But at odd moments, when she received a wedding invitation or a birth announcement, she’d occasionally taken a moment to wonder if her life was missing something. Or when she was with Mario, the adorable young son of her landlady in Rome, she’d imagined, more than once, how it would feel to have a family of her own…. She’d usually managed to suppress the yearning quickly.

And now she was experiencing it again, and more sharply than ever before. All this talk of weddings and children troubled her. She felt excluded, somehow. In the end, Valerie would probably marry her Dr. Winston, and there’d be a wonderful man for Norah, she was sure of it.

But for her? She found she couldn’t believe in the same kind of happy ending.

CHAPTER THREE

Although she was exhausted, Steffie couldn’t sleep. After tossing about restlessly and tangling her sheets, she sat on the edge of the bed and pushed the long hair away from her face.

She’d prefer to think the nap she’d taken that afternoon was responsible for this inability to sleep.

But she knew better.

She couldn’t sleep because her thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone. The memory of what a fool she’d made of herself with Charles hounded her until she wanted to scream.

With graphic clarity she recalled the first time she’d heard of Charles Tomaselli. She’d read his introductory column in the Clarion and had loved his wit. No matter what she thought of him now, she could never fault his talent as a writer. Charles had a way of turning a phrase that gave a reader pause. He chose his words carefully, writing in a clear, economical manner that managed to be both clever and precise. And he had a wide range of subjects, covering everything from social trends to the local political scene.

When she’d read his first few columns, she’d assumed he was much older, because the confidence of his observations and his style suggested a man of considerable experience. It wasn’t until several weeks later that she actually met him. At the time she’d been so dumbstruck she could barely put two words together.

She’d tried to tell him how much she enjoyed his editor’s column, but the words had twisted on the end of her tongue and came out sounding jerky and odd, like something a preschooler might say.

She’d been terribly embarrassed, but Charles had responded graciously, thanking her for the compliment.

It wasn’t just the fact that he was in his late twenties—and not his fifties—that had taken Steffie by surprise. Nor was it the fact that he was strikingly handsome, although he was. What struck Steffie like a fist to the stomach was the instant and powerful attraction she felt for him.