LITMIR.BIZ

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to sit through the lawyer’s small talk about the weather, she realized her nerves were more on edge than ever.

      She glanced at Mark, who was seated across from her. His attention was on Lawrence, but he didn’t look any happier about being here than she was.

      The first bequests were to charities, including the local hospital, the animal shelter and the University of Washington’s School of Journalism. The last designation didn’t surprise Eva; both she and her father were alumni.

      The bequest to UCLA was puzzling, until Lawrence said to Mark, “I believe that’s where you studied journalism, isn’t it?”

      Mark nodded. “That was nice of Seb to give them something.”

      Lawrence turned to the next page. “‘To my daughter, Eva, I bequeath my property at 880 Oak Avenue and all structures thereon and all personal and tangible property contained therein.’”

      The house she’d grown up in was to be hers? Why had Seb bothered to leave her the house? She didn’t want it and would never live there again.

      She expected that to be the end of the reading, but Lawrence continued, “‘To my daughter, Eva, and to Mark Townson, I bequeath the entire holdings of the Willow Beach Herald. Each shall receive 50 percent of the total assets comprised by the newspaper...’”

      Eva gasped, unable to believe what she’d heard. Besides the house, her father was leaving her 50 percent of the newspaper? Why, when she’d refused to work there or to have anything to do with his publication?

      Lawrence cleared his throat. “‘...subject to the following provisions. One, that both Mark and Eva assume coeditorship of the newspaper for the period of one year.’”

      “What?” Eva blurted and half rose from her chair.

      Lawrence held up his hand. “Let me finish, please.”

      “Sorry,” she mumbled and sank back into her seat.

      “‘Two, if either party declines to accept the terms, neither inherits and the Herald shall be auctioned to the highest bidder. Neither party may bid on the Herald or in any way be associated with a bidding party.

      “‘Three, after assuming coleadership of the Herald for the proscribed year, both parties are free to do as they please regarding their involvement with said newspaper.’”

      “What on earth was Seb thinking?” Mark said, obviously as shocked as she was.

      Eva shook her head in disbelief. “He must have been crazy. But it won’t work.”

      “I’m afraid the will is ironclad.” Lawrence tapped the sheaf of papers with his forefinger.

      “But the terms are impossible.” Eva looked from one man to the other. “I have a life, a career in Seattle. I can’t give up everything to come here for a year. It’s different for you, Mark. You already work at the Herald.”

      He folded his arms. “I can’t see us working together.”

      “Me, neither. No. Never. Not in a million years. Newspaper writing is not what I do.”

      “And fluff pieces aren’t what I do.”

      Eva drew back and stared at him. “I beg your pardon. Seattle’s Best is every bit as serious a publication as...as a rag like the Herald.”

      “The Herald is not a rag!”

      Lawrence spread his hands. “People, people, please. This is not the time to argue about who writes what.”

      Mark leaned forward. “Okay, but are you sure there isn’t some way out of this?”

      The lawyer shook his head. “You’re both free to obtain your own counsel, of course.”

      “I intend to,” Eva said. “There is no way I will spend another year of my life in this town.”

      “I understand your position,” Lawrence said. “But don’t forget that Mark’s future depends on what you decide. If you don’t accept the terms, Mark loses his inheritance, too, and the newspaper goes on the block. Is that what you want, either of you? Think about it.”

      * * *

      MARK STOOD OUTSIDE Lawrence’s office, scanning the adjacent parking lot for Eva. When she’d stormed out, he’d impulsively followed. He wasn’t sure why. What was there to say? That he didn’t want his half of the newspaper? That wouldn’t be true. The Herald and its future meant everything to him. From the day Seb had hired him, Mark had devoted himself to the newspaper and its success.

      He ran a hand through his hair. What a disaster.

      Eva’s blue outfit made her easy to spot. She marched along, head high, her straw purse swinging from her shoulder. A woman on a mission. He watched her for a moment, debating whether he really wanted a confrontation, and then he ran after her. Just as she reached her car, he caught up.

      “Eva!” He grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt.

      She looked down where he gripped her arm and then up at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

      He let go of her and stepped back. “I, uh, look, I know you’re upset—”

      “Upset doesn’t begin to cover my emotional state. I’m devastated. But Seb’s will isn’t going to happen. I’ll call my lawyer. He’ll know what to do.”

      He was about to say he’d do the same, but before he could, she said in an accusing tone, “Were you in on this?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Did you know Seb was going to leave the Herald to both of us?”

      Her outrageous accusation left him momentarily speechless. “If you’re suggesting I somehow influenced him, you’re dead wrong. Why would I want a mess like this?”

      “Half owner is better than being totally cut out, isn’t it?”

      “Not if I have to work with you.” He turned and strode off.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “I HOPE YOU HAVE good news.” Eva was back in Seattle sitting in her cubicle at the magazine. She’d given a copy of Seb’s will to her lawyer, Nolan Cramer, and he’d finally called.

      As he spoke, her spirits sank. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?” she asked when he’d finished.

      “I’m afraid not, Eva. Sorry. My advice? Accept the terms. You might like the experience better than you think.”

      Eva doubted that.

      She ended the call and slumped over her desk, head in her hands. Nolan had just confirmed what Lawrence Prentiss had already told her—the will was ironclad. She’d held out hope that the will could be broken, but now that door had closed.

      Was there no way out of this?

      She sat there, her mind spinning, and sure enough, an idea popped into her head. If her boss, James Forsythe, would take pity on her, she could at least soften the blow. She picked up the phone and called him.

      Luckily, he had time to see her, and half an hour later she sat in his spacious office. As she waited for him to finish a phone call, she gazed around the room, taking in its warm brown-and-yellow color scheme, the desk, the credenza, even an armoire for storing coats. Someday, this office would be hers. She just knew it. Whenever she was in here, she mentally ran through the changes she would make. For starters, she’d replace the hydroplane photos—James’s son was a champion driver—with the colorful giclée flower prints she’d seen in a Pike Place Market gallery. Add a runner to the top of the credenza, and place her pewter umbrella stand, shaped like a half-open umbrella itself, by the door. Personal touches that would put her brand on the office.

      Today she didn’t dare play her little game. Too much rode on convincing

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