Читать книгу Finding His Way Home - Barbara Gale, Barbara Gale - Страница 7

Chapter Two

Lincoln had much to think about, flying out to Albany two days later. Mainly, that the unspoken subtext to his conversation with Alexis had been clear: no Valetta, no partnership. Oh, Alexis had been subtle, her touch light, but the message was in her jaundiced eyes, in her exhaustion, in her merciless request. She had no time to spare for the niceties. Her time was limited, her risk was great, and her revenge would be sweeping. No two ways about it. If he didn’t bring home her recalcitrant sister, he would find himself out of a job, not a pleasant thought at his age. Forty was the witching season, and though his power was unconstrained, it would not be so again in his lifetime. There simply was no bigger newspaper in the country, and working anywhere else would be a step down. And what of the four thousand employees of Keane industries who depended on the paper for their livelihood? His responsibility was heavy. So when he landed at Albany International Airport, his first step was carefully—and firmly—placed on the tarmac.

Wisely, he opted to spend the night at an airport hotel and get a good night’s sleep. He had a bit of a drive ahead of him along narrow mountain roads to a town so sleepy the hotel concierge had never heard of it. Well rested, he arrived in Longacre midafternoon, having only lost his way twice. Driving down Main Street, he noticed a winter’s worth of snow had been bulldozed into a huge pile in the town square. Pristine and powdery, perfect for some serious sledding. No chance of pollution up here, he thought wryly, as he gazed at the mountains that towered in the distance.

Parking didn’t seem to be a problem, either, he mused as he pulled up to Crater’s Diner and the promise of a hot meal. As he opened the door, a bell jangled above his head to announce his arrival. The smell that greeted him was tantalizing. On the far side of the restaurant, an elderly man sat on a stool by the counter reading a paper, a walker parked behind him. His gray hair was a short frizzled crop, his weathered brown skin evidence of long years in the country. The rheumy glance he sent Lincoln from behind his wire-rimmed glasses was intelligent and alert.

“You’ve already missed breakfast, it’s too early for dinner, and I don’t usually serve lunch to passersby,” he informed Lincoln crisply over the edge of his newspaper.

Lincoln was amused by the old man’s sass. Vaguely, he wondered which paper he favored. Never more keenly did he feel how far he was from home than when the old man laid his paper on the counter and Lincoln was able to read the banner. The Schenectady Sun. Oh, for the sweet smell of smog!

Beneath his thin, brown corduroy jacket, Lincoln beat back a shiver and shoved his cold hands into his pockets. Stupid, really, not to have taken the time to pack some warm clothes.

“Judging from your fancy clothes, I’d say you’re not from Albany. They’re great believers in L.L. Bean and Patagonia,” he explained, staring hard at Lincoln’s leather loafers. The old man smiled at Lincoln’s clothes, from his silk tie down to his gabardine slacks, looking as if he doubted they even sold winter coats wherever this man came from.

Lincoln glanced down at his shoes and shrugged. “It was all I had. I just flew in from Los Angeles, a last- minute decision that didn’t leave much time to pack.” But Lincoln wasn’t interested in talking fashion. “What is that wonderful aroma?”

“If it’s Tuesday, it’s Mulligan Stew,” the old man explained as he gave Lincoln another quick going- over. “I follow a strict cooking schedule. Makes life easier, all around.”

Lincoln savored the yeasty, warm smell of freshly baked bread as he glanced around the empty café. “Business must be good if you’re turning away a customer.”

The old man laughed—or cackled—Lincoln wasn’t sure. “Ten customers a day, it’s a windfall, hereabouts, son. But since these old bones don’t let me move as fast as I used to, I cook according to the clock. My clock— and my customers respect that.”

“All ten of them?” Lincoln asked with a smile.

“It’s a small town,” the old man snickered. “They have no choice. Well, if you’re really that hungry, I suppose I could scramble you up some eggs. That’s my offer, take it or leave it, and don’t go frowning at the idea of eggs, son. They’re local, fresh laid.”

“I wasn’t frowning!” Lincoln said, but Jerome ignored his protest.

“I spent three years in France during the war. World War II. When I was young. That’s where I learned to cook, so I know a lot about eggs. I even had me an authentic taste of Hollandaisey sauce—cooked by a real honest-to-goodness French mademoiselle, mind you. Way back when. When I was young. I can still recall the taste of it,” he sighed. “My, but those French could cook.”

“Well, then, if it’s not too much trouble,” Lincoln said, throwing a doubtful glance at the walker standing in the corner.

The old man followed his look and frowned. “That damned thing! I don’t pay it no attention. It’s just for show. I had a little back problem and they insisted I use that contraption.”

“But you don’t,” Lincoln said, a statement that found grace with the old man.

“Got that right, sonny. I just keep it there to make the townsfolk happy.”

“Well, then, eggs would be fine,” Lincoln said politely. “Over easy, if you would.”

But Lincoln was talking to the air. True to his word, the old man could walk just fine and had disappeared behind the kitchen’s swinging door, leaving his sole customer to settle himself into a booth and be glad of eggs cooked any style.

The diner was straight from an Edward Hopper painting, very fifties, long and narrow, its faded red- leather booths perpendicular to the long windows that looked out onto Main Street. But where the booths had seen better days, the walls were a freshly painted yellow. And while the diner’s gray Formica counter was lined with old-fashioned chrome stools, scratched but still shiny, the linoleum that covered the floor had been worn thin by several decades’ worth of footsteps. His chin settled on his fist, Lincoln gazed absently out onto Main Street, a hint of a smile in his eyes.

How could he help but smile, finding himself in a remote town glued to the side of a mountain? Who would have guessed that the editor in chief of the most prominent newspaper in the world would find himself stuck in a one-horse town in the middle of nowhere, looking for an heiress who didn’t want to be found. It wasn’t that he was a snob. No, not at all! It was just so out of character, so opposite to the way he normally did things. Any free time he had usually meant the rare opportunity for a quick sail on his catamaran. Shoveling snow was not what he did best, and when he skied, except for the occasional trip to Switzerland, he preferred to do it on water. And darned if it wasn’t beginning to snow right that minute! Thank goodness he had rented a Jeep.

“So, you come looking for something?” the old man asked as he set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Lincoln, moments later. “More likely someone,” he snorted. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, sonny. One and one still makes two.”

Too hungry to respond, Lincoln only nodded as he scooped up a forkful of eggs—cooked over lightly, just the way he liked them. Cautiously, he began to munch on a slice of bacon and found it so full of flavor, he wondered if it was home-smoked. And no supermarket ever sold such fresh sourdough bread as this.

The old man must have heard his stomach growl because he left Lincoln to eat in peace before he returned to refill Lincoln’s coffee cup, gripping his own mug in his gnarled fist as he sat down in the cane chair he had occupied when Lincoln first entered the diner.

“Got to admit, you were looking a bit peckish when you walked in. A man your size shouldn’t go so long between meals.”

“Peckish?” Lincoln smiled. “I haven’t heard that word in years.”

The old man leaned back in his creaky chair and shrugged. “There’s nothing like an honest-to-goodness, home-grown, American-as-apple-pie hot meal to satisfy a man’s belly. And the name’s Crater, Jerome Crater.”

Lincoln nodded. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crater.”

“Jerome. Everyone round here calls me Jerome.”

“Jerome, then. I’m Lincoln Cameron.”

“Now there’s a fine, strong name, if ever I heard. Can I call you Mr. Lincoln?” Jerome laughed.

“Why not?” Lincoln shrugged as he sipped his coffee. “Everyone else does. In any case, what makes you think I’m looking for someone?”

The old man scratched his grizzled head. “Being as how there hasn’t been a stranger here since last summer, and it’s February, and you’re miles from the nearest ski resort, and you just flew in from California—on short notice, I think you said—”

“Whoa, okay, you got me! I guess I was an easy mark. When I—”

Whatever else Lincoln was going to say was interrupted as the diner door swung wide with a loud bang, and a tiny hurricane rushed in on a wave of frigid air. Stomping red boots free of snow, the little boy held the door open for a dog to follow, the nastiest, scruffiest- looking yellow-haired mutt Lincoln had ever had the misfortune to set eyes upon. The panting creature took three careful steps into the diner, halted and settled on his rump, his revolting wet, pink tongue dangling as he stared adoringly at his master. Watching the child’s every move, the creature was apparently awaiting some private signal known only to them. Lincoln was thoroughly disgusted, and Jerome Crater seemed to be, also.

“Hell’s bells, little one, do you always have to enter the place like a tornado?” he growled, shuffling to his feet.

“Oh, Jerome,” the child sighed soulfully, “there are no tornadoes in the Adirondacks! Mrs. Gerard said so.”

“I don’t care what that blamed teacher of yours told you,” Jerome retorted, his arthritic finger pointed at the miniature firebrand. “I know what I see, and what I see right this minute is a little pack rat racing around like a regular whirligig, I do! And make sure that infernal mongrel don’t move one dratted inch from that mat or else out he goes, and no second chances like last time! If someone slips and breaks their neck, I don’t want no lawsuit because that mutt brought in the snow!”

“He is on the mat, Jerome!” the child protested, righteously indignant.

His mistake, Lincoln realized, embarrassed by his error. For when the child removed her hat and he could see a face more clearly, Lincoln realized that she was a little girl, all of ten, maybe younger.

Her head a gleaming hood of copper curls, he was put in mind of a young Shirley Temple, although this child was not half so artful. Her hair was cut in such a choppy, careless way he wondered if it ever knew the hand of a professional hairdresser, but he admitted that he was used to the overly polished look of California. This was rural New York, very different territory. If he was in doubt where he was, her ragtag outfit was even more confirmation. Her blue jeans worked overtime with a purple blouse, red sweater, green socks and a lavender headband. Still, the quality of her sweater seemed fine, and her boots sported a logo that read L.L. Bean. Bachelor that he was, with no insight into children whatsoever, a sudden flash of intuition told him that the little minx probably picked out her own outfits and would balk at the idea of walking into a beauty parlor.

And the little minx was apparently familiar with Jerome’s cranky temper because she ignored his threat for one of her own.

“Mom’s coming, Jerome,” Lincoln heard her whisper loudly, “and Castor wants you to know that if the cake isn’t ready he’s going to—” the little girl left off, apparently unable to recall the dire punishment that awaited Jerome, but it didn’t seem to faze her one bit. Lincoln was taken by the radiant purity of her sudden smile and the mischievous delight in her wide brown eyes. “I forgot exactly what he said but I think it’s going to be terrible!”

“Now you listen to me, young miss,” Jerome snickered, “and don’t go flashing those dimples at me. I said that cake would be ready on time and Castor has no call to threaten a poor, defenseless old man when it ain’t gonna make me go no faster!”

Wincing, Lincoln sent a silent prayer of apology to the god of diction. And marveled at the defenseless old man part. No one he had met in ages seemed less defenseless than this old geezer!

“I was just setting it to cool when this gentleman here stumbled in, starving and in dire need of sustenance. I had already whipped up the frosting. Yes, yes, vanilla. That’s what Pollux told me, wasn’t it?”

Castor and Pollux? Lincoln was enchanted.

“Hell’s bells, I never saw such a fuss about a birthday cake,” Jerome grumbled as he stooped to retrieve the little girl’s scarf.

“Oh, Jerome, I was just making sure,” the little girl promised, planting a kiss on the old man’s leathery cheek. “Vanilla is my favorite!”

“Sure it is,” Jerome snorted. “And if I’d made chocolate you would say the same thing!”

Catching Lincoln’s eye, he winked. “Meet the town princess,” Jerome said to Lincoln by way of introduction.

“Royalty resides here?” Lincoln asked as he sent the child a smile.

“As near as,” Jerome swore as he folded the girl’s scarf and handed it to her. “This here is Mellie.”

“Who are you?” Mellie asked bluntly, as she stuffed the scarf into the sleeve of her jacket. Just shy of four feet, her frown was more intimidating than her stance.

Lincoln was impressed with her feisty presence, and he was used to real royalty. “I’m just a traveler passing through. My name is Lincoln Cameron.”

“Like President Lincoln?”

“Exactly, but no relation.”

In silence, Mellie turned to Jerome.

“He’s safe, sugar,” Jerome assured her.

“Your grandfather’s excellent coffee kept me lingering,” Lincoln told the little girl.

“She’s not my granddaughter,” Jerome corrected him, but Lincoln could see that he was pleased with the mistake.

“But she might be?”

“Close enough,” Jerome allowed, his adoring eyes fastened on the little girl. “As for the coffee, I don’t know if excellent is the correct word, but I do make sure it’s always fresh made and hot. Mellie’s mama stops by for a cup every morning on her way to work.”

How cooperative. Lincoln would have liked to ask more, but there was no time. The door had swung wide again and brought in a gust of cold air. He supposed the dinner hour was fast approaching, and a glance at his watch told him this was true. The mother, Lincoln guessed, as a tall, slender bundle of blue muffler, green parka and red gloves rushed in, her shoulders dusted with the fresh fall of snow. It was easy to see where Mellie got her fashion sense.

“Mellie, sweetie,” she said, stomping her boots clean. “I asked you not to rush ahead. I was worried you would fall.”

“Oh, Mom, I’m—”

“I know! I know! You’re a big girl!” her mother finished with a light melodious laugh that made the hair on Lincoln’s neck rise. As she tugged free her hat, her hair spilled forth, its short style falling across her brow. But whereas her daughter was blessed with red curls, this woman’s hair was a sheet of white silk, a pure platinum white that looked so natural he felt sure it had never known a bottle.

Side by side, their resemblance was unmistakable. But whereas the little girl was adorable, the mother was breathtaking. Beyond her shocking white hair, her tall, lithe figure was a slender reed of colorful wools and scarves. Her gray eyes were so luminous they seemed to glow as they gazed fondly at her daughter, her smile so bewitching she put Lincoln in mind of an angel.

But she always had. Lincoln felt an ineffable sadness at the years that had come and gone.

“Hello, Valetta,” he said softly.

The woman’s hand, hovering over her young daughter’s shoulder, was suddenly still. That voice…so familiar…no, beyond that… Unmistakable.

She turned slowly, her fear so palpable that Lincoln was pained. He should have warned her, called ahead, not appeared so suddenly as to cause her the unpleasant shock of his arrival. The way she stared, her long fingers curling on her daughter’s thin shoulder… Was her recollection of him all that painful?

Linc. Valetta mouthed his name but no sound came forth. The rush of years turned back to a time when she was young…and helplessly in love with this man. Not that he had ever known. Linc Cameron had never looked her way. He had been more interested in playing her big brother than her lover. Not that her heart had ever paid any attention. It seemed that time had not, either. The lines of his craggy face were deeper; gray hair teased his temple, but the years had been kind to him. He was still an arresting figure. She was the one who had changed, and she was surprised he had recognized her.

Linc, why have you come here?

Her eyes filled with tears, Valetta was unable to ask the question out loud but it was just as well, because she was absolutely sure he had no explanation that would suit her.

Go, Linc, leave now. You can see for yourself that you don’t belong here.

She shouted the silent plea, sure he could hear if he wanted.

I’ve made my life. My salvation is here, wrapped in this tiny bundle of red wool. Valetta glanced down at her daughter, pulling her closer, almost as if to shield her from his sight.

It was Jerome, alert to the tempest brewing, who saved the moment. Curious, protective and polite all at the same time, he observed the guarded looks on the faces of both Lincoln and Valetta with amusement born of old age and experience.

“Guess you found what you were looking for,” he said as he removed Lincoln’s cup. Too bad the stranger didn’t look too happy about it. Too bad Valetta didn’t, either.