Finding His Way Home

“That I would not allow. But my sleep, now that is another matter. He is careless of such details,” he replied with heavy irony.

“Perhaps, but enough of that. I called you in to talk about the rumors that are spreading.” Alexis rose to her feet, or wished to, but unable to muster the strength, fell back in her chair. “The rumors are true. More than true.”

Lincoln’s black brow rose. “I don’t listen to rumors. Why don’t you tell me what I should know?”

“You don’t listen to rumors?” Alexis mocked. “Aren’t they your bread and butter?”

“Where people are concerned, rarely. And where the running of the paper is concerned, I look to the primary source.”

“Good of you, but you’re in the minority these days. In any case, it seems that cancer makes no distinctions,” she announced with a harsh laugh.

“It’s true, then?”

“Those rumors you never abide?” she smiled unevenly as a sharp stab of pain underscored her words. “Yes, well, they’re true, all of them. All those wasted years exercising, eating all sorts of unspeakable green things, never smoking—not even breathing in secondhand smoke—and mortality laughs in my face. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Mortality?” Lincoln frowned, wishing she would not parry the question.

“It’s pretty evident that when your doctor avoids your eyes, the news isn’t good. I had to force it from her. You don’t seem surprised.”

“You’re wrong,” Lincoln protested. “I’m shocked. I just don’t know what to say. I’m not very good in this sort of situation but I’m sorry, Alexis, I really am.”

“Lincoln Cameron, sorry? Now there’s a rare moment,” Alexis observed wryly. “Well, you may lose the pity, Mr. Cameron. I have no patience for that sort of thing.”

Even at her most vulnerable, Alexis was insolent, but Lincoln simply nodded. “I’ll do everything I can, of course. I’ll go to Africa, in August, in your stead,” he offered, stifling a sigh.

Alexis’s laughter was dry. “Knowing how much you hate to travel, I appreciate the offer.”

“A major drawback to this job.”

“The only one?”

“I like to sleep in my own bed,” Lincoln said with a shrug.

“Ah, yes, your nocturnal habits, again. Well, thanks, but I don’t need you to go to take over my job, not just yet. What I do need is for you to run an errand of another sort that does mean giving up your fancy feather bed for a few days. Of course, it’s up to you….”

“Just tell me what you want, and it will be done.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, giving him a long look. “It’s about my sister, Valetta.”

Lincoln sat up quickly. The mention of Valetta Keane was one of the few things that could touch him. “Vallie? Is something wrong?”

“Absolutely not,” she reassured him. “On the contrary, I want her to come home.”

An imperceptible sigh of relief escaped Lincoln. “And of course you tried calling?” he asked, striving for detachment.

“Actually not.”

For the first time in their conversation, Lincoln thought Alexis looked uncomfortable.

“Valetta won’t return home without some very strong encouragement.”

Lincoln’s black brow was high. “Your illness isn’t enough?”

“She doesn’t know. Oh, stop looking at me like that! It’s not the sort of thing you say over the phone, and we haven’t spoken in over a year. What am I supposed to do, pick up the phone and say, Hi, Valetta, it’s me, Alexis, I don’t have long to live, can you come for dinner? Not to mention the fact that our last conversation wasn’t too winning.”

“A year is a long time. Why have you let it go for so long?”

“She thinks I’m too controlling. It’s her favorite word for me. Many such angry words have passed between us since she left home, a great many nasty words.”

“Before she ran away, you mean.”

Alexis sank back in her chair. “You’re right, of course. She did run away. A childish note left on her pillow, then out the window and down a ladder at three in the morning. Yes, I suppose that constitutes running away. The good part was that our aunt Phyla, my mother’s sister, took her in. I don’t think you ever met her, Phyla Imre. She lived in an obscure town called Longacre, in upstate New York. The bad part was Aunt Phyla died a few years later, but by then Valetta was—” Alexis left off abruptly. “But you’ve heard all this before.”

He most certainly had not, and she damn well knew it. Once, he had been a small part of the Keane family, attending the occasional Friday night supper, Christmas dinners and the like. The Keane parents having died tragically, he had tried to be a brother to the orphaned child, a pleasure, because, much younger than Alexis, Vallie Keane had been an adorable little girl. The devil of a teenager, though. Always mooning about, star- struck. Living on another planet, Lincoln used to tease. But grown to a great beauty.

Extraordinary how it had happened so quickly, too. Sixteen, seventeen, then suddenly, shortly before Valetta turned eighteen, his informal guardianship had ended. Giving no explanation, Alexis had made it clear that Lincoln was no longer welcome at the Keane mansion, nor to the Friday dinners he was used to attending, much less Christmas. Hard-pressed to understand why, Lincoln was heartbroken, but he didn’t ask questions. It was not his style.

Pride is a harsh taskmaster. They all drifted apart, the lines clearly delineated: employer…employee. It suited him fine. Alexis had never been one of his favorite people. But Valetta was something different. The poor child had held a special place in his heart.

And then that extraordinary phone call from Alexis, late one night. It had been raining heavily, certainly not a night to venture out, except that Valetta apparently had. Yes, the sisters had had another argument, Alexis admitted. Yes, all right, maybe it was a little louder than usual. Unfortunately, the end result was that Valetta had packed a bag, left a short note and climbed out the window while Alexis was sleeping. She had run away.

She was a runaway.

Alexis had immediately called in private detectives and soon made it known that her sister was safe. But as to the cause of their fight, she would not be specific. Lincoln figured—of course—there was a story to be had. Valetta had been a typical, melodramatic teenager, so there was always a story, and because of that, he had never listened closely to her complaints. Valetta’s sudden departure was the price he paid for being inattentive.

Any further news of Valetta Keane was doled out by her sister grudgingly over the years, but he had missed the curly-haired beauty. Now, it seemed, he was being given the opportunity to make amends. “What happened to Vallie when Phyla died?”

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” Alexis said vaguely. “She’s fine, she’s holding her own.”

Alexis’s sparse information was frustrating, but Lincoln didn’t press the matter. The fact that he had never heard from Valetta was a cut that ran deeply. If he had been blindsided by the notion that the Keane sisters had thought of him as family, hadn’t his heart been in the right place? How had they ignored that? The loss of their affection was a hard-won lesson he took to heart, and who could blame him? If his laughter died the night Valetta left, no one noticed. Now, a decade later, the idea of seeing Valetta was an awakening, a temptation that brought, if not quite a smile to his lips, certainly a faster beat to his heart. But mastering his feelings, Lincoln didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he unfolded his long legs and leaned forward, dangling his long hands between his knees. His five o’clock shadow made him seem even more threatening than his growl. “What happens if I persuade Val to return?”

Alexis’s lips thinned with anger, but she framed her answer carefully. If Lincoln refused her, she would have nowhere else to turn. “There is no if. I intend to hand the reins of the L.A. Connection over to Valetta. As my sister, she is the logical choice.”

Jolted, Lincoln jumped to his feet. “That’s a ridiculous scheme, Alexis!”

The L.A. Connection was too influential for that to happen; he had given it too many years and won for it too many Pulitzers to idly stand by while it was managed—mismanaged—by an amateur. Even if Alexis was sick and probably not thinking straight, he couldn’t help lashing out. Even if the woman sitting across from him had sacrificed as much blood and sweat as he had, he was so angry that his hands shook as he paced the room.

“I don’t wonder you haven’t called her. The Connection is a huge responsibility. Huge! But to hand it over to some fledgling girl! I am absolutely astonished! You have me at astonished, Alexis!”

Unused to being rebuffed, Alexis clenched her teeth. For goodness’ sake, didn’t the man understand that she had no choice? Apparently not, judging from his mocking, caustic words.

“And another thing. Has it never occurred to you that Valetta has her own life?”

“Oh, that she does,” Alexis said quietly.

“Well, then, you understand my point. It’s very likely that she won’t take kindly to a disruption, not of this magnitude. She might even be married.” Lincoln held his breath. “Is she?”

Alexis’s answer was terse and to the point. “She is not.”

Alexis said no more but it was enough for Linc, although he couldn’t say why. Afraid to let her see the relief in his face, he crossed the room to stare across the city rooftops as he tried to regain his composure. Millions of people walking the streets below read the L.A. Connection every day, shared their coffee with his editorials, read columns written by reporters that he had personally groomed, traded their stock according to what his power brokers wrote. “What the bloody hell can she know about running a newspaper?” he muttered.

“Perhaps you should ask her. She may want your help.”

“Such big plans!” he scoffed. “And supposing that Valetta does come home. Supposing she does take over the paper. What if she doesn’t want my help? Have you considered that?”

“It will be up to you to see that she does. If she does, maybe we can talk about a partnership. What do you think? Would you be interested in a partnership with Valetta Keane?”

Lincoln’s black brow was an angry furrow that matched the deep lines of his gaunt cheeks. “My, my, Alexis, you seem to have this all figured out very neatly.”

“It’s not that complicated when you think about it. I don’t have that many options, but I won’t allow the Keane family paper to die for the sake of a young girl’s tantrum. Or perhaps you would prefer I did?” Alexis left off with a shrug, suddenly looking drained as she sank deeper into her leather chair.

Lincoln watched her implode but he was in no mood to be generous. Too much was at stake. “What about Valetta?” he asked grimly. “You don’t say what she’s done with her life, but I’ll bet the bank you’ve had her watched all these years.”

Alexis smiled bitterly. “That’s why you’re my managing editor, Lincoln. Nothing escapes you. Well, guess what? Valetta started her own small-town paper about five years ago. She calls it The Spectator. Appropriate, don’t you think? I suppose it’s something in our genetic makeup. Printer’s ink instead of blood, perhaps. Oh, her paper is nothing to speak of, call it a rough draft for the rest of her life, but she’s been getting some very interesting notices lately, statewide. Not unimportant when the state happens to be New York. Still, it’s given her enough practice for my purposes. I’m rather proud of her, actually.”

“Then why don’t you tell her? Why aren’t you running this errand for yourself, Alexis? Why send me?”

Because she’s ready for you…. And you’re ready for her.

But Alexis didn’t say that. Truth was a commodity, language her coin of choice, and she was not known for her generosity. She would say as much as she needed and not one word more. Her eyes fixed, she parried the truth. “To be honest, I’m too weak to travel, but she… she always had a soft spot for you.”

Lincoln was unimpressed. “Come on, Alexis, she was just a baby last time I saw her, a boy-crazy high- school kid.”

“Surely she’s grown up in the last ten years. I would hope she’s learned a few things on the way.”

“About men?”

“About life, Lincoln.” She sighed, although she would have liked to scream for the fool Lincoln was being. For the fool he took her for, too, thinking she’d never known how he felt about Valetta. The truth was, he had been partially the cause of Valetta’s abrupt departure ten years before, even if he didn’t know it. Personally, she had always thought she had been more than generous, allowing Valetta to leave home. She could have stopped her, if she had really wanted. Found a way to force her to return home, if she had really wanted. Brought the brat home in bloody leg irons, if she had really wanted. Except for the one fly in the ointment: Valetta’s colossal schoolgirl crush on Lincoln Cameron. It had blinded Valetta, consumed her as nothing Alexis had ever seen.

And Lincoln Cameron had been a potent mix, his handsome, scowling face in the news all the time—at a podium delivering a speech, at the helm of a sailboat, at a black-tie event with his arm around some starlet’s shoulder. Valetta had kept an album full of Lincoln’s exploits and pored over them, day and night. As a result of her infatuation her schoolwork began to falter, she moped around the house writing silly love letters to the one man on earth who didn’t know she was alive. Lincoln Cameron’s powerful figure loomed large on Valetta’s limited horizon, and the fool hadn’t even known it. Men!

Puppy love, Alexis had called it in a moment of acute frustration. Valetta hadn’t appreciated that. Words were spoken. Unfortunate words that should not have been said by either sister. When Valetta bolted, Alexis had not stopped her, almost relieved to see the brat gone.

Valetta needed time to grow up; Alexis understood that. Recognizing that she wasn’t going to be the one to help her sister, she gladly stepped aside for their aunt Phyla. Her mother’s long-lost sister, the same aunt who, with her own two hands, had built herself a log cabin in the Adirondacks and had not left the mountains since. If Aunt Phyla could tame wild raccoons and live in the company of bears, surely she could tame a spirited teenager with raging hormones.

If Lincoln had had any opinions at the time, he had kept them to himself. Now, ten years later, watching him prowl her office like an elegant panther, rooting about her knickknacks, not understanding his discontent— or perhaps he did—perhaps she was reading him all wrong. Adjusting her sights, she allowed herself a mental shrug. If things hadn’t turned out precisely as she had planned, there was still time. If Lincoln had been Valetta’s first heartbreak, he was going to be her last love, if she, Alexis, had anything to say about it. And not a bad choice, she thought, as she watched him pace about. Yes, the time had come. Lucky you, Mr. Cameron.

Lucky Valetta.

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.”