Finding His Way Home

“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.

Chapter Three

At precisely five o’clock, on a brutally cold winter’s night, in a small town perched on the edge of the Adirondack Mountains, Crater’s Diner was suddenly a revolving door of hungry, weary customers all wanting the blue plate special. The diner became a low thrum of voices recapping the day, making plans for the weekend, arguing good-naturedly over who was going to drive the ski team to Plattsburg for the state finals, figuring out who was going to coach the soccer team next spring. While the adults sorted out their schedules, their kids sat quietly hunched over their schoolbooks, getting a start on their homework while they waited for their dinner.

In the midst of all this, Valetta and Lincoln stood suspended in time, unheeding while the world rushed past them. Ten years and a thousand what-ifs fell by the wayside as the past merged with the present. But there was no time to talk, to salute each other with meaningless words while they recovered their composure. Mellie’s tug on her mother’s sweater called them back to earth. “Come on, Mom, let’s go sit down! I’m starved!”

Valetta forced a smile. “You’re always hungry, sweetie. Go check on Yellow and then we’ll see what Jerome has for dinner.”

“It’s Tuesday, Mom! It’s Mulligan Stew!”

“Please, do as I say, Mellie.” Valetta watched as her daughter skipped over to her dog and whispered in his ear. She heard Lincoln whisper, too.

“I’m sorry, Valetta, I didn’t think to warn you I was coming. It was inconsiderate of me. I can see that my appearance has come as a shock.”

“To say the least.”

Lincoln could see that she was troubled, but so was he. “That little girl comes as a big shock to me. I’m talking about Mellie,” he explained to her confused look. “She’s adorable.”

Valetta was surprised. “You mean, you didn’t know? Alexis never told you?”

“Valetta, I had no idea you were even married,” Lincoln said quietly. “Alexis never said a word.”

“I…I’m…”

“Okay, I’m back,” Mellie piped up as she returned from her errand. “Yellow promised to stay put,” she announced over her shoulder as she marched down the aisle and flung her backpack in a booth.

“May I join you?” Lincoln asked politely.

Valetta hesitated, unsure what to do. He hadn’t flown three thousand miles to sit down at a counter. Come to think of it, why had he come? “Is Alexis—”

“Alexis is fine,” he assured her quickly.

Relieved, Valetta’s reluctant nod was a forced concession. She led the way to the booth, glad that Mellie had chosen one at the back of the diner, just in case the conversation got out of hand. Not that she would ever allow that to happen, not with Mellie present. Not that the Lincoln Cameron she remembered would ever be so crass, but conversations had a way of getting out of control.

Judging from the way Valetta’s eyes darted nervously about, Lincoln knew that she was upset. It was easy to read, too, in her stiff spine as he followed her down the narrow aisle, although she greeted everyone politely. He guessed that she and her daughter were regulars, that eating in the diner was a habit, maybe for the whole town, the way the booths had filled up. There wasn’t even a seat available at the counter. Jerome Crater served more than ten customers! Judging from the platters emerging from the kitchen, chunks of beef sitting in a thick steaming puddle of brown gravy, surrounded by potatoes and dotted with barley, Lincoln thought it was probably a wise choice. Very few people had time to cook like that anymore. The aroma alone made his mouth water, and he had just had lunch!

Mellie was surprised when Lincoln slid into their booth, but Valetta covered her daughter’s hand and quickly introduced them. “Mellie, sweetie, this is Mr. Lincoln Cameron. He’s an old family friend.”

Mellie’s assessment of the stranger was swift and concise. “We already met. And you don’t look that old—you look like a pirate.”

“Mellie!”

“No, don’t,” Lincoln stopped Valetta, stroking his five o’clock shadow. “You know what, Miss Mellie? So many people have told me that, I am beginning to wonder if maybe I was, in a past life.”

“Hey, we learned all about that in school. Re-in-car-na- tion, my teacher called it. Do you really believe in that kind of stuff?” Mellie asked, squinting up at Lincoln.

“Reincarnation? Not really, but like I said, sometimes I wonder. How about you?”

Mellie thought about it. “No, I don’t think so, either. But maybe.”

Lincoln nodded. “Smart girl. Always cover your bases.”

Mellie shrugged as she began to dig through her backpack, apparently unconcerned that she didn’t get his meaning. Lincoln watched as all manner of things began to appear on the table: a battered pink Barbie pencil box; two nubby erasers; a pink pencil sharpener; dirty tissues; clean tissues; and a battered box of cherry cough drops. The tools of the trade, he mused. Amused to notice, too, that although Mellie was busy setting herself up for some serious coloring, she had not lost sight of their guest.

“How come you know my mom?”

“I live in California.”

Mellie was impressed. “Mom, you knew Mr. Cameron when you lived in California?”

Valetta sighed for the questions that were about to come fast and furious. “Yes, California,” she said vaguely.

“Oh, Mr. Cameron, do you know my Aunt ’Lexis? She lives in California, too. Right, Mom?”

Lincoln was relieved to hear that Valetta had not entirely hidden her past from her child. It made his job easier. “As a matter of fact, yes, I do know your aunt. Quite well, actually.”

Valetta paled. So, she thought, things had not changed all that much. But Mellie gave her no time to think. “My mom told me that my aunt lives in a castle, so she must be rich. I’ve never met her, but if she lives in a castle, she must be rich as Crustus.”

“As rich as Croesus, Mellie, not Crustus. And it’s not good manners to talk about someone else’s money.” Valetta’s swift warning glance told Lincoln that Mellie was ignorant of her mother’s share in that wealth. His faint nod told her that he understood.

“Well, okay. But since Croesus was a king, does that make my aunt a queen? Because I would like to be a princess,” Mellie declared, as she opened a huge box of crayons. “Would that make me a princess?”

Lincoln liked how Mellie ignored the correction for the importance of the idea. “She’s definitely not a queen!” His lips twitched, but outright laughter would not do, he knew. He was saved by a young man with purple hair and an earring arriving at their booth with a basket of rolls and silverware.

“’Evening, Mrs. Faraday, Mellie. Sir.” Carefully, the boy set the bread on the table. “Look out, Mellie, here comes your knife and fork.”

Valetta shifted her daughter’s coloring book although Mellie held fast to her precious box of crayons. “Good evening, Cory. This is Mr. Cameron, an old family friend. He’ll be joining us for dinner.”

“I figured,” Cory said, as he laid the table for three. “Glad to meet you, sir.” Solemnly, he took their order, although since there was only one dinner special on any given night, the choice was only out of politeness. Everyone in Longacre knew this. The real choice lay in what to drink. Mellie asked for a cherry Coke and Valetta ordered an iced tea, no sugar. The young man waited patiently for Lincoln to decide, not surprised when he, too, opted for the iced tea.

“Sorry for the invasion of your privacy,” Valetta said to Lincoln as Cory walked back toward the kitchen. “I thought I had better explain who you were before the rumors started. Everyone Cory serves tonight is going to ask.”

Lincoln was amused. “Do you think that calling me an old family friend is sufficient to stop rumors from spreading?”

“Not really.” Valetta smiled faintly. “It will be interesting to see who everyone decides you are, by the end of the night. It’s like that child’s game, Telephone.”

“Oh, I love that game!” Mellie said, absorbing every word the adults spoke even as she colored a page of monkeys pink.

“I know you do, sweetie. Do you remember how to play, Lincoln? You whisper a sentence in the first person’s ear and send it down the line until the last person repeats the sentence aloud—usually a totally garbled mess and complete corruption of the original.”

“Something like my job,” he said with a faint smile.

“Well, yes, that’s true, isn’t it?” Valetta agreed, unable to resist a small chuckle.

“Why? What do you do, Mr. Cameron?” Mellie wanted to know, all ears, although she continued her coloring.

“I’m a newspaper reporter.”

“Like my mom?”

“Something like, or so I’ve heard. Alexis did tell me a little of what you’ve been up to,” he said, answering Valetta’s curious look.

Valetta shook her head, her white hair waving. “Don’t let him fool you, Mellie. Mr. Cameron is a whole lot more than a reporter. Mr. Cameron runs the L.A. Connection, a really big newspaper out in California. He’s the editor in chief.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t do the actual reporting, anymore, but I used to.”

Mellie was confused. “Then what do you do?”

“The easy part. I boss the reporters around and go to luncheons and parties and accept awards,” Lincoln explained. “Hey, that can be work, too.” He laughed.

“Parties aren’t work,” Mellie said, disbelieving.

“I suppose that the parties you go to aren’t, but the kind of parties I attend can sometimes be a good deal of labor.”

Amazed, Mellie shook her head. “Maybe you should come to some of ours. My mom and I have great parties, especially pajama parties. They’re the best. My mom bakes brownies and lets me and my friends build tents in the living room and stay up as late as we want, while she goes to sleep.”

“I would be honored.”

“Oh, but I forgot. You can’t. They’re for girls only.”

“Ah, well, another time, perhaps. When your parents have a grown-up party.”

“We don’t have that kind. I don’t have a father,” Mellie solemnly confided.

Now it was Lincoln’s turn to be shocked, a fact which did not pass the young girl by. “If you’re my mom’s friend, how come you don’t know that?”

“A very good question,” Lincoln answered cautiously. “I guess your aunt Alexis neglected to tell me.”

“Oh. Well, my dad’s name was Jack Faraday and he was a doctor and he died before I was born,” the little girl offered, proud to impart such grown-up information.

Although his gentle words were directed at Mellie, Lincoln’s eyes fastened on Valetta. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I didn’t know him,” Mellie confessed. “He died in a car accident. That’s why my mom has white hair. The minute he died, her hair turned white, and nobody knows why,” she said with a dramatic shake of her head, “not even the doctors.”

Lincoln looked at Valetta’s silky white hair with something akin to sorrow. “It used to be a reddish- brown, a sort of coppery color, right?”

Uncomfortable under such scrutiny, Valetta would have liked to change the conversation, but Mellie was oblivious. “Yup! Just like mine,” she said proudly. “But she’s still pretty, don’t you think?”

Lincoln looked directly into Valetta’s gray eyes. “I have always thought so,” he said quietly.

Blushing profusely, Valetta fumbled with the bread basket. “Lincoln, would you like a roll? They’re fresh. Jerome bakes them every afternoon.”

Valetta’s voice was a low plea to change the topic and Lincoln nodded as he reached for the bread basket. He had so many questions, now that he realized how much Alexis had not told him, and he would have answers. But it didn’t have to be right then.

Mulligan Stew was not his usual fare, but as Cory arrived with their plates, Lincoln decided that if it was hot, he wouldn’t complain. Cautiously, he lifted his fork. “This looks pretty good,” he said politely.

“Everyone says that Jerome is the best cook in Longacre,” Mellie confided, setting aside her coloring book.

“That’s because he’s the only cook in Longacre.” Valetta smiled as she speared a green pea.

“No, Mom, there’s Randy’s Café. Did you forget?”

“No, I didn’t forget, Mellie, but with Randy’s leg broken in two places, who knows when she’ll reopen. Ordinarily, she takes the burden off Jerome serving all these people,” Valetta explained to Lincoln. “Unfortunately, she fell last month, sledding with her youngest.”

“And me! I was there, too!” Mellie said importantly. “I saw the whole thing and ran for help. She didn’t even cry! I would have cried,” she confided.

“Well, Jerome Crater’s Mulligan Stew suits me just fine,” Lincoln said over another forkful of beef. “This really is good, in fact, it’s terrific! And I haven’t had a Parker House roll in years. And here he was, talking as if he were some local yokel short-order cook. This meal makes him a chef, as far as I’m concerned. Now that I think about it, I wonder if he was making fun of me!”

“When was this?”

“When I arrived, this afternoon.”

Valetta was amused. “Did you treat him like a local yokel? Because if you did—”

“I did nothing of the kind!” Lincoln said indignantly.

But privately, Valetta thought that could happen without Lincoln intending it. The way he talked, the way he held himself, the expensive clothes probably purchased on Rodeo Drive, perhaps even in Italy. Valetta glanced across the table at the fine silk of his shirt. Yes, definitely handmade in Italy. It all bespoke a lifestyle that was alien to this small town.