Finding His Way Home. Barbara Gale

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ