“Hello, Valetta.”

She turned so 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 unexpected arrival.

The way she stared, her long fingers curling on her daughter’s shoulder… Was her recollection of him all that painful?

Lincoln. Valetta mouthed his name, but no sound came forth. The rush of years fell to the wayside, back to a time when she was young…and helplessly in love.

Not that he had ever known. So much older than she, Lincoln Cameron had never looked her way. He had been more brother than lover. Her heart had paid no attention then.

She prayed it would be more co-operative now.

For Carly

Are we not like the two volumes of one book?

—Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

BARBARA GALE

is a native New Yorker. Married for thirty-five years, she and her husband divide their time between Brooklyn and Hobart, New York.

She loves to hear from readers and responds to all letters. Write to her at PO Box 150792, Brooklyn, NY 11215-0792, USA or visit her website at www.BarbaraGale.com.

Dear Reader,

Owning a cabin in rural New York, I spend many weekends walking country roads. From the dust of summer to the snowdrifts of winter, they never fail me with their beauty. I am often asked if I will ever move upstate permanently, a conversation I frequently have with my husband because the main focus of our lives is bounded by the concrete pavements of New York City. Talk about two ends of a spectrum!

I realise that people move all the time, that America is a Ferris wheel of change, our highways dotted with moving vans. But no matter the state, the city or town, moving from one place to another not only involves a change of venue, but can entail enormous sacrifice and loss. Writing about a wealthy, professional sophisticate who is asked to make this choice was the inevitable outcome of my own thoughtful walks in the woods.

Finding His Way Home is the story of one man’s voyage of discovery. I hope the book gives you pause for thought, and helps in your own discovery that change can be painful, but not without its rewards.

Sincerely,

Barbara Gale

Finding His Way Home

BARBARA GALE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Valetta emerged from the bathroom, swiping at her mouth with a terry cloth towel as she fell down onto the bed, not caring one jot if she woke her sleeping husband.

“Feeling better?” Jack asked with a drowsy smile, not bothering to open his eyes as he snaked a hand around his wife’s thickened waist. Pulling Valetta close, he nuzzled her neck while she drew the covers to her chest and sighed.

“Do you think it’s possible to be nauseous for the next nine months? I’ve heard that it happens.”

“Val.” He laughed, burrowing deeper into her side, his brown hair a shaggy swag across his handsome brow. “You’re almost done with the second trimester, so it isn’t going to be nine more months. Three more, actually, from what I remember learning in med school. Yeah, I’m pretty sure you only have three more months to go.”

“What do you know?” she grumbled. “You’re just a doctor.”

“Yeah, but a good one.” He smiled as he sent sleepy, warm kisses over her smooth, bare shoulder.

“And running late, Doctor Faraday,” she said with a quick glance at the clock, “so don’t get too involved.”

“I already am involved,” he murmured as he wrapped his legs around her thighs. “Feel that? That’s involved.”

Valetta smiled against his mouth as he tried to coax her to return his kisses. “Your patients will be lining up at the clinic in about an hour. Don’t you think you should be there to greet them?”

“I can be a few minutes late. Everyone will understand if I say I got sidetracked!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Ten minutes should do it,” he whispered wickedly against her ear.

“Ten minutes?” Valetta shrieked. “As in slam, bam, thank you ma’am?” But her hands were already sliding round his neck.

“Fifteen?” her husband asked, seeing how his mouthy kisses were beginning to take effect. “God, how I love you, Val,” he breathed against her soft, downy cheek. “Shoot, honey, you can take twenty minutes, if you like.”

The rest of Jack’s words were lost as he tunneled his fingers through Valetta’s copper curls and pressed his mouth to hers. The swish of linen sheets was the only sound in their bedroom for some time until the sighs of their mutual pleasure surfaced and they collapsed in a giggling heap. Too soon, Valetta felt her husband give her bottom a playful pat, felt cool air hit her as he pulled back the covers and scooted from bed.

“Mrs. Faraday, that was the best slam dunk I’ve had in…um…a day.” Jack winked as he leaned across the bed to give his wife a quick kiss. “You can play basketball with me anytime.”

“I’ll file that invitation for future reference,” she promised as she snuggled beneath the covers. “Meanwhile, should I make you some coffee?”

“Gee, would you?” he teased as he headed for the bathroom, knowing full well she wasn’t going anywhere.

Valetta smiled as she heard the shower begin to run, knowing she would be in for a song. Moments later, she heard her husband begin to sing his favorite aria, “Il Pagliacci.” Feeling the baby kick, she wondered whether it was a sign of enjoyment, or a complaint at the disturbance.

“Holy cow, look how late I am!” Jack laughed as he emerged minutes later, toweling his wet hair in a rush of steam.

Valetta peeked from the comfort of her toasty-warm blankets. It was pure theater to watch him rummage through the bureau drawer for a clean T-shirt, shove his long legs into a pair of gray cords, then knot a tie that had nothing to do with his outfit. Today he chose the one of Miss Piggy dancing with Kermit, because it was children’s day at the clinic, and Jack knew it would make the kids laugh.

“Hey there, sleepyhead, are we still meeting the Carmichaels for dinner tonight?”

Sliding up against the pillows, Valetta stretched. “If you can manage it.”

“I can manage it. I have a staff meeting around three, so unless there’s an emergency, I should easily make it there by seven,” he said, bending to give her a goodbye kiss.

The way her eyes twinkled, Jack knew that Valetta was thinking about the last time they made plans to meet. The night little Terry Muldrow interrupted their plans when he decided to sneak a ride on his dad’s new chestnut, at the cost of a broken collarbone. “Kids do the darndest things.” He grinned with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“I can’t wait to see.”

“Well, at least you’ll have a doctor in the house.”

“What a relief to know! I would throw a pillow at you, but I’m too comfy to move.”

“And I would crawl back into bed with you,” Jack replied, his eyes warm as they lingered over his pretty wife, “but someone here has to put food on the table. You writers don’t make all that much.”

“You sound like a Neanderthal, Jack. Marry me, sweetie, and I’ll keep you in steak the rest of your life.”

“Hey lady, that’s a good deal these days, considering the economy.” Shrugging into a well-worn tweed jacket, Jack checked his appearance one last time. “But since filet mignon is probably around twenty dollars a pound, princess, could we please stick to hamburgers until I pay off my student loans?”

“Better yet, how about tofu burgers? So much healthier, don’t you think, Doc?”

“As a Neanderthal, I have my limitations,” Jack protested as he grabbed his keys and wallet. “And a tofu burger is high on that list.”

“About as high as your cholesterol?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my cholesterol that would warrant a tofu burger!” he teased as he waved goodbye.

Jack’s step was light as he took the stairs, his early-morning energy always astonishing to Valetta. She was the total opposite, in that way. She would much rather stay in bed the extra hour or two and linger late at the end of the day to finish her chores. Jack preferred to call it an early night and crawl into bed with a good murder mystery. It came as no surprise when he began reading Patricia Cornwall last summer, for the second time. Patiently, Jack had explained to his wife that not only was Cornwall a fabulous read, but that as a doctor, he was dying—no pun intended—to catch the heroine- doctor in a medical mistake. That he probably never would was unimportant. It was the journey that counted.

Oh, Jack, she sighed, a wifely, loving sigh of pained tolerance as she eyed the overflowing stack of books on the floor and made a mental note to buy him a bookcase for Father’s Day.

“I love you!” she heard him call as he slammed shut the front door.

“Love you, too!”

Even though the bedroom windows were shut tight against the February cold, she could hear him start to warm up the car. The seven-year-old Ford needed the extra time. In her mind’s eye, she saw him put the car into reverse and carefully back out of the driveway. He was meticulous about that, knowing that kids didn’t always bother to watch as they raced down the road on their skateboards and bikes. Not that they’d be biking this cold April day, not after the snowstorm that had covered the area in four inches of white fluff, unexpected but not unheard of in the Adirondack region.

At seven in the morning, no one was about except the salt spreader. From the safety of her warm bed, she heard her husband shout out good morning to the driver, Ned Pickens, no doubt, the only person in Longacre who seemed to know how to attach the massive snowplow to the town pickup. Good old Ned Pickens, she thought as she fell back to sleep.

Valetta began her day pretty much as she had the last six months of a difficult pregnancy, but she hoped that since she’d made it this far, she and the baby could get through the rest without greater complications. One more month and they would be in the homestretch. It was her good fortune to be able to put her feet up, since Jack was a generous and caring husband. Not that they lived grandly or ever would. They had no aspirations that way. He was a country doctor, she was a country wife, and the arrangement suited them both. Even better, deeply in love, they were about to begin their family.

Valetta slept till almost ten and then enjoyed a leisurely bath. After a light breakfast, she booted up her PC. Unable to sit for long periods of time, but not wanting to feel a total slug, she had been determined to continue her freelance writing. Hence the article she had written the day before for a local newsy. Of necessity, she had cut down her hours drastically, but she was still proud of the money she was earning, even if it wasn’t much. She thought, too, that Jack was secretly pleased to introduce his wife, the writer, as if she were on the verge of winning the Pulitzer prize. Darling Jack, she thought, with a rueful shake of her head.

Hey, Mrs. Faraday, how about a little less time mooning over Jack, and a little bit more for this article, she laughed to herself. No one was going to pay her to daydream about her husband.

The afternoon flew by and before Valetta knew, it was six-thirty and time to make the short drive into town. Longacre was one of the many small towns clustered along a narrow ridge of the Adirondack Mountains, a range once as high as the Himalayas. They lived on a dirt road just outside of town, so the trip wasn’t all that far. Dragging on her boots, she slipped into her heavy sheepskin jacket and gathered up her belongings. The shiny new pickup parked on their driveway was Jack Faraday’s one big splurge, his gift to Valetta. Safe as houses, Jack had insisted when he campaigned for the purchase, even though Valetta insisted they couldn’t afford it. But Jack had argued—loudly—that she needed something trustworthy to drive. But what about him? He drove the mountains far more than she, on his rounds and during emergencies. But Jack had dug in his heels. This was one matter he wasn’t going to negotiate. He didn’t want to worry about his wife and child driving alone on the back roads. Valetta had capitulated, and given the way the roads were tonight, treacherous sheets of ice in spite of the morning’s salting, she was glad of the heavy wheels beneath her.

She made the drive with ease, pulling up in front of Crater’s Diner just in time to see her friends arrive. She slid from her truck and they entered the restaurant together, laughing and taking bets on how late Doc Jack would be.

Not tonight, Valetta grinned. He’d promised.

Oh, but hadn’t she heard? There’d been a spinout on Route 10, a three-car pileup on some black ice, and serious injuries. Very serious, according to the radio announcer. Jack would have been called to attend, no question. He was the closest doctor available. Perhaps they’d better go ahead and order, Patty suggested as they settled into a booth. Valetta could order some hot soup for Jack, maybe the corn chowder, hot and sweet and creamy, just the way he liked it. It would be cold work out there on the road, patching up the injured, and he would appreciate the thought.

Jerome Crater’s diner would have been a landmark restaurant in any other city. In Longacre, it was a combination restaurant, town hall and bully pulpit for anyone who had a mind to speak. Valetta enjoyed many dinners there, and many a conversation over a cup of coffee. Jerome Crater had a warm spot for the skinny redhead, as he liked to call Valetta, and treated her like the daughter he’d never had. The bottom line was Valetta was Phyla Imre’s niece. Since Phyla had lived in Longacre her entire ninety years, right up until the day she died, Valetta had been gathered into the fold, no questions asked, even though she had only moved there a few years ago. The fact that she had stayed on after Phyla died, and chose to remain living in Phyla’s house, also worked in her favor.

And then, marrying Jack Faraday, their favorite son! That was icing on the cake! The whole town had been invited to the wedding, and Jerome had even baked the cake, a frosted tower of lemon curd and vanilla icing that still had everyone talking. So, if the lady wanted to order an extra large serving of corn chowder for the absentee doctor, so be it. Jerome served it with nary a grumble in a covered tureen, to keep it warm until Jack arrived.

“Feeling the baby?” Jerome asked as he set the chowder down.

Valetta smiled patiently. Ever since Phyla died last summer, Jerome had been acting like a mother hen, and the pregnancy had doubled his concern. “Everything’s fine, Jerome,” she promised.

“Just checking. Hey, I came up with a name you might be interested in. Sort of like a song.”

Flicking his napkin onto his lap, Chuck Carmichael smiled. “You running a contest, Val?”

“Hush now, Chuck. Go on, Jerome, let’s hear it. You’ve had some good ideas.”

Sending Chuck a scornful look, Jerome made his announcement. “Mellie!” he said proudly.

“Mellie.” Patty Carmichael ran the name around her tongue. “Mellie. Hmm, you know, Val, I kind of like it. It has a certain ring to it. Odd, though. Where’d you dig it up, Jerome?”

Valetta only half listened as Jerome and Chuck and Patty discussed this latest suggestion, busy as she was spreading a slice of Jerome’s famous sourdough bread with half a pound of butter. These days, if she wasn’t nauseous, she was hungry, but Jack said not to mind the calories, she was too skinny as it was, and she cheerfully took him at his word. She was buttering her second slice when the door swung wide, as wide as her radiant smile when she spotted a familiar man enter the diner, his black wool hat covered with new-fallen snow.

“Hey, Faraday,” she called with a sigh of relief. “Over here.”

Hood pulled low, his parka snow speckled, he looked like a veritable snowman. But standing at the diner door to shake free of the snow, he made no move to greet her. Something about the way his hands toyed with his hat…

Why, it wasn’t Jack at all! It was Ned Pickens, his eyes bloodshot and bleary. Carefully, quietly, Valetta placed her spoon on the table, cast her heavily lashed, gray eyes down and folded her hands. Ned’s footsteps were heavy as he approached the booth, his long shadow enveloping her like a shroud. He was so close she could smell the wet wool of his parka, but steadfastly, she refused to meet his eyes. If she didn’t, she would not have to listen to the terrible news she knew he had come to deliver. Something about an accident… black ice…Jack’s car…

No, she thought, floating somewhere above the maelstrom, somewhere she would not have to listen to Ned’s dreadful sobs, not have to measure a grief that would never know a yardstick, not hear the absolute silence of the diner, not hear the sound of time standing still.

Oh, Jack. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end. We had a story to tell, a child to raise, an old age to share.

Oh, Jack, she thought, the air suddenly stifling, her head whirling as the weight of her bleak future bore down on her, and bore her down.

Oh, Jack, I loved you so much!

Chapter One

Nine Years Later

He felt, as he turned the handle, that all things strange and wonderful lay behind the door. That by crossing the threshold, he would be leaving the familiar and true, begin marching down a road from which he would not return. So whimsical, and so unlike him, but he knew what he felt and it was uncomfortable, a faint prickling at the back of his neck that would not be ignored. Maybe it was the peremptory way he’d been summoned, but when he turned the brass handle, a thing he’d done a thousand times before, its carved impress seemed suddenly cold and oily beneath his palm.

The heavy, ornate mahogany door opened onto a blaze of sunlight that rendered him temporarily blind. He was used to that, too, and took a moment to adjust his eyes. He knew she did it on purpose, set her massive antique desk just that way against a bank of windows, to impress people, to send the not-so-subtle message that her visitor was entering holy ground. Hence her refusal to hang venetians, shades, or even a curtain, not even on the sunniest day, and it could be very sunny in Los Angeles. Even the air-conditioned penthouse floor of the Keane Tower, where the publisher of the world’s largest newspaper, the L.A. Connection, presided, was not immune to the solar glare. But Alexis Keane was a stubborn woman.

When his eyes adjusted, he crossed the few yards to the desk where she was huddled, his footsteps muffled by the thick Aubusson carpet that spanned the room. Dwarfed by the huge stack of newspapers that were delivered every day, from every part of the country that counted, Alexis Keane appeared to be so involved in her reading that she didn’t hear him enter. She liked to say that although she might not read every line, no one could fault her for not being on top of the news. But that was her job, the only thing she lived for, and she did it well, as everyone knew.

The sun blazing in through her huge picture window created the effect of a halo to enhance her even more. At least, he assumed, that’s what she hoped. If only Alexis knew, he thought, as he coughed lightly, it made her look small and gnomelike. But damned if he was going to tell her. There were many things he would not tell her—had not told her—over the two decades they had worked together. And there were things she did not want him to tell her. There were moments when a person in her position needed to be able to say I didn’t know, and he accommodated her.

Right now, though, the small, beady brown eyes he had tracked for twenty years suddenly seemed unfamiliar. They were wary when they had no reason to be. The world was quiet this morning—no battles, no 19, no mysterious outbreak of disease—and everyone in the news business knew that sometimes no news really was good news, that sometimes it was all right for the newsroom to sit back and relax for a few hours. It wouldn’t last. So he was surprised to detect the flash of worry on her face, fleeting and gone in an instant. But he was not mistaken. She paid him well not to make those sorts of mistakes.

“Lincoln.”

Her greeting was curt, aimed at the chair he stood beside, rather than his face.

Lincoln Cameron sat, his legs hooked at the knees, his long body unsuited to even the largest leather conference chair.

“Alexis.”

His salute was brief. He waited quietly while she shifted the newspapers into various sundry piles.

“You need a shave,” she said, taking note of his heavy beard.

Lincoln rubbed his cheeks with his big, bony hand. “Then I guess it’s five o’clock,” he said with a faint smile.

She was buying time. Fine. He’d seen her do it before, when the news was bad. But her voice, gravelly and low, seemed to factor newly to his ears. He’d heard rumors…and had treated them as such. The office grapevine was a phenomenon to be scrupulously ignored, but suddenly he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to the rumors. Now he was sitting there observing the sickly green hue of her skin, the sallow yellow tinge of her watery eyes as they avoided his, the simple fact that she did not rise to greet him when she was known for her impeccable manners…. He watched as she shook her head, amused as she looked him over.

“Another custom-made Armani?”

Lincoln glanced down at his dark blue suit, then back at his boss. “Did you really call me in to discuss my sartorial splendor?”

“Well, thank goodness you didn’t tell me I was looking well,” she snorted.

“Is something wrong, then?”

Alexis seemed to find his question amusing. “I’m one of the richest women in the world, and one of the most powerful. What could possibly be wrong?”

Hearing the telltale thread of anger beneath her words, he opted not to answer, but a chill foreboding traveled up his spine.

“And you,” she stabbed the air for emphasis with an exquisitely polished nail, “as my executive editor and one of the most powerful men in the newspaper industry, you would be the first to know, wouldn’t you? I would hope so, in any case, since I’m the one who tutored you. Everything you are is because of me, isn’t it, Lincoln? The White House reads every damned editorial you write, even the lousy ones, before we even go to press. And I damned well know you have the president’s ear, since I myself gave him your private number.”

Lincoln smiled—the deep lines carved along his gaunt cheeks told he was smiling—but his black eyes were cold. It was unusual for her to wave her flag. “I often wish you hadn’t. That man calls me at the most ungodly hours.”

Alexis smiled, knowing he was angry, and perversely pleased. “Puts pause to your private life, does he?” she chuckled, although Lincoln heard it transform into a cough.

“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.”

“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.

And speaking of small towns, what was Lincoln doing in hers?

Chapter Four

“That was a terrific birthday cake Jerome baked for you, last night. Mr. Crater is something of a chef.”

Having spent a truly uncomfortable night on Valetta’s couch, Lincoln thought his effort at civility the next morning, as he sat at Valetta’s kitchen table, was commendable. He just wished she thought so. Busy at the stove scrambling eggs, her muffled agreement was almost inaudible. He was undeterred. Awaiting his breakfast, he thought hard and fast, determined to break through her wall.

“And so many candles! What an old lady you are,” he teased. “Thirty, was it? Good grief, where does the time go?”

The sour look Valetta sent Linc only made him smile. “And Castor and Pollux—I mean, your friends, Ben and Andy—they seem like nice young men. And that Patty, I’ll bet she’s a real ball of fire.”

“Hmm.” Valetta ignored him for the flurried entrance of her daughter accompanied by her yellow dog and two black cats Linc hadn’t noticed until that moment. Someone here likes animals, Lincoln thought, smiling at the birdcage tucked safely in the corner of the kitchen.

“Here’s your lunch box, Mellie,” he heard Valetta say as Mellie mumbled a sleepy good morning. “And here are your eggs. Toast is coming up in one minute.”

Reaching for the salt shaker, Mellie glowered.

“Good morning,” Lincoln greeted the little girl’s chary stare. He guessed he would have felt the same way. It was one thing to meet and greet a stranger in a restaurant, but when said stranger turned up at your kitchen table the next morning…

Her first words proved him right. “How long are you staying?”

A good question. “A day or two, at most. I have business to discuss with your mother.”

“Don’t you like it here?” Mellie asked, switching gears abruptly.

“I do like it here, very much. It’s very pretty, what little I’ve seen of Longacre. But I miss my own home, and my job, and they’re both back in California. Have you ever been—”

“And guess what? I have one, too,” Valetta said as she set a plate of toast on the table with a sharp clatter. She would not have Linc prying into their lives. Just because she was polite enough to offer him a place to stay did not give him special rights. “So enough talk. Pay attention to your breakfast, Mellie. You still have your chores to attend to, don’t forget. I’ll go get my things, and while I’m at it,” she added, sending Lincoln a heated look, “I’ll try to figure out a good time for us to talk.”

“Chores?” Lincoln repeated as he watched Valetta leave the kitchen.

Mellie’s face was a picture of long-suffering. “Change the cat water, fill their bowls with dry food, and refill the birdseed cup.”

Lincoln glanced at the menagerie waiting patiently for their mistress. “May I help?”

“Better not,” Mellie said, as she munched her toast. “Mom might get mad. She has this thing about being responsible.” Finishing her toast, Mellie pushed back her chair and dashed to the cupboard where a big bag of cat kibble was stored, next to an even bigger bag of dog food. Carefully, she filled the animal bowls and put away the bags. Just as carefully, she scraped her plate and stored it in the dishwasher. That done, she solemnly informed Lincoln that she had to brush her teeth. Lincoln nodded into the air because she was already gone, passing her mother in the hall.

“Well, Linc,” Valetta said, returning with her coat, “how are you going to spend the day? You’re welcome to stay here, of course,” she added, halfheartedly.

Your enthusiasm is overwhelming, Lincoln thought, amused at the uncertainty in her voice. “Alexis told me a little about your newspaper—she’s very proud of your accomplishment. I would like to be able to tell her about it, firsthand….” If Valetta didn’t believe him—and she didn’t look as though she did—a little honey might go further than the vinegar of truth. “I’d love to get a close-up look for my own sake, too. If you didn’t mind, of course.”

Valetta most certainly did mind! No way was she going to spend the day with Lincoln Cameron peering over her shoulder. “Um…not a good idea,” she said quickly. “Your big name…you would probably make everyone nervous,” she added lamely.

Mostly you, Lincoln guessed. “You know, of course, that I am supremely qualified to help out.”

“Too qualified,” Valetta said, sending him a curious smile.

Linc shrugged. “It is what I do. You can’t fault me for that.”

“Your first love, your only love, I remember you used to say. Are you married, Linc? I didn’t even think to ask. A wife and kids in your life?”

“Unmarried, no kids,” Lincoln said briskly.

For the first time since Lincoln had arrived in Longacre, Valetta sensed a trace of discomfort in his voice. Even his smile seemed a bit forced, sort of lopsided. The look on his face suggested that she was now prying, so she did not press the issue.

“Linc, obviously I can’t speak to you now. I have to get Mellie off to school, and then I must get to work. I have a deadline to meet. Let’s plan to sit down this evening, after Mellie has gone to bed. Well, after dinner, her homework, a quick game of Scrabble and her bubble bath.” She smiled helplessly. “Last night…my birthday party… Sorry, but we’re a bit off schedule. If I had known you were coming…”

“Don’t worry, if I have to stay the extra day or two, it’s no big deal.”

“I wouldn’t dream of holding you up.”

Lincoln smiled. After years surrounded by sycophants, Valetta’s honesty was refreshing. Why then, did he feel sad? “I get the picture, Vallie.” He grew sadder still, when she winced at his use of her old nickname. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I never doubted it.” Her reply came hard on the heels of Mellie’s return, her coat buttoned unevenly, her hat crooked, her red scarf trailing on the floor. A little girl in definite need of help. “Oh, Mellie!”

“Allow me,” Lincoln offered, surprising them both. Kneeling before Mellie, he made short shrift of the coat buttons, straightened her hat and knotted her scarf. Rocking back on his heels, he noticed Valetta staring. “For goodness sake, Vallie, I do know how to button a coat!”

Her throat dry, Valetta nodded. Feeling mischievous, Lincoln strolled to her side, took hold of her parka and politely held it up. But when he tried to do up her buttons, Valetta quickly stepped back. “Thanks,” she smiled drily, “but I’m pretty sure I can manage.”

Lincoln opened the front door with a smile of his own. “Have a good day, then, ladies. I’ll be waiting here when you get home.”

Valetta followed Mellie out into the snow and climbed into her battered truck, wondering what had just happened. But her wayward thoughts were forgotten listening to her truck screech as she tried to start it up. She had to turn it over three times before the engine caught, and then she had to warm it up a full five minutes before she dared to drive. Disgusted, she made a mental note to check out the automotive ads in next Sunday’s paper. Enough was enough! The last time she had needed a car, Jack had materialized with this monster, but she always thought she would like to own something a little more mommy friendly and less of a gas guzzler, perhaps a Honda CRV. And while she was at it, she might even treat herself to a paved driveway, next summer. One you could really shovel clean in winter and that didn’t boast rivulets of mud when the April sun finally melted the snow.

Listening to Mellie chatter as they drove into town, Valetta’s list grew. Okay, so maybe it was time to get in a plumber to fix that leaky shower. And while she was at it, perhaps she should get Rico Suarez to finish painting the living room. As for that layer of dust…

Hey, Lincoln Cameron appears on the scene and suddenly she sees dust balls in every corner and wants to repave the driveway? Why was she worried about what he would think? He was only staying a day or two, until they had a chance to talk about whatever it was that brought him here.

Alexis sent him, no question! Her sister was trying to interfere with her life again. The last time, two years before, she had invited Mellie to come visit. It was summer vacation; Alexis would take her to Disneyland. Not trusting her sister, Valetta had politely declined. All she had to do was recall the time Alexis had offered to send Mellie to boarding school if they would only move back West… Alexis arguing that a girl with Mellie’s background—and future—should have only the best. Valetta had laughed, but it hadn’t taken long before they were enmeshed in another full-blown squabble. They didn’t talk for at least a year after that little skirmish! Their relationship was colored with many such eruptions, but Valetta wanted Mellie’s childhood to remain untainted by her birthright, which, as far as she was concerned, Mellie was going to be kept ignorant of for as long as possible.

But Alexis wanted Mellie. That was the crux of the matter, as Valetta saw it. With no children of her own, her sister was scheming to get her hands on Valetta’s daughter. No doubt Alexis wanted to groom the heir to the Keane Empire, but Valetta was determined to keep Mellie’s childhood simple. Foolish Alexis, sending Lincoln Cameron to do her dirty work! Well, he was welcome to try, but Valetta was wise to their tricks. Tonight, after Mellie was sleeping, she would hear Lincoln out, smile politely and send him on his way.

Lincoln stood at the window and watched as Valetta and Mellie drove off. He stood even longer, in a brown study as he watched the gathering clouds. Scanning the leaden, gray sky, he guessed it was going to snow. Although the ground was an icy patch of white, he didn’t think he had actually seen a snowfall in some years. True, he was a sportsman, but his idea of fun was lying on a lounge chair by a pool, after a rough game of tennis. Skiing wasn’t high on his list—hell, it wasn’t even on his list!—unless it was over blue water. Alexis liked to say it addressed his holier-than-thou desire to walk on water. Nevertheless, he shied away from the Alps and had never even been to Switzerland, except to dine—once—in Zurich, on business.

Still, as he scanned the woods just beyond the narrow driveway, Lincoln allowed that it might not be such a bad thing to spend some time in New England. It might even be rather quaint to sip some cocoa and watch—from the safety of Valetta’s snug little house, of course—the lacy, fat snowflakes catch in the tall pines or drift down to turn the lumpy, brown ground into a smooth, white blanket. Mellie probably adored the snow. Cute kid. No doubt she owned at least a half a dozen sleds, and he’d bet his last dollar Vallie was a pretty mean sledder, herself.

Vallie. She’d winced when he called her that. She probably hated to be reminded that she had any past beyond Longacre, much less one that included him. But she did, and he would claim it, even in the simple calling of her name.

And damned if she didn’t have a past he was ignorant of!

A child!

A husband. Dead for years, if he understood Mellie correctly, in a terrible accident. But even so.

And Alexis had never said a word! Not a single blessed word in all the years Valetta had been gone— not a word about Valetta’s marriage or the birth of her child, much less the death of her husband. How could Alexis have allowed her own sister to have borne such grief alone? As coldhearted as Lincoln could be, he would never have been so callous. He would have flown to her side, had he known.

And to allow Valetta to live in such squalor, he mused, as he studied the shabby kitchen while Mellie’s cats jumped up on the counter and studied him. Well, not precisely squalor, Lincoln chided himself with a short laugh. But there was no hiding the fact that the once-rustic oak kitchen cabinets were battered, that the Formica table where they had shared their morning coffee was badly chipped, and the shiny vinyl-covered chairs were dull from overuse. And a certain little girl seemed very capable of adding to the disorder, if the crayons, coloring books, sticky tape and glitter bottles strewn across the kitchen counter were any indication. Beyond that, though, he had to admit that the place did seem clean. The appliances might be dented but they did shine. And if the floor tiles were faded, nonetheless they seemed to have been recently waxed. No doubt kids were messy, he thought, as he left the kitchen, amused when Mellie’s dog, Yellow, followed on his heels. Okay, you mangy dog, he thought with a smile. We can be friends for today. But you really do need a bath.

Lincoln knew it was a violation of every canon of good manners, but his curiosity was so strong that nothing was going to stop him. He couldn’t resist—he wouldn’t be human if he had—the opportunity to explore, if not the nooks and crannies of Valetta’s home, the corners of her life. He’d been relieved by her invitation to stay in her home. He was on a hunt, not to ferret out the secrets hidden away in her bureau drawers—he wasn’t dishonorable—but the display readily available to the observant eye, the treasures she had accrued that gave her life meaning, the mementos that defined her. He wanted a glimpse of her keepsakes and trophies and the pictures she had framed so that he could grasp the construct of her life.

The living room was in a similar state of shabbiness. Recently painted, but not quite finished, it was furnished with the green couch with which he was already familiar, a love seat he’d missed the first time, and a worn but colorful ottoman that had never matched the sofa in the first place. Dried flowers of no distinct bouquet filled a huge, dusty vase, an indifferent attempt at a potpourri. He suspected they were flora plucked during a long-forgotten country walk. Bookshelves filled to overflowing with dust-laden murder mysteries made the room seem more untidy than it was. Scatter rugs were just that—scattered, with no rhyme or reason—over an old pine floor that had unfortunately been painted. One rug seemed a dull gray, with a bit of brown thrown in for highlight, and the other a dull brown with a bit of red for color. Valetta’s talents evidently did not run to decorating, he decided. It never occurred to him that Valetta’s lack of free time could factor in.

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