Finding His Way Home. Barbara Gale
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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—”