Finding His Way Home. Barbara Gale
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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