Homecoming

Contents

The Journey

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Heading Home

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

The Return of Walker Lee

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Rockabye Inn

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

About the Authors

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Journey

Fern Michaels

One

Maggie Osborne Harper set her bags down on the polished floor. Her own personal, lonely homecoming. Home being this snug, cozy cabin in Wyoming. Her real home, if you could call a condo in sunny Florida home, was her secondary place of residence, a place to go to when the snows came and Ozzie Conklin’s Survival Camp shut down for three long months.

She hated Florida, hated the two-bedroom condos in Fort Lauderdale, hated the green-and-yellow decor, but most of all she hated the crowds of sun birds and the noise that blanketed the area during the winter months.

This was the time of year when, on returning to the cabin, she did a thirty-minute stint of soul-searching. She kicked her bags to the side of the door and headed for the small efficiency kitchen, where she stoked the wood-burning stove and made a strong pot of tea. The fire in the monster fireplace in the living room was blazing, thanks to Lulu, Ozzie’s wife. She could curl up with her mug of tea and think about either the year ahead or past years. Usually, she thought about the past, because she still felt bitter and wounded even though it was twelve years since Matt Star had left her standing at the altar without so much as a, Look, this isn’t working for me, or a, So long. Marriage isn’t in my cards. Not to mention the loss of the thirty-five thousand dollars her parents had paid for the wedding.

Probably the hardest thing to remember, but she brought it to the forefront of her mind each time she returned to Wyoming, were the pitying looks on her parents’ and friends’ faces. Dumped on her wedding day at the proverbial altar. A girl never got over something like that. At least this girl didn’t. She’d tried; she’d even gotten married for three whole weeks before she called it quits. Licking her wounds, she’d returned to college in Pennsylvania and got her degree in forestry, an unlikely profession for someone like her, who preferred the fast-track life sprinkled with glitz and glamour. After graduation, she’d sent out applications by the dozen and taken the first offer that came in, Ozzie Conklin’s Survival Camp for men and women who needed to prove they had what it took to survive in the wilderness and to become a man or woman of the ’90s.

In a way, she’d stacked the deck when she sent out her applications. She’d remembered Matt talking about the time he took Ozzie’s survival course when he was fifteen, the course that earned him his cap, the cap he said he was wearing to the wedding, the cap he ate with, slept with, and was never without. It had been Matt’s choice for their honeymoon, and she’d gone along with it. All she cared about was seeing Matt happy. What was it he’d said? Oh, yes, If we go to Ozzie’s camp it will be like a homecoming for me. Me meant him. Instead, she’d been the one to follow through and, to her knowledge, Matt Star had never been back. So much for homecomings and passion-filled nights under the stars.

She’d put Matt’s name on her application as the person who’d recommended the camp. She’d come out here the day after Ozzie called to offer her the job, and she’d been here ever since.

Matt Star, neighbor, childhood friend, teenage friend, and then lover. God, how she’d loved him. So much so that she used to make herself sick at the mere thought he might not show up for a date. He always did, though; Matt was a man of his word. Until the day of the wedding. Matt, at the age of twenty, was a legend in his own time.

Today, Matt Star headed up Digi-Star, the largest software company in the country, second only to Bill Gates’s Microsoft. Matt was a billionaire several times over. He was still as handsome as ever in a rugged kind of way. Just last week, she’d seen a pictorial article in the Sunday section of the Miami Herald. She’d even clipped the article so she could torture herself occasionally by looking at it.

Enough of the past! Maggie poured herself a second cup of tea and switched her thoughts to the future—a future that was so iffy she’d filed an application in the Everglades in case Ozzie was forced to file for bankruptcy this year. Ozzie and Lulu owed her and every other trail guide six months of back pay. She wondered if the others would return the way she had. She’d work for Ozzie for nothing as long as he fed her and let her stay in the cabin. She owed Ozzie and Lulu. Big time. It was going to be interesting to see if the others felt the same way. She’d know by supper time, which was three short hours away.

Maggie stirred in her nest of pillows, her tea cup empty. Time to get on with the business of living. She threw a log on the fire, poked at it, watched the flames dance upward. She’d sat with Matt in front of many a fire, their arms around each other, telling one another what they saw in the flames. Matt’s visions were always so much more interesting than hers. What was he doing? Right now, this very minute? Did he ever think of her? What did he think and feel the day he sent her parents the check for $35,000 to cover the wedding he’d walked out on? Surely a small measure of guilt.

Her parents had died that same year, one after the other, in the space of eight months. She’d sold their small house on the Intercoastal, taken the $35,000 and the money from the sale of the house, and paid for the two-bedroom highrise condo on Highway A1A that was fully furnished.

Enough already! The past was as dead as yesterday’s newspapers. Twelve years was too long to dwell on things that weren’t meant to be.

Maggie turned when she heard wild scratching on her door. She thrust it open and was propelled backward until she landed on the couch, one hundred and ten pounds of dog on top of her.

Buzz! She tussled with the chocolate Labrador who was licking her face and neck and trying to crawl under her sweater. Guess that means you missed me. Guess what, I missed you, too. Next time you’re going with me. If that fancy condo association won’t let you in, we’re moving. So there! I brought you the biggest bone Publix had in the meat department. I even cooked it and it stunk up my luggage, but I didn’t care. Go get it. It’s in the duffel.

She watched in amazement as the dog worked the zipper with his teeth, found the Baggie, pawed it open, sniffed it, and then carried it over to the fireplace, where he proceeded to chew it, one eye and one ear cocked in Maggie’s direction to make sure she wasn’t going anywhere.

Maggie loved the rough, two-room cabin with its chintz draperies, worn flowered furniture, homemade rugs and heavy quilts, all made by Lulu during the winter months. The space heaters were Ozzie’s contribution, as well as the ceiling-high stack of firewood. She crossed her fingers and said a prayer that Ozzie would find a way to pay his bills and keep the camp going. If there was a way, Lulu would find it.

Buzz was a streak of darkness as he raced to the door, his tail wagging ninety miles to the minute. Yo! Anyone here?

Annie, you’re back! Welcome home! Maggie said throwing her arms around her best friend. I thought you said—

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got a good job this winter tending bar in the Catskills and managed to save enough to see me through till next year. I had to come back because I love those two cantankerous curmudgeons. Did you hear anything? I put on seven pounds. Can you tell? It was all said in one long, breathless streak of sound.

Maggie eyed the pudgy, freckled face young woman, six years her junior. Annie was an eternal optimist. Maggie suspected she slept with a smile on her face. She was smiling now as she cuddled with Buzz by the fire.

So, tell me, did you meet any men this winter? The devilish glint in Annie’s eyes made Maggie laugh.

Yep, two very spry eighty-year-olds who were looking for a nurse to take care of them. I wasn’t looking. How about you?

"At least two dozen. Not one ounce of marriage material in either one of them. I had a lot of fun, though. I hate to mention this, Maggie, but you’re thirty-three. Your biological clock is starting to tick. I can hear it! By the way, I saw—I clipped this article out of the Times on Sunday. It’s about that guy you almost married. If you don’t want it—"

I don’t. I saw it. Maggie’s voice turned flat and hard.

"Ooooh-kay. I signed up two guys for April 15th. I even got deposits for Ozzie. One of them has potential. I think you might even like him, Maggie. He’s an architect and he was an Olympic skier a few years ago. A nice guy, and he’s got money. His hair is thinning a tad, and he needs to lose a few pounds around the middle, but the guy is sterling. He wants to get married. Now, how often do you hear a guy admit to that?"

What’s really wrong with him?

He makes a lot of noise when he eats. He has this jaw problem.

Maggie tossed a pillow in Annie’s direction. I’m not interested, thank you. I’ll find my own man. Then maybe I won’t. I might opt for old-maid status.

Get real, Maggie. You’re a one-man woman. I know it, you know it, everyone in this camp knows it. You’re letting the best years of your life slide by. Hiding here in this place isn’t your answer. When was the last time you had a real date? Never mind trying to think. It was so long ago you can’t remember. When was the last time you bought a pretty dress and got all gussied up? Twelve years ago, she said answering herself. By the way, I like that new hairdo—and is that sunglitz I see on those sheared strands? You did meet someone! I want to hear everything.

Maggie flushed. I did not meet anyone. I went for a haircut and this guy talked me into the sunglitz. I have to admit I like it. It’s a great wash and wear cut. I brought the stuff with me in case you want me to do yours. I have a feeling we’re going to have lots of spare time this year.

My God, Maggie, what will we do if Ozzie—?

I don’t want to think about it, Annie. Ten years is a long time to work in one place. It becomes a home. I filled out an application with the Everglades Park Service. You know, just in case. I’ll hang in here till the last second. I want you to know that.

Me, too. If it comes to that, I’m willing to relocate if you want a roommate.

Maggie nodded.

What do you suppose Lulu is making for dinner? First night back is always special. Take your best guess, Annie said.

If the larder is full, a big venison roast with potatoes and carrots, fresh bread, coleslaw, and peach cobbler. If things are tight, Spam or tuna, as in Lulu’s Special Surprise. Frozen Twinkies with grape jelly on top for dessert. If everyone comes, it won’t matter what we’re having. God, Annie, I hope they all show.

They will. The guys are as loyal to Ozzie and Lulu as you and me. I tried calling Harry and Gus before I left this morning, but their phones were disconnected. I think that means they’re on their way. Ben called me to wish me a happy new year and he said he was coming back. I think we can count on Sophie and Mickey. The only two I’m not sure about are Kevin and Ross. Is that pretty much how you see it?

I’d say so. I don’t think Tiny will be back. He said he was going to have to take care of his dad because of some back surgery. Nine out of ten isn’t bad. The flip side to that is Tiny might show up later, when things are more settled with his father. We are a loyal group.

Cross your fingers that things work out. I don’t want to see Ozzie go under. Oh, I see you unpacked your cap.

Maggie’s features hardened. I goddamn well earned every thread in that cap. This cap is what lets me know I am who I am. She fingered the embroidered lettering that said Lulu’s Bait Shack. In a defiant gesture of something she couldn’t define, Maggie jammed the khaki-colored baseball cap on her head.

I didn’t mean … everyone knows the story of those two baseball caps. Let’s drop it, okay?

Good idea. Let’s check out the other cabins and see who else arrived. Maybe Lulu can use some help in the kitchen.

Annie watched as Maggie removed the baseball cap and hung it on a hook jutting out from the corner of the fireplace. I hate you, Matt Star, even though I don’t know you, Annie muttered under her breath. I wish you sleepless nights for the rest of your life for what you did to Maggie.

Two

Three thousand miles away in a suite of plush corporate offices, Matt Star, shining CEO of Digi-Star, propped his feet on top of his glass-topped desk. He pushed his baseball cap, which said, Lulu’s Bait Shack, farther back on his head. He eyed the hole in the knee of his jeans, which, to him, seemed to match the size of the hole in his right sneaker. He finger-combed the springy curls on top of his head with his left hand while his right hand traced intricate invisible patterns on a manila envelope that was marked Personal and had been hand-delivered at three o’clock that afternoon. It was now ten minutes past ten P.M.

The contents of the envelope intrigued him.

A challenge?

A mission?

The homecoming he’d put off for more years than he cared to remember?

All of the above?

The man who was a legend in his own time, the man Wall Street said was snapping at Bill Gates’s heels, felt like crying. All because of the envelope in his hand. At 3:10 that afternoon, after he’d read the contents of the envelope, he realized he’d conquered all his worlds. He was on top, and when you were on top, there was no place else to go but down. He knew he could stay on top if he wanted to. But what was the point?

Better to move on now, by his own choice.

He was thirty-five and he’d done it all—the Himalaya thing, he’d almost gotten married, the Everest thing, he’d shot the most dangerous rapids in the world, almost got married, gone big-game hunting in Africa, almost got married, finished first in his class at college, gotten his MBA, almost got married, became a media darling, started up Digi-Star on a shoestring, gone on the big board, almost got married, was a billionaire ten times over. He wiggled his big toe until it popped out of the hole of his sneaker. The sight pleased him. These days, very few things in his life pleased him. Plain and simple. There was no one to share all these things with. By his own choice. And it was the wrong choice, one of the very few mistakes he’d made in his life.

He should be married now with kids, a boy and a girl. He should have a dog and a cat, maybe a bird that sang in the morning. A house in the mountains and one at the shore. He should have a wife waiting at the door when he got home, at two in the morning, at three. If he had a family, he’d go home to dinner and a noisy house with the dogs barking and the kids wailing. He didn’t have any of that. What he did have was the house in the mountains decorated by some cross-eyed yuppie. He should have learned his lesson with that decorating fiasco, but he’d gone ahead and allowed the yuppie to decorate the shore house. It, too, was a horror. He didn’t go to either place anymore. Instead, he stayed in his apartment at the Dakota in Manhattan or went to Stamford on the weekends. Hell, he had houses everywhere—Maui, St. Croix, Gstaad, Paris, Hong Kong—and he rarely ever saw them. They were empty, unwelcoming structures that cried for a family—a family he didn’t have. His eyes started to burn.

He should have married Maggie. Walking out on her had been the biggest mistake of his life, a mistake he thought about every day of his life. Twice he’d tried to find her so he could explain something he didn’t understand himself. With all the resources at his disposal, he knew he could find her if he really wanted to. And say what? Hey, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin your life. I paid your family back for the wedding. Well, la-de-da. Big deal. Like that really made it more palatable. Maggie was probably married now with kids of her own. She had the house with the kids and the animals and a husband who came home for dinner. Maggie with the laughing eyes. Maggie with a heart full of love for him. Then, not now. Now, someone else was probably receiving that love, love that should be his.

Son of a fucking bitch! he thought.

Matt’s eyes burned again as he got up from his desk to stare out at the New York skyline. The baseball cap he was never without was suddenly in his hands. As far as he knew, there were only two in existence, and he had one of them. Handmade by Lulu, who twenty years ago had her own bait and tackle shop. Given to him by Lulu and Ozzie for a job well done. The proudest moment of his life—and there were many proud moments—was when Ozzie put the cap on his head and said, Today, son, you earned my respect, and I’m proud to call you my friend. The day you come back here to take on Big Red will be the day you become a man. And what had he done to earn that respect? He’d climbed down a mountain, putting his own life at risk, to save a young girl who’d slipped over the edge of a rocky precipice. He’d carried her twenty miles on a litter. She was married now, with five children. Every year, she sent him a Christmas card with a picture of her family and a five-pound box of homemade cookies she said the kids made. Twenty years of gratitude and the best cookies he ever ate was worthy of the five college funds he’d set up for Susie Jensen’s kids. He wasn’t going to think about Big Red and that man crap.

Jesus, Matt, are you still here? You need to get a life, my friend. Long years of familiarity allowed Marcus Collins to say whatever he pleased to Matt, who never took his bluntness the wrong way. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Is something wrong?

I guess it depends on your point of view, Marcus. Yes, I know it’s after eleven, which makes me wonder what you’re doing here.

I hate going home to an empty house. Julie took the kids to her mother’s for Easter break. It gives me time to play catch-up. Before you ask, they took the dog and the cat with them. Betsy can’t sleep unless Tiger is at the foot of her bed.

Maybe that’s what I need, an animal to sleep with. Jesus, I can’t remember when I had a good night’s sleep.

Why don’t you take a vacation, Matt? I can handle things here. Did something happen I don’t know about? You seem kind of jittery to me.

I managed to work my big toe through the hole in my sneaker. That’s a happening, don’t you think?

It’s right up there. What’s in the envelope? Since I’m your right hand, shouldn’t I know?

I guess you could say it’s my past, my present, and possibly my future. Tell me something, Marcus. The truth now, and don’t stop to think before you answer. I’m going to ask the question and I want your answer lickety-split.

Okay.

Can you run this company?

Damn straight I can. I had the best teacher in the world: you. Why?

You asked me what was in this messengered envelope. See for yourself. Want a beer?

Sure. The Chinese I ordered should get here any minute.

You ordered Chinese at this time of night?

Yeah, I said I was you. Sam Chin said he’d make it special and bring it right over. Best time to eat Chinese is the witching hour. Ah, I see now. So, what’s the game plan?

Matt eyed his friend of thirty years. He was the one person in the whole world next to Maggie that he would trust with his kids—if he had kids—and his money. Marcus was a warm, caring, unflappable friend who’d go to the wall for him if need be. He was pudgy, with a thinning hairline and merry blue eyes. It was his infectious smile that endeared him to everyone in the company. Marcus never made a statement he couldn’t back up, and he was that rare person who followed through on every single thing that happened during the course of a day. Matt knew he’d been offered jobs paying three times the money he was paying him, but Marcus was loyal, saying only, You’re paying me more than I’m worth plus stock options, so that has to make me wonder what those other guys want from me.

Ah, our food is here. Pine nut chicken, chow mein, fried rice, ribs, and egg rolls. Dig in, Matt, and tell me what we’re going to do.

Matt grimaced. "Ozzie and Lulu are in financial trouble. This information, as you can see, was sent anonymously. I ran a financial check and it’s true. If Ozzie doesn’t have a good year, he’s out of business. The camp is his and Lulu’s life. When he met her, she owned a bait and tackle shop that was very profitable. She gave it up to go with him into the wilderness to set up his survival camp. I guess the past five years or so he just managed his payroll. Lulu can make do with almost nothing, so I have to assume it’s been tough. Now, I could step in and offer to lend him money, but he’d refuse. I could buy the camp and let him run it, but he’d refuse that, too. Ozzie is a proud man. I was a snot-nosed, arrogant fifteen-year-old when my old man shipped me off to Ozzie’s camp. Whatever I am today is because of Ozzie.

I’ve been sitting here thinking all evening. Tell me what you think. I’m going to sign up all our department heads for Ozzie’s survival course. That goes for you, too, Marcus. We’ll bounce the calls off the satellite so Lulu won’t know where they’re coming from. I’ll give him a good year so he can put some money aside in case next year isn’t as good. He’s got ten guides who take out twelve people for two weeks each at five grand a clip. His first course starts a week from tomorrow and he goes until the snow comes, usually around the end of October, sometimes till the end of November. This year is his and Lulu’s twenty-fifth year in business. They deserve to be successful. No one should have to worry about scrounging for money in their old age. I’m not going to let it happen. We’ll stagger the department heads so the company is covered. If I go, that means I have to deal with Big Red. Do you think it will work? Pick your time, Marcus.

Of course it will work. Everything you touch works. As you know, I’m not the outdoor type. I can’t swim either. I get blisters when I hike. I hate wood smoke. It burns my eyes. I get poison ivy when the wind blows. I’m allergic to mosquitoes and I don’t have the foggiest idea of how to rub two sticks together to make a fire. Do you want to rethink this, Matt? I gotta tell you, old buddy, that guy Ozzie messed with your head back then. You’re a man. This business and your bank balance says so. You don’t need to do that homecoming thing. Why can’t I stay here and mind the store?

What if I said it’s a requirement to taking over this company?

Then I’ll do it. Jesus, I hate beef jerky.

Matt dusted his hands. Let’s do it! You start bouncing those calls. I’ll make some direct calls and send some telegrams and faxes. We can’t screw this up, Marcus. It’s too important.

Marcus stared at his friend. The light of battle was in Matt’s eyes. It had been years since he’d seen him this excited. The man had a mission, and the homecoming part of the deal didn’t seem to be bothering him too much. Now, if he could find a way to locate Maggie Osborne, things just might get even better for his best friend.

This is like the old days when we pulled all-nighters. A lot of years ago. Don’t forget the photographer is coming at eight in the morning. High Tech Man of the Year three years running. You should be proud of that, Matt.

Being Man of the Year was the last thing in the world Matt Star was interested in. He was already on the phone with his list of potential clients for Ozzie Conklin. When the photographer showed up in the morning, Marcus knew Matt’s big toe would be sticking out of his sneaker. He would pose for the photographer because he’d given his word, but the pose would be next to his beat-up pickup truck, and his baseball cap would be tilted at just the right angle so everyone could see the words Lulu’s Bait Shack clearly. Knowing Matt as he did, he knew he’d have his sneaker with the hole in the toe positioned just right so it, too, was clear in the photograph. Matt Star was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy.

The two-hundred-pound bell on the Conklins’ back porch bonged to life, one bong, two, and then three earsplitting sounds. The disaster bell, as the guides referred to it, had only rung three times in twenty-five years. It was a sound to be taken seriously. The guides, one by one, hurtled from their bunks, grabbing slippers, boots, and robes for the mad dash to the main building. Buzz howled as he streaked past Maggie and Annie, who were in a dead heat, breathless from their effort to reach the main cabin.

Breakfast’s ready, Lulu said.

There’s no emergency. I want everyone to sit. Sit. I have good news. Wonderful news! Ozzie said pointing to a pile of papers at the end of the kitchen table.

It’s four o’clock in the morning, someone said.

I thought someone died, Annie said.

Ozzie Conklin was a big, grizzled man whose hands were bigger than ham hocks. He was barrel-chested, with no waist line and short stubby legs. His curly white hair ran into his beard, which Lulu kept trimmed and matched his eyebrows to perfection. On more than one occasion, Ozzie had posed for Santa Claus pictures in town. One of his proudest possessions was a red suit that Lulu made for him one year when they were snow bound.

We’re in business, gang. The reservations have been coming in so fast my fax machine got jammed up. Lulu can’t keep up with the telephone calls, and Western Union has been here four times during the night. You aren’t going to believe this, but I’ve had to turn some people down. The ham hock hands slammed down on the kitchen table. What do you all make of this?

We’ve had so many direct deposits Ozzie is going to give all of you your back pay today. We’re solvent, so it’s steak and eggs for breakfast and steak again this evening. Lulu’s tired