The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice

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      Dear Reader,

      It’s been fifteen years since this book marked my debut as a fiction writer. The Long Road Home was first published in 1995. Reading it again, I was amazed to see the similarities of personal impact between the bank scandals of the nineties and the scandals that have made headlines in the past year. The old adage is true: what goes around comes around. Yet, the struggles and triumphs of the heart remain ageless.

      I chose not to revise the novel, rather to let it stand as written. I did, however, change a few anachronisms for this reprint. It was amusing to remove the Walkman cassette and public coin-operated telephones. No matter how much time passes though, this novel will always be special to me. It’s my first novel. I began writing it when I was put on bed rest during the pregnancy of my third child. When I finished writing the story, I had given birth to both a book and a baby. It was an amazing journey, one in which I learned that what is at first perceived as an obstacle can be a serendipitous turning point.

      I hope you enjoy reading the timeless message of love and second chances in The Long Road Home.

      Mary Alice

      The Long Road Home

      Mary Alice Monroe

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      I dedicate this book to my mother,

      Elayne Monogue Cryns.

      For he hears the lamb’s innocent call,

      And he hears the ewe’s tender reply;

      He is watchful while they are in peace,

      For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

      —William Blake, “The Shepherd”

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Chapter Thirty-Three

      Chapter Thirty-Four

      PROLOGUE

      THE DAY HAD BEGUN as so many others. An early arrival at the bank, quick signatures on urgent papers, Mrs. Baldwin presenting the day’s schedule; nothing unusual. Yet outside the Manhattan skyscraper, the weather had turned. Blue skies had grown black, and an arctic wind was blowing in an un-seasonable cold front. It was still early on Wall Street. Lights flickered through the dark morning mist like candles.

      On the streets below, a drunk peed on the corner of the bank. Above, the sky did the same, releasing a pelting rain that left angry streaks against the windows and sent the people below scurrying into buildings, ducking under newspapers, or disappearing, shivering, down the pavement.

      Charles Walker Blair looked out from his window at the gray sky and the gray-cloaked figures on the pavement and had the singular thought that his whole world had turned gray. It was a rare, trivial thought for the level-headed banker, owner of the Blair Bank.

      From the hallway, angry shouts seeped into his office: the low drunken slurs of a man and the shrill opposition of his secretary. His mouth tightened in annoyance. Suddenly, the door flung open and the drunk lurched in.

      Charles Blair turned from the window and stared at death in the eyes of Michael MacKenzie.

      MacKenzie wobbled at the entry, his arms outstretched in a steadying gesture and his feet spread eighteen inches apart. He was a big man: broad shouldered, wide jawed, and ham fisted. His usually impeccable suit was soiled and had probably been slept in, his customary red tie with the corporate logo had vanished long ago, and his thick ruddy-brown hair was as unkempt as the hair on his cheeks.

      “So this is where you’re hiding out, eh, Blair?”

      Charles Blair rose from his polished mahogany desk and discreetly indicated for his secretary to leave. Her large frame hovered at the door, looking expectantly at the angry drunk, then she lowered her head in resignation and silently closed the door behind her. Charles knew that she would race to the phone as fast as her arthritic legs could get her there and place a call to security.

      Charles eyed the weaving drunk suspiciously. The man reeked of sour booze, and MacKenzie’s sneering face made it clear he was a mean drunk. Charles casually walked around to the front of his desk and lightly tapped a green leather chair with his long fingers.

      “I’m not hiding anywhere, Mike. You always know where to find me. Sit down. Let’s talk.”

      “Talk!” shouted the other man. MacKenzie staggered forward and grabbed the opposite side of the high-backed chair. “You don’t want to talk to me. Last week, you wouldn’t even see me. Sicced your army of lawyers and execs out to do your dirty work, didn’t ya?”

      Charles Blair leaned against his desk in a leisurely stance but kept a wary eye on the other man. MacKenzie had a reputation for being a mean mule with a hard kick. With a will of iron and the genius of a maverick, he had built his financial empire up from a single grocery unit in New Jersey. He was young. A man of action. Which made his drunken state all the more foreboding.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “You’re a liar.”

      Charles narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t lying, yet MacKenzie was convinced. Every instinct in his body screamed alert. There was too much hatred here for mere confrontation; too much anger for reason. Michael MacKenzie wanted blood.

      “Mike, sit down,” Charles tried again, speaking slowly. “It’s obvious you’re upset.”

      “Upset?” Mike slapped his knee and laughed till he coughed and spit out upon the oriental carpet. He rubbed the spittle into the wool with his dirty heel.

      A muscle twitched in Blair’s cheek, but he neither spoke nor moved. He watched as Mackenzie, with halting steps, paced a muddy trail across his office, eyeing the diplomas, trophies, and personal photographs on the walls.

      “Well, look at you,” he slurred. “Got yourself a picture with every president since you were in diapers. Now ain’t that sweet. An’ lookee here.” Mackenzie pointed to a wall of diplomas. “Harvard…