Christmas Homecoming. Lenora Worth

to meet you, Roni,” Jeremy said, taking the girl’s hand to shake it.

      The slender girl giggled, pulling away to hurry after her sister.

      “They’re both lovely,” Jeremy said, not willing to give up just yet. “Like their mother.”

      She looked back at him then. But the smile was gone. Her expression held doubt, her dark eyes going cynical. “Thank you.”

      Feeling awkward and completely at a loss for words, Jeremy looked around. “I’d like to meet your husband.”

      She lifted her head, her eyes filling with a deep pain. “I…I’m a widow. My husband…died a few years ago.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry,” Jeremy said, understanding that sadness in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

      “You don’t have to say anything,” she replied, a soft smile lifting her full lips. “It was good to see you again.”

      She moved to go after her girls, but Jeremy reached out a hand to stop her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was. I just needed…some time.”

      She seemed to absorb that as her distant stance changed and a flicker of compassion came into her eyes. “I understand. Being a Hamilton probably does carry a lot of complications.”

      He nodded, feeling the gentle censure in that remark. “You know all about me, I’m sure. So I can honestly say that in my case, not being a Hamilton carries even more complications. But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

      Her eyes widened at his implied remark. “Oh, no. You think—you must think—Mr. Hamilton, I mean, Jeremy, it never occurred to me—”

      “It’s okay. Everyone’s curious. It’s understandable you’d be put off by all the scandal surrounding me. I guess my coming to church today wasn’t such a great idea, after all.”

      He turned to leave, his heart hurting with the weight of his shame. And the weight of her rejection.

      “Jeremy?”

      He heard her call out. He stopped, but refused to turn around.

      “I don’t back off very easily,” she said in a soft voice as she came closer. “And I don’t judge too harshly. You could have told me who you were the other day. It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

      He looked back then, caught up in her understanding gaze. “I appreciate that, at least. And I hope to see you again.”

      She didn’t respond in words, but she did smile. It was a bittersweet smile, as if to say, “Sure, we’ll see each other again, but that’s about it.”

      It was obvious they were from two very different worlds. It was also obvious that Jeremy had too much baggage surrounding him to let a nice woman like Gabriela Valencia get involved in his problems. She’d told him everything he needed to know. She was a working mother and a widow. She was a faithful churchgoer who didn’t want a man like him in her life. She was nice, pretty, polite, and way out of the realm of possibilities, because Jeremy wasn’t ready for anything near serious with a woman, and because this particular woman’s whole attitude toward him had changed now that she knew he was a Hamilton, or rather, now that she had found out he was the Hamilton.

      The one everyone was talking about, the one everyone was feeling sorry for. He could certainly understand her hesitancy and her doubt. He had too much to get straight in his personal life before he plunged into any kind of relationship.

      That much was apparent.

      But something else was also apparent to Jeremy. Gabi Valencia represented the beautifully chaotic, homey existence he’d somehow lost out on, the kind of life he’d only dreamed about. But he’d always put that kind of life on hold, all for the sake of Hamilton Media. Those days were over, maybe for good.

      For the first time in months, Jeremy had something, someone, other than himself and his family to focus on. He liked Gabi. He was intrigued by her, he was interested in her. And he really did hope to see her again. Very soon.

      Chapter Three

      Bright and early Monday morning, Jeremy stood in front of the Hamilton Media building, memories floating through his mind with the same drifting rhythm as the puffy clouds moving through the sky over Main Street.

      Standing here now, he recalled in vivid detail the first time his father had brought him to this building. Jeremy must have been around five or so, and for months, he’d been begging Wallace to take him to the newspaper office. Wallace had always had an excuse.

      “You’ll get in the way, son.”

      “I’m too busy today, son. Maybe another time.”

      Finally, one morning at the breakfast table, her teacup in hand, his mother had gently pleaded with Wallace to take Jeremy to work.

      “Show our son what you do all day, darling. Show him the legacy of Hamilton Media. After all, it’ll all be his someday.”

      “His—and his brother’s and sister’s, too,” Wallace had replied, his eyes still on his paper.

      There had only been three Hamilton children then—Jeremy, Tim and tiny baby Amy. The twins and Melissa hadn’t even been born. But they’d all learned at very early ages about the Hamilton legacy, about how Jeremy’s namesake Jeremiah had started the Davis Landing Dispatch in the 1920s and had carried it through both the Depression and the Second World War. It was just assumed that every Hamilton child would be a part of this legacy.

      At such a young age, however, Jeremy hadn’t been sure just what a legacy was, but he’d been very sure that his father didn’t want to take him to the office that day. He could still remember the whispered words between his parents, his father seeming stubborn and defiant, his mother, as always, gentle and persuasive. Finally, Wallace had given in, perhaps because his father had one soft spot and that was his wife.

      Jeremy closed his eyes now, remembering the smells that had hit him when he’d entered the revolving doors to the lobby with his father. The aged, musty scents of antiques and old leather had mingled with the more modern smells of copier ink, new carpet and steel and plastic cubicles.

      Then he’d heard the sounds: The ringing of many different telephones, the click-click of typewriters, and the easy, chaotic banter of reporters and editors had all assaulted Jeremy at once. It was an adrenaline rush that he’d never forgotten.

      From the time he’d entered the building, the stain of printer’s ink had settled over Jeremy like a mantle. He’d figured out what the word legacy must mean. It meant power. He’d seen that as his father hurried to the old, rickety elevator and headed to his plush office on the third floor. He’d felt that when Wallace barked orders and had people scurrying to do his bidding, from his prim secretary bringing him fresh coffee and the Wall Street Journal, to the nervous staffers who knocked on his door bringing him many questions. Everything here flowed through Wallace Hamilton. Jeremy had been in awe of that.

      And he’d also clung to his father’s every word, since Wallace rarely had time to spend with his oldest son. But on this day, only for today, Wallace had given Jeremy his undivided attention, simply by letting Jeremy watch him work. Wallace hadn’t explained or lectured or hinted at what was required of Jeremy. But Jeremy had immediately understood. And, still in awe, he’d sat quietly, trying very hard not to bother his busy, powerful father. Jeremy watched and listened and learned, all the while being taken care of by his father’s willing staff. If Jeremy wanted something, it immediately materialized. If he whimpered or whined, he was instantly hushed and handled.

      But that day, as Jeremy had sat at his father’s feet playing with an old ink stamp, he’d been hooked. As he’d grown older and found any excuse to come to work with Wallace more and more, he became caught up in wanting to spend all of his time here in this powerful, exciting place. Jeremy became a part of Hamilton Media by showing up whenever he could to help out, to learn, to absorb