The Homecoming Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Christine Baena

  Excerpts from Hope’s Corner - Copyright 2012 Christine Baena

  Cover Design by the Killion Group

  Developmental Edits by Vickie Taylor, Copy Edits by Denise Barker

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means; print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9893608-0-7

  Indie House Publishing

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This story would never have been told if not for so many people. Most importantly, my late grandmother, Lilia Senior de Baena, for passing on even a fraction of her wonderful gift of writing. Marty Tidwell for convincing me I could write too. The Word Wranglers for teaching me where to start and the Dream Weavers for helping me finish.

  I have to thank Liz Lipperman, and my JAG friends Karen and Cheryl for being the best beta readers a girl could ask for. Without my copy editor, Vickie Taylor, and my Publishing Coordinator Dallas Hodge, this book would still be under my bed. I can't thank either of you enough.

  But my greatest gift is from my family who let me run off to critique meetings and conferences, or take time to curl up with my laptop and write. They always believed this story would become a book.

  Thank you everyone.

  PROLOGUE

  Stephanie Cortez scribbled Women's Shelter across another sealed box of clothes. "Life's a bitch, then you die. Get over it." Somehow, this had become her new mantra.

  "Look what I found." Carrying an antiquated metal file box the size of a lawyer's briefcase, her friend Kate stepped out of the half-empty closet and stopped short at the sight of Stephanie mumbling to herself over a box. "Maybe we should take a break. We've got a lot done."

  "I can't keep putting this off." Swiping at her moist cheek, Stephanie silently cursed her eyes for not cooperating.

  Surely she should have run out of tears by now. Ever since that night in the ER when the doctor so solemnly informed her that her mother hadn't survived, tears came and went with a free will all their own. Damn inconvenient, too. Nothing like standing at the grocery store, transferring a box of your mother's favorite cereal from the cart to the checkout counter, only to be struck by the reality of still having a nearly full box at home. Then the waterworks would start, and the people around her would awkwardly pretend not to notice a young woman crying over a box of Corn Flakes. "It's been six months, and this isn't any easier now than it was the first time I tried to clean out Mom's closet."

  "Steph, cut yourself some slack. She's your mom."

  "It's just that nothing feels right anymore." Stephanie wiped at her eyes and offered a halfhearted shrug before noticing the metal box in her friend's hand. "What's that?"

  "How should I know?" Kate handed the file box over. "It was buried behind the old suitcases in the corner."

  Accepting the box, Stephanie flopped cross-legged on her mom's bed and played with the latch. "I think it's stuck."

  Kate reached for the box. "Let me try."

  "No, I think...I...got it!" She smiled triumphantly, her fingers quickly flipping through file folders, manila envelopes, and assorted papers. Pulling out a file marked tax return, she glanced at the upper right-hand corner. Setting it back in place, she scanned another stray page for a date, and then another. "Most of these papers are from fifteen or sixteen years ago."

  "I wonder why she kept them in the closet."

  "Me, too. I've already been through the file cabinet by her desk. Nothing in there was older than seven years." She scanned another sheet. "Except for the tax return, most of these are in Spanish."

  Inching across the bed on her knees, Kate peered over Stephanie's shoulder. "Can you read them?"

  "Maybe." She continued to flip through pages. "Here's something in English."

  Stack of papers in hand, Stephanie skimmed over the words.

  "Well?" Kate asked impatiently.

  "Looks like this has something to do with the divorce and the newspaper. It's from Mom's lawyer. At least I think it's her lawyer."

  Kate rested her chin on Stephanie's shoulder. "I forgot your dad owned a newspaper."

  "Mm." Passing each sheet of paper from one hand to the next as she read, Stephanie's heart kicked a beat faster with every mention of her father, the newspaper, and the world her mother had left behind.

  "Too bad you can't get a job with him." Kate flopped back on the bed with a handful of discarded pages. "You wanting to be the next Katharine Graham. It would have made great sense."

  Scanning the last sheet, Stephanie's mind absorbed the words at the bottom of the page, For any further communication, contact Fernando Restrepo, Esquire.

  Like a sprinter at the Olympics, her heartbeat took off at top speed. Air filled her lungs and then stopped. For any further communication. The breath she'd been holding blew out in a sudden rush as she sprang from the bed waving the sheet of paper at her friend. Sporting a huge grin, Stephanie practically shouted at Kate. "Do you know what this means?"

  Eyes rounded, Kate turned her palms out and hitched her shoulders. "Do I know what what means?"

  "This." She waved the page again. "I know how to make things right!"

  Still looking like a confused owl, Kate studied her friend a quick moment before smiling back. "What do you mean right?"

  "I mean, I'm going to find my father!"

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a hell of a long way to travel. Over two thousand miles and back sixteen years.

  With every turn of the MD-80, Stephanie's stomach flipped and rolled. Just a little turbulence. It will be over soon, she repeated silently. Nibbling on her lower lip, she watched through the tiny window as the mechanical bird made its final approach into Ernesto Cortizo airport. The closer the aircraft flew to the ground, the more the patchwork quilt of the South American countryside's lush greenery came to life. The swaying palms and blooming vines seemed to reach out to greet her. The only problem was she felt more like an insect about to descend into the colorful allure of a Venus flytrap. What had she been thinking?

  She’d been six years old when her mother packed her up in the dark of night and quietly returned to New York. It had been her first plane ride. She’d been thrilled, exhilarated by the new experience. At the time she’d thought it a grand adventure. Now on the verge of stepping into a whole new world, instead of feeling the excitement of a six-year-old child, facing the unknown filled her with the dread an old nag might sense if it understood it was about to be auctioned to the glue factory.

  The tires bounced twice off the runway, snapping her head back against the seat. A little voice in the back of her mind shouted this wouldn’t be her only rough landing.

  Adjusting the hem of her jacket, Stephanie straightened her shoulders. Her hand rose to her midsection, willing the knots twisting tightly like wet rope in her stomach to untie. She was being silly. This was the gangway of a modern jet. No one was making her walk the plank. So what if she was about to come face to face with the father she hadn’t seen or heard from in sixteen years?

  Forcing her legs to take the first step off the airplane, she noticed a slender, well-dressed woman in her late twenties with long raven-black hair standing to the left of the aircraft’s doorway.

  “Miss Cortez?”

  Surprised to hear her name, she wondered if perhaps there was more than one Cortez
aboard. After all, it couldn’t be that uncommon a name.

  “Miss Stephanie Cortez?” the young woman repeated at her lingering silence.

  “Excuse me, yes.”

  “I’m Lydia Martinez. I work for your father at El Diario." Lydia offered her hand. "He apologizes he couldn’t be here himself. This is Señor Lopez from DAS.”

  She could see Lydia scanning her expression, waiting to see if she knew what DAS stood for, but she didn’t care. All she could think was her father didn’t come.

  When she remained silent, Lydia continued without skipping a beat. “Think of Señor Lopez as the Colombian version of the FBI. He’ll be helping you with immigration and customs. Do you have your passport and customs declaration?”

  For weeks various scenarios had played in Stephanie’s head like a classic old movie. Her favorite had her father whisking her into his arms. In another he shyly reached for the daughter whose youth he regretted not being a part of. Or maybe too overcome with joy, frozen in place, tears would trickle down his face at finally having his only daughter home again. In an instant they all faded to black. The anticipation, the expectations, the hopes fizzled like a wet firecracker. He hadn't come.

  “Señorita?”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Your passport?”

  “Oh, of course.” Stunned and suddenly aware they were holding up the line of disembarking passengers, she squelched the bitter sting of rejection and fumbled through her purse to hand Lydia the requested papers. “Here you go.”

  Silently, she followed as Lydia and Mr. Lopez rambled on in Spanish, Lopez occasionally snapping orders at airport personnel as they passed. At six her vocabulary hadn't been as extensive as that of her current escorts. Concentrating on every word spoken, she was pleased to discover she understood more than she’d expected. If all she had remembered was “milk please” and “I don't want to go to bed yet,” conversation could have been a bit sticky.

  Without making her wait in line, Mr. Lopez returned her stamped passport and then led the way to customs. She watched like a disoriented child as her luggage was retrieved and waved by without inspection. Exiting the glass-enclosed seclusion of the international arrivals area, her heart almost stopped when two large men silently flanked her on either side. Struggling to swallow the panic threatening to erupt with the force of Mount Vesuvius, she stopped and looked to Lydia.

  “This is José." Lydia gestured to her right. "He’ll be your driver during your stay. Ramon is just along for the ride.”

  Reining in her emotions, she almost laughed at Lydia's casual description of the bodyguard. In a country most recently known as the kidnap capital of the world, “along for the ride” would definitely qualify as an understatement.

  She drew in a deep, calming breath and slowly exhaled. Her life had been just fine for the last sixteen years without her father. What the hell had possessed her to think it needed to change now? Sighing inwardly, she knew the answer. She missed her mother.

  Once outside, her first hot breath of tropical air gave a new meaning to the word stifling. Asphyxiation would be more appropriate. For an instant she felt as though she’d tried to breathe through an oversized feather pillow. She knew she was inhaling, but there simply wasn’t any air.

  “It’s a little warmer than I remembered.” She smiled weakly to cover her reaction, hoping her eyes hadn’t revealed her surprise at being momentarily unable to breathe.

  “We’re having a heat wave. It’s thirty-nine degrees today. That’s one hundred and two Fahrenheit.” Lydia climbed into the waiting car and slid across the back seat. “Although I can’t honestly say that we’ve ever really had a true cold spell. I wouldn’t let it bother you. You’ll adapt quickly, and don’t be surprised when you develop an almost-obsessive love of natural fabrics.”

  Lydia’s smile had been polite and welcoming, but now her throaty laugh gave Stephanie her first truly relaxed moment since the pilot had announced they were beginning the descent into Barranquilla.

  “Are we far from my father’s?”

  “We’re about twenty minutes away from the newspaper. Your father is waiting for you at the office. There was a meeting of the board of directors. He couldn’t miss it.”

  “I see. If you’ll excuse my forwardness, your English is impeccable.”

  “Thank you. I got my BA from Oklahoma State University.”

  Soon the clutter of traffic captured Stephanie's attention. Streets designed for three lanes of vehicles carried trucks, busses and motorcycles all jockeying to create four and five lanes, depending on which suited them best. A matchbox-sized taxi wrangled its way in front of a multicolored bus with an unexpected finesse that kept her face plastered to the bulletproof window much like that of a child fascinated by a passing parade. A pair of stray dogs tangled with a peddler at the edge of the road. Her attention drifted to a grungy older man dangling sheets of lottery tickets in the faces of passersby. Scattered childhood memories of quiet streets, green lawns, and romantic, ornate mansions gave way to the challenged progress of a growing city thrust into the realities of the twenty-first century.

  “We’re here.” Lydia smiled warmly, as though sensing Stephanie’s need for reassurance that returning to the city of her birth wouldn’t be the biggest mistake of her life.

  Startled when her car door swung open before she could reach for the handle, she relaxed at José’s bright grin.

  “Señorita.” The tall man with shoulders wide enough to play fullback for the Green Bay Packers nodded. From the looks of it, at least he and Lydia were two people in this city who didn’t mind her visiting. Soon she’d know if her father made three.

  Lydia walked with purpose through the large oak doors of the old building. As a child, Stephanie had thought them to be the size of a city gate and would pretend she was the princess entering the royal grounds of the fabulous palace. Now the doors looked surprisingly ordinary. Briefly she admired how well the sturdy oak had withstood the passage of time, and squelched the disappointment that clutched at her already-nervous stomach. She wondered how many other grand memories from her childhood perspective would shrink in comparison to stark reality.

  Inside, desks were scattered in nooks and crannies along the long hall with several offices hidden behind closed doors. Everyone she passed busily pretended not to notice the boss’s American daughter making her first appearance in sixteen years.

  Waving at a plump leather chair, Lydia stepped to one side of the doorway. “Your father is still tied up. Would you like something to drink while you wait? Coke, lemonade, tinto?”

  Tinto, the coffee her mother once claimed was strong enough to preserve a corpse. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  “He shouldn’t be long.”

  “Thank you.” Her focus immediately fell on the massive desk by the window. An unexpected surge of delight warmed her soul at finding the hand-carved piece of furniture as big as she remembered. Sitting in her father’s chair and playing reporter while waiting for her mom and dad to return to the room was one of her few memories of life with her father.

  Trailing her fingers across the barley-twist edging, she walked around the oversized mahogany desk. Her brow creased as she searched for any recollection of the chair she had twirled around in as a young child spouting orders to imaginary assistants. She wasn’t sure if it was the same well-worn chair. Perhaps if she sat…

  Easing into the comfortable chair, Stephanie continued to admire the rich wood under her fingertips until the frustrated tone of a deep, male voice in the outer office caught her attention.

  “I don’t care who he asks for. When Guido Campo calls, you put the call through to me!”

  “Yes, sir, but Señor Cortez heard me answering the phone—”

  “Anita, I’m counting on you.” He flashed a soft grin, changing the tone of the conversation.

  Watching the scene unfold through the doorway, Stephanie strained to hear. The man’s voice lowered almost seductively, and
if the secretary’s nervous smile and batting eyelashes were any indication, she wasn’t the only one to pick up on his now-sensual tone.

  “I don’t want Señor Cortez talking to Campo. No matter what it takes, keep Campo away from him.” From her seat at her father’s desk, she could see the successful impact of his broad smile on the woman.

  “Señor Hernan.” A petite blonde in a snug, blue dress that barely covered her well-rounded bottom hurried up beside him. “Señor Cortez is delayed. He wants you to take care of his daughter.”

  “Daughter? She’s here?” He didn’t need an answer. With a slow turn of his head, his eyes narrowed, shifted to what he had obviously thought to be an empty office, and landed sharply on Stephanie.

  Dragging his gaze away from her, he turned back to the two women standing beside him. Giving them a warm smile, in complete contrast to the icy stare he’d shared with Stephanie, he thanked them, entered the office, and closed the door. “It has apparently fallen on me to welcome you to Colombia.” His English, among other things, was flawless. “I’m Daniel Hernan.”

  “Thank you.” She was uncomfortably aware of the piercing glare sizing her up, leaving another crack in what was left of her barely controlled facade.

  “My pleasure.”

  He stood perfectly still, like a fine marble statue that filled its audience with reverent awe by its mere existence. Hair the color of ebony, scarcely long enough to reach the top of his collar but long enough for a stray lock to dip casually over his brow, framed strong, chiseled features. His voice was warm and smooth, but the temperature in the room had just dropped ten degrees, and it had nothing to do with the air conditioning. His expression was one of barely restrained hostility. His jaw was set like stone. Eyes, a clear azure blue, held no sign of the almost-playful maneuvering of moments before. They held only fury and contempt.