And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Winning.  Nothing else mattered.  Determination roared up from deep inside him.  He launched himself at the ball, reaching, reaching….

It landed solidly in his grasp, and he catapulted forward.  A hand grabbed for his shoulder, missed and snatched again.  He ran, flat out, every self-doubt that had ever plagued him pushing him down that field.  But just as Will’s feet crossed the line, the safety tack­led him, taking him down, slamming him into the un­forgiving turf.  His right knee twisted and took the full impact of his weight.

The resounding crack echoed in his ears.

He lay there, not moving while thousands of fans roared their support, hero worship for a young man who, at twenty-nine, had reached the top of the ladder he’d chosen to climb.  Nausea rose inside him, swift enough to draw a groan from his midsection.  Then the blackness over­took him, and everything else faded against the backdrop of his fa­ther’s unreadable frown.

Chapter One

Hannah Jacobs had long been aware that most of the people in Lake Perdue considered her a mystery.  They thought it odd that a young woman would go months without showing her face at a public func­tion.  Odd that she seemed content to work in a small ­town library week after week, month after month, year after year, when most of her peers had moved away to make their fortunes.

They didn’t know that the old brick building with its slate roof and musty memories of the flood of ’64 suited her.  It no longer mattered that she’d once entertained other dreams.  The library had become her solace.  Her refuge.  Books did not ques­tion or judge.  They made safe companions.

As assistant librarian, Jenny Dudley did not share Hannah’s passion, but she went about her work with singular efficiency and enthusiasm.  In the past few years, she had become Hannah’s closest friend.  But even with Jenny, she avoided talking about anything personal, preferring, instead, to discuss topics associated with the li­brary—which books had received favorable reviews in Publishers Weekly, how many they could order and stay within budget.

Today, though, their conversation did not run toward anything so dry.  Hannah would have given a day’s pay to be arguing the merits of stocking the shelves with extra copies of Faulkner.  Avoiding Jenny’s eyes, she reached for the L encyclopedia and shoved the vol­ume into its proper spot.

“It would do you good to get out for a change, Hannah,” Jenny said.  “A parade would be just the thing.  You need to start living a little.” At forty-five, Jenny followed her own advice, coming in with a new hair­style every week.  Keep a man guessing, she said, convinced it would eventually help her find the man she’d been searching for in the twenty-odd years since she’d lost her husband.

“I don’t have time today.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of the same old routine? You’re here every day except Sunday.  And every night you head straight for that old mausoleum you call home.  You’re the only person I know whose spice cabinet is alphabetized.  Not to mention that you’ve read ninety-five percent of the books in this library.  Books and reality are two different things, you know.  What you need, Hannah Jacobs, is something to ruffle your feathers a bit.”

Hannah closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck.  She’d heard it before, how the romance of spinsterhood had gone the route of the wooden icebox.  “Jenny, don’t start this again—”

“A young woman like yourself ought to be getting out more.”

“Jenny.” The word was a warning.

“And I can’t understand why you insist on playing down your God-given good looks.  It’s like you’re try­ing to hide them or something.  Why on earth don’t you—”

“We’ve been through this before, Jen.  Please.”

Jenny muttered something about the folly of a woman hiding her light under a bushel, then made a mock salute of truce.  “All right.  But it’s not as if a local hero comes home to roost every day of the week.” With a what’s-this-world-coming-to sigh of exasperation, she urged the metal book cart down the aisle and said, “You really aren’t going?”

“It’s February,” Hannah said, hoping to divert Jenny’s mission.  “How can you have a parade in February?”

Jenny shrugged.  “No one ever complains about having the Christmas parade in cold weather.  What’s the difference?”

A gust of wind caught a limb of the pine tree out­side the front window, slapping it against the pane.  Hannah flinched, then reached for another book.  “Parades are for soldiers coming home, retired war veterans, even Santa Claus.  Not football players,” she added with a shake of her head.

“For goodness’ sake, Hannah, you act like Will Kincaid’s an ax murderer or something.  He won the Super Bowl.”

“And the rest of the town is acting like he’s the messiah.”

“Oh, that’s hogwash.  You know he’s just a local boy made good.  What’s wrong with giving him a lit­tle pat on the back?”

“Certainly a contribution to mankind.” Hannah aligned the row of encyclopedias in soldier-like preci­sion, despite the fact that the two-thirty school bus would drop off a dozen or so hands to interpose A with C and P with Z.

“Come on.  Sandy will be here after school to work the front desk.  We could slip out for a few min­utes—”

“I have a dental appointment at four.” For all the sorrow in her voice, she could have been announcing her imminent departure for Tahiti.

The corners of Jenny’s mouth puckered in a frown.  “I guess I’ll go by myself, then.”

Hannah didn’t take the bait.  “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of company.”

“Well, then, you might just be sorry,” Jenny said, attempting one last tack.  “He’s awfully good-looking, if all those magazine articles are anything to judge from.”

Smoothing the front of her dress, Hannah grabbed the remaining books from the cart, sending her co­worker a look that said it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been Adonis himself.  “I need to run a few er­rands before my appointment.  I’ll see you in the morning, Jenny.”

Hannah slipped the last three volumes into their appropriate spots, then walked to the front desk.  She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out her purse, humming as she went, an apparent portrait of indif­ference.

Chapter Two

The yellow twenty-five-miles-an-hour sign warned would-be speeders of the hairpin curve marking the entrance into the Lake Perdue town limits.  Will Kin­caid took note of it, then dismissed it much the same as he’d once dismissed his ninth-grade algebra teacher.  He knew today the same reckless uncertainty for his future he’d known then.

Downshifting, he sent the car accelerating into the curve.  The new red Ferrari hugged the pavement at well over double the sign’s advised speed.  The tires squealed in protest before the car hummed on, fourth gear, back to fifth, leveling off with a purr that was to the auto enthusiast what Rachmaninoff might have been to the New York Philharmonic patron.

Limits.  Life these days revolved around them.

Will didn’t have time for speed limits today.  He was late.  Late for this parade his father had planned.  He’d wanted nothing more than a few weeks to re­cover.  A few weeks to put body and soul back to­gether again.  To forget about football.  And Grace.  To convince himself he’d done the right thing in walking away from both of them.

The Super Bowl.  The high point of his life.  It had shattered not only his knee, but all sense of direction, as well, leaving him with no idea of where to go or what to do.

Not that he hadn’t had his share of well-meaning friends and relatives intent on showing him the way.  Head for Hollywood.  New York’s the place for you.  Come home for a while, son.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.

Despite the barrage of well-intended advice given him, Will had let Lake Perdue beckon and win for the time being.  Will’s father had wanted him to move back home, an option totally out of the question.  He’d rented a house in Tarkington’s Cove, instead.  Close enough to visit.  Far enough away to secure the space he needed.

Although, so far, physical distance hadn’t been a deterrent for his father.  John Kincaid had still man­aged to talk Will into sitting on some ridiculous float and being pulled around town like a monkey in a cage.  “How can you turn them down, son?”

“I’m tired, Dad.”

“It’s just an hour or two.  Surely that’s not too much to ask from someone who’s made it as big as you have.”

Guilt.  John Kincaid played it better than anyone Will had ever known.  No one had pushed him harder toward his success in the NFL.  No one had reminded him of it more often.

Will had relented finally, certain by the end of their discussion that his father would get more pleasure out of the event than anyone else in Lake Perdue.

He hadn’t exactly dressed for the occasion, a fact his father would be certain to point out.  Will had never been much for Armani suits and the like.  Designer jeans had battled for their share of the market with­out ever making it to a hanger in his closet.  His taste had remained constant over the years.  He still pre­ferred Levi’s, the kind that had been washed so many times they’d gone soft and white.  Today he’d paired them with a denim shirt and a worn-looking leather jacket that cost more than a lot of used cars.  He wore equally well-worn loafers on sockless feet.  He hated socks.

He reached forward and popped in a CD.  The sound of Wagner’s “Die Walkure split the air, blasting away at the edges of his impatience.  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, while he controlled the steer­ing wheel with the other.  The car had been a bonus from Hank Calhoun, owner of the team on which Will had played wide receiver.  A farewell present for a job well done.  And maybe a bit of a bribe, as well, Will had later realized.  For him to consider going back to work for Hank in some other capacity.  To reconsider not forgetting Hank’s daughter once he left L.A.

“You and Grace make a fine couple, Will,” Hank had said the last time they’d talked.  “There aren’t too many men I’d hand my daughter over to, you know.” Will knew it was true.  But it had taken him three years to realize he wasn’t the man for that particular honor.

Like the rest of the world, Hank had known Will’s career was over.  No one seemed willing to dispute the evidence that he would never again play football.  “With the number of inju­ries you’ve had on that knee, this was just the final straw, Will,” one of the doctors had said.  “The aver­age playing time is three-and-a-half years,” another had consoled.  So he’d had more than most.  But that didn’t make the verdict any easier to accept.  A verdict he’d sentenced himself to years ago.  Time to pay the hang­man.

Using his left foot, Will braked to a halt at the first of the town’s three stoplights.

No one understood why he’d left the West Coast mecca of wealth to come back to a town where the population hovered around five thousand.  He wasn’t sure himself.  He just knew that home was the place for him to recover—both physically and men­tally.

With one wrist draped over the wheel, he glanced at his surroundings.  Things had changed since his last visit.  Progress had stuck its big toe into Lake Perdue.  Aaron Tate’s General Store, which had since risen to One Stop Gas & Go status, still sat on the corner of Second and Main.  A pizza joint had been wedged in between it and Kawley’s Drugstore, more than likely giving Simpson’s Ice Cream, the old high-school hangout, a run for its money.  On the other side of the street, Ethel’s Fine Fashions had been replaced by a shop that looked as though it belonged on Fifth Ave­nue in Manhattan, a concession to the customers coming in from some of the lake’s new develop­ments.

Disappointment shot through him.  Nothing stayed the same.  The rest of the world was beginning to dis­cover Lake Perdue, the quiet little town that had been his refuge in the years of traveling from one big city to another.

The light turned green.  He put his foot to the accel­erator and continued along Main Street, dodging the potholes and passing a car and then a truck.  He didn’t know either of the drivers, but he lifted a hand in greeting, anyway.  Here, everybody waved.  Will pic­tured himself cruising down Sunset Boulevard, wav­ing at every car he passed.  He shook his head and smiled to himself for the first time that day.

Tom Dillon, an old friend and now a town deputy sheriff, stood just ahead in the middle of the street, directing traffic for the parade.  Will rolled down his window and lifted a cautious hand in greeting.  The two had been buddies in high school, until they’d had a falling-out just before graduation.  Will hadn’t for­gotten it.

Tom apparently had.  He grinned and yelled, “Hey, Will, man how’s it going?”

“How ya doin’, Tom?” Will threw back, a cool note in his voice.

Tom blew his whistle and motioned a lane of traf­fic forward, shouting over his shoulder, “Come on out to Clarence’s when you get a chance.  Buy you a beer.”

With a half nod and a wave, Will swung off Main onto McClanahan for the First Baptist Church.  He checked his appearance in the mirror and then glanced up just in time to see a stop sign ahead that hadn’t been there the last time he’d been home.

Brake lights flashed as the car in front of him rolled to a stop.  Nothing short of a miracle would allow him to miss it.  Tires squealed, rubber smoked against as­phalt as the Ferrari plowed into the back of the stopped car.

The air bag exploded, preventing Will from going through the windshield.

He slammed a palm against the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a closer look at what he’d done.  The brand-new Ferrari now sat with its nose tucked under the ancient relic in front of him.

The car was the color of his aunt Fan’s grasshopper pie.  It appeared to be a good thirty feet long, sporting twin pointed extensions just above each taillight.  He recognized the make—a Cadillac Sedan de Ville.  Had it been a convertible, it would have looked a lot like something Batman drove.

With another muttered curse, he climbed out of the car, pulling his leather bomber jacket close against the February chill.  He cast a glance at the damage and decided it might not have been as bad as he’d thought.  A few scratches maybe if they were careful about sep­arating the two cars.  Not worth calling the police.

Lips pressed together, he limped across the pave­ment to the other driver’s door.  A woman.  He should have guessed.  Judging from the antique she was driv­ing, she probably hadn’t been on the road in fifteen years.

Will knocked on the window and leaned forward.  The woman sat there, staring straight ahead as if in a trance.  Alarm stabbed at him.  What if she was hurt?

Before he could complete the thought, the car door opened, barely missing his nose.  The woman slid out of the front seat, sidestepping him until they stood a good four feet apart.  Focusing to the left of his shoulder, she asked in a frigid voice, “Was there a problem with your brakes?”

The question sounded innocent enough.  But her tried-and-convicted tone rankled Will.  He took a step back and arched a brow, taking in the wool cap pulled so low on her head that she appeared not to have any hair, the round glasses that seemed to dwarf her small face, the scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked under her chin.  From the way she’d mummified her­self, he could barely see where the hat ended and the scarf began.

“Hey, I’ll be the first to admit this was my fault.  But you were barely moving, you know.”

The woman kept her eyes averted and appeared to be searching for words.  Her response, when it finally came, was calm and reasonable.  “McClanahan wasn’t exactly made for drag racing.”

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and stared at her, his eyes narrowed.  Something about the woman seemed familiar.  Only he couldn’t see her well enough to figure out what.  He stepped back and frowned at her.  “Do I know you?”

The woman hesitated.  Then she quickly pushed past him and slid into the car to shuffle through some pa­pers she pulled from the glove compartment.  “I have an appointment in a few minutes, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with.  I assume you have insurance.”

Will couldn’t remember the last time a woman had given him the cold shoulder.  Maybe he’d gotten spoiled, but her attitude ticked him off.  “I do,” he snapped.  “And I’d rather not get the police involved in this.  I’ve had a pisser of a day, if you’ll pardon the language.  Your damage is minimal.  I’ll take a chance on mine.  I’m late for something myself.”

Her eyes widened.  “If you could please give me your company’s name.” She kept her gaze on the notepad in her hand, pen poised in midair.

“Better yet,” he said, his voice softer now, “how about if I just pay you for the damage? We could make a reasonable estimate, and if it’s more, you can get in touch with me later.”

“I’d prefer to keep this within the law.”

“I wasn’t suggesting anything illegal, just—”

“Convenient.  You’re interested in convenience.” She nodded impatiently.  “All right.  We’ll do it your way.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.” He turned and made his way back to the Ferrari, deliberately taking his time.  Reaching for the wallet inside the glove com­partment, he pulled out a wad of cash and counted out several large bills.  That ought to do it.  He doubted the whole car was worth that much.

Favoring his right knee, he ambled back to the woman’s car and leaned inside to hand her the money along with a few insurance papers.  “It’s all there.  With a toll-free number.  I don’t imagine you’ll need it, though.  This should cover it.”

The woman glanced down at the money and shook her head.

“I made what I thought was a generous guess,” he said.  “If it’s too much, keep the rest for your trouble.”

“Fine,” she said, looking suddenly angry.  With surprising strength, she yanked the door closed, leaving him staring at her through the window.

He took a hasty step back and then grimaced when a pain shot through his leg.  Suddenly he realized he hadn’t told her he’d disconnect the two cars himself.  It would need to be done carefully, just right in order to—

He reached out to pound on the window just as she fired the old clunker, jerked it into gear and surged forward.

Speechless, Will stood there watching as she floored the heap and roared through the intersec­tion at a speed that couldn’t possibly be described as a snail’s pace.

Chapter Three

It was well after five when Hannah pulled into her driveway on Wilmington Street.  Turning off the igni­tion, she leaned forward and glanced up at the old white house.  The towering maples stood naked and gray in the front yard.  Jenny was right.  With only one person to fill its rooms, the house was a mausoleum.  Built in 1910, it had been designed for a family, not a woman alone.  But Sarah had loved the house.  And Hannah loved it, too.  She’d grown up here in a child­hood filled with books and classical music.  And books with endings where Mommies and Daddies didn’t leave their little girls.

This house was home to her with its front porch and rocking chairs that invited one to sit and relax.  It was the same front porch on which Sarah had sat watch­ing Hannah play in the front yard.  The same porch from which aunt and niece had stood hand in hand as Hannah’s father had turned to say, “‘Bye, Hannah Banana, see you soon,” as they’d climbed into their car.  Two young parents who’d met up with responsi­bility too soon and handed their daughter over to Sarah long enough to sow a few wild oats.  Unaware that they would never see either Sarah or Hannah again.

In front of the white rail porch grew Hannah’s treasured Madam Butterfly tea roses.  Featherless peacocks now in the last throes of winter.  Hannah’s mother had planted the bushes more than twenty-five years earlier, when she and Hannah’s father had first married and lived here with his older sister, Sarah.  Hannah tended them now, pruning and pampering, awaiting their arrival each spring as one awaits the re­turn of old friends.

She climbed out of the car, reached for her purse and shut the door with a clunk.  After letting herself into the house she leaned against the door and closed her eyes.  In this house, at least, everything remained in order.  Dishes were stacked neatly in the kitchen cabinets.  Towels were folded precisely on the bath­room shelves.  Books lined the walls of the small den.  She felt better just being here.

The house had its own familiar scent.  Years of lemon-scented furniture polish, winter afternoons of chocolate-chip cookies and summer Sundays of blackberry cobbler.  Home.  For the first time in an hour-and-a-half, Hannah allowed herself to relax.  She felt as if she’d been holding her breath since she’d glanced in her rearview mirror to find Will Kincaid ramming into her car.

Will Kincaid.  She’d known he was coming back.  But meeting up with him face-to-face had been the last thing she’d anticipated.

She sank to the floor and rested her head in her hand.  In the few seconds she’d had before he stalked up to her car, she’d wrapped the scarf around her neck and yanked the hat down on her head, praying he wouldn’t recognize her.  And he hadn’t.

To her surprise, the realization had brought her no sense of satisfaction.  In fact, she’d found herself fighting the crazy impulse to shout at him.  Don’t you know who I am? Have I changed that much?

But then, she knew the answer to that.

She scrambled up to stand before the cherry mirror that hung in the hallway.  She yanked off the hat and the glasses she wore for driving.  Ten years had brought about more than a few changes, she knew.  She’d all but given up makeup.  Fine lines had appeared in places where once there’d been none.  She didn’t smile much anymore and tended to stay about five pounds underweight.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror.  She’d gotten what she wanted this afternoon.  Will hadn’t recognized her.  And she’d driven away without hav­ing to endure the awkwardness of that recognition.  She had no desire to start digging up the past.  She should be glad.  She was safe.

Laughter bubbled inside her at the irony of it.  Her eyes grew moist and the laughter died.  Ten years.  And she’d never forgotten Will Kincaid or his smiling face.

She’d never forgotten him.  He hadn’t recognized her.

Chapter Four

Hannah went to work at the Lake Perdue Library each Saturday morning from eight to twelve.  This Saturday should have been no different.

She left her house at seven forty-five just as she al­ways did.  But this morning as she scraped the frost from her windshield, she sent a cursory glance up and down the street before climbing into her car.  Turning off Wilmington onto McClanahan, she searched both directions for a flash of bright red.

She was being ridiculous.  As if he’d be waiting for her.  She doubted he even remembered the accident had taken place.  He’d been so nonchalant about the whole thing he’d probably already replaced the car with a new one.

Determined to put the incident behind her, she climbed out of her car and shut the door.  Halfway through the library parking lot, she turned and looked back at the sorrowful sight of her aunt’s cherished old jalopy.  It had been one of Sarah Jacobs’ eccentrici­ties, and she’d been reluctant to part with it long after such gas-guzzlers had gone out of style.  Along with everything else she owned, Sarah had left it to Han­nah when she’d moved into Meadow Spring a year ago.  Hannah didn’t know why she’d kept the car other than that she couldn’t see herself in some flashy little import.  And it ran perfectly.  Why replace it when the entire trip to and from work rolled the odometer for­ward a mere ten miles a day? The car suited her just fine.  She’d see about having it fixed first thing Mon­day morning and send Will Kincaid a check for the difference.

She’d barely gotten through the door before Jenny Dudley scooted around the front desk and strong-armed her to the drawer where they stored their purses.  Two fingers graced the line of her jaw as she cocked a hip and said, “I won’t candy-coat it and say you didn’t miss out.  Because you certainly did.  You should have been at that parade, Hannah.  You should have come.”

“So tell me what was so exciting.”

“Why, Will Kincaid, of course.” She took Han­nah’s sweater and hung it on the coat rack behind the desk.  “Let me get your coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.  You really missed….” Her voice trailed off as she stepped into the back room.

Hannah let out a deep sigh.  Will Kincaid again.  So far, overlooking his impromptu visit to Lake Perdue had proved impossible.  Neither he nor anybody else was about to let her forget it.

Jenny clicked back to the desk and handed Hannah a mug of coffee.

“Thanks, Jen.  You didn’t have to do that.” She took a sip of the strong brew and then reached for a stack of books that had been returned the previous afternoon, flipping through the brown wood box for the appropriate card.  The library had yet to be com­puterized, but she preferred it this way.  For the most part, she did not welcome change.  Aware that Jenny was waiting, Hannah decided it was time to face the music.  With a look of resignation, she said, “All right.  I’m all ears.  Tell me what I missed.”

“I wouldn’t be the first to point out that those pic­tures in the magazines didn’t do him an ounce of jus­tice.  The man is downright delectable.”

“Delectable.” In her mind Hannah conjured up the image of the wide-shouldered man who’d appeared at her car window.

“And so athletic,” Jenny said in a winsome tone, bending over the desk to rest her chin on one palm.  “I just love a man who takes care of his body.”

“He’s an athlete all right.” The brown leather bomber jacket he’d worn had done little to hide the well-honed body beneath.  A body he was paid to hone, of course.

“And that smile.  Why, half the women on Main Street were beside themselves.  Swooning, practi­cally.”

“Really?”

“Imagine Lake Perdue turning out a man like that! He’s as famous as any movie star,” Jenny declared with an assertive nod.

“Think so?” Yes, he had turned out to be quite a man.  A man who’d grown from a charming boy who could convince anyone to do anything into a man whose mere physical presence threw women like Jenny Dudley into swoons.  Women like Jenny Dudley, not women like Hannah Jacobs.

Jenny straightened and sighed.  “I know so.  All you have to do is take one look at him to see that.”

Hannah slid a card into a book and slapped the cover closed.  “Then he shouldn’t be lacking for fe­male company while he’s visiting.”

“If I were ten years younger, I’d march out to that house he’s renting in Tarkington’s Cove and intro­duce myself.  Rumor has it he might be staying awhile.  According to Kay Lynn over at Kelly’s Realty, he took out a six-month lease on the big house—you know, the one the developer built to spec for himself and then decided to rent—”

“Six months?” Hannah looked up in surprise.

“That’s what Kay Lynn said.  They don’t expect him ever to play pro ball again.  Hurt his knee real bad in that game.”

Hannah focused on the cards before her.  “How do you know all this stuff, Jen?”

“I read about it.  Lake Perdue doesn’t have many famous residents.”

“I guess not.” Hannah’s hand shook as she shoved a card into the last book and then grabbed a rag and scrubbed at the countertop.  She knew exactly how Jenny knew.  She’d been following the same accounts of his career, unable to help herself.

“Funny thing was, Kay Lynn said she was over at the First Baptist Church when Will pulled in yester­day.  The front end of his fancy car had been crunched up like last week’s newspaper.  Tom Dillon had just seen him on Main Street and the car was fine.  Darnedest thing, but he wouldn’t say what hap­pened.”

Hannah scrubbed furiously at a nearly invisible ink spot.  “Really?”

“A car like that.  You’d think he’d have been hop­ping mad.”

Before Hannah could reply, the front door opened.  Henry Lawson stepped inside, his bulky frame clearly catch­ing Jenny’s attention.

Thankful for the diversion, Hannah said, “Morning, Mr. Lawson.  How are you today?”

“Fine, fine, Miss Jacobs.  Keeping busy as usual.” The big man took off his hat and doffed it in Jenny’s direction with a quick nod.  “Mornin’, Miss Dudley.”

“Mr. Lawson,” Jenny said, blushing.  Henry Lawson’s appearance put the subject of Will Kincaid on hold.  She moved around the desk and said, “Can I get you anything to read this morning?”

Twisting his hat in his hands, he said, “Naw, I don’t reckon.  I’ll find something interesting, no doubt.”

Jenny nodded and cleared her throat.  “Then you let me know if I can help you.”

Hannah sighed.  Thank goodness for Henry.  “I think I’ll go work on some of those torn bindings, Jenny.  Call if you need me.”

She quickly made for the back room before her friend had a chance to remember what they’d been discussing.

Continued….

Click here to download the entire book: Judy Powell’s HOT SUMMER >>>

First love. Second chances. Secrets with the power to change lives.

When Will Kincaid’s professional football career comes to an abrupt end in a single night, he’s left to figure out what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. He heads home to the small Virginia town where he grew up and crosses paths with Hannah Jacobs, the only girl in high school who had ever rejected him. It’s Hannah who once made him question the choices he had made, and it’s Hannah who’s making him question them all over again. But with the weight of a secret he’s managed to hide from the world his entire adult life hanging over him, he can’t afford to question his choices.

Hannah Jacobs had once made the choice to deny her feelings for Will Kincaid, at the time finding it the only possible option for a young girl intent on burying a nightmare she only wanted to forget. The life she’s made for herself as a librarian in Lake Perdue is a quiet one, and she’s hardly prepared for the day when Will rams his fancy Ferrari into her dependable old clunker. But for Hannah, Will Kincaid can only stir up memories she had long ago put away forever. And there’s nothing at all good that can come from bringing them back to life again.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Winning.  Nothing else mattered.  Determination roared up from deep inside him.  He launched himself at the ball, reaching, reaching….

It landed solidly in his grasp, and he catapulted forward.  A hand grabbed for his shoulder, missed and snatched again.  He ran, flat out, every self-doubt that had ever plagued him pushing him down that field.  But just as Will’s feet crossed the line, the safety tack­led him, taking him down, slamming him into the un­forgiving turf.  His right knee twisted and took the full impact of his weight.

The resounding crack echoed in his ears.

He lay there, not moving while thousands of fans roared their support, hero worship for a young man who, at twenty-nine, had reached the top of the ladder he’d chosen to climb.  Nausea rose inside him, swift enough to draw a groan from his midsection.  Then the blackness over­took him, and everything else faded against the backdrop of his fa­ther’s unreadable frown.

Chapter One

Hannah Jacobs had long been aware that most of the people in Lake Perdue considered her a mystery.  They thought it odd that a young woman would go months without showing her face at a public func­tion.  Odd that she seemed content to work in a small ­town library week after week, month after month, year after year, when most of her peers had moved away to make their fortunes.

They didn’t know that the old brick building with its slate roof and musty memories of the flood of ’64 suited her.  It no longer mattered that she’d once entertained other dreams.  The library had become her solace.  Her refuge.  Books did not ques­tion or judge.  They made safe companions.

As assistant librarian, Jenny Dudley did not share Hannah’s passion, but she went about her work with singular efficiency and enthusiasm.  In the past few years, she had become Hannah’s closest friend.  But even with Jenny, she avoided talking about anything personal, preferring, instead, to discuss topics associated with the li­brary—which books had received favorable reviews in Publishers Weekly, how many they could order and stay within budget.

Today, though, their conversation did not run toward anything so dry.  Hannah would have given a day’s pay to be arguing the merits of stocking the shelves with extra copies of Faulkner.  Avoiding Jenny’s eyes, she reached for the L encyclopedia and shoved the vol­ume into its proper spot.

“It would do you good to get out for a change, Hannah,” Jenny said.  “A parade would be just the thing.  You need to start living a little.” At forty-five, Jenny followed her own advice, coming in with a new hair­style every week.  Keep a man guessing, she said, convinced it would eventually help her find the man she’d been searching for in the twenty-odd years since she’d lost her husband.

“I don’t have time today.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of the same old routine? You’re here every day except Sunday.  And every night you head straight for that old mausoleum you call home.  You’re the only person I know whose spice cabinet is alphabetized.  Not to mention that you’ve read ninety-five percent of the books in this library.  Books and reality are two different things, you know.  What you need, Hannah Jacobs, is something to ruffle your feathers a bit.”

Hannah closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck.  She’d heard it before, how the romance of spinsterhood had gone the route of the wooden icebox.  “Jenny, don’t start this again—”

“A young woman like yourself ought to be getting out more.”

“Jenny.” The word was a warning.

“And I can’t understand why you insist on playing down your God-given good looks.  It’s like you’re try­ing to hide them or something.  Why on earth don’t you—”

“We’ve been through this before, Jen.  Please.”

Jenny muttered something about the folly of a woman hiding her light under a bushel, then made a mock salute of truce.  “All right.  But it’s not as if a local hero comes home to roost every day of the week.” With a what’s-this-world-coming-to sigh of exasperation, she urged the metal book cart down the aisle and said, “You really aren’t going?”

“It’s February,” Hannah said, hoping to divert Jenny’s mission.  “How can you have a parade in February?”

Jenny shrugged.  “No one ever complains about having the Christmas parade in cold weather.  What’s the difference?”

A gust of wind caught a limb of the pine tree out­side the front window, slapping it against the pane.  Hannah flinched, then reached for another book.  “Parades are for soldiers coming home, retired war veterans, even Santa Claus.  Not football players,” she added with a shake of her head.

“For goodness’ sake, Hannah, you act like Will Kincaid’s an ax murderer or something.  He won the Super Bowl.”

“And the rest of the town is acting like he’s the messiah.”

“Oh, that’s hogwash.  You know he’s just a local boy made good.  What’s wrong with giving him a lit­tle pat on the back?”

“Certainly a contribution to mankind.” Hannah aligned the row of encyclopedias in soldier-like preci­sion, despite the fact that the two-thirty school bus would drop off a dozen or so hands to interpose A with C and P with Z.

“Come on.  Sandy will be here after school to work the front desk.  We could slip out for a few min­utes—”

“I have a dental appointment at four.” For all the sorrow in her voice, she could have been announcing her imminent departure for Tahiti.

The corners of Jenny’s mouth puckered in a frown.  “I guess I’ll go by myself, then.”

Hannah didn’t take the bait.  “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of company.”

“Well, then, you might just be sorry,” Jenny said, attempting one last tack.  “He’s awfully good-looking, if all those magazine articles are anything to judge from.”

Smoothing the front of her dress, Hannah grabbed the remaining books from the cart, sending her co­worker a look that said it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been Adonis himself.  “I need to run a few er­rands before my appointment.  I’ll see you in the morning, Jenny.”

Hannah slipped the last three volumes into their appropriate spots, then walked to the front desk.  She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out her purse, humming as she went, an apparent portrait of indif­ference.

Chapter Two

The yellow twenty-five-miles-an-hour sign warned would-be speeders of the hairpin curve marking the entrance into the Lake Perdue town limits.  Will Kin­caid took note of it, then dismissed it much the same as he’d once dismissed his ninth-grade algebra teacher.  He knew today the same reckless uncertainty for his future he’d known then.

Downshifting, he sent the car accelerating into the curve.  The new red Ferrari hugged the pavement at well over double the sign’s advised speed.  The tires squealed in protest before the car hummed on, fourth gear, back to fifth, leveling off with a purr that was to the auto enthusiast what Rachmaninoff might have been to the New York Philharmonic patron.

Limits.  Life these days revolved around them.

Will didn’t have time for speed limits today.  He was late.  Late for this parade his father had planned.  He’d wanted nothing more than a few weeks to re­cover.  A few weeks to put body and soul back to­gether again.  To forget about football.  And Grace.  To convince himself he’d done the right thing in walking away from both of them.

The Super Bowl.  The high point of his life.  It had shattered not only his knee, but all sense of direction, as well, leaving him with no idea of where to go or what to do.

Not that he hadn’t had his share of well-meaning friends and relatives intent on showing him the way.  Head for Hollywood.  New York’s the place for you.  Come home for a while, son.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.

Despite the barrage of well-intended advice given him, Will had let Lake Perdue beckon and win for the time being.  Will’s father had wanted him to move back home, an option totally out of the question.  He’d rented a house in Tarkington’s Cove, instead.  Close enough to visit.  Far enough away to secure the space he needed.

Although, so far, physical distance hadn’t been a deterrent for his father.  John Kincaid had still man­aged to talk Will into sitting on some ridiculous float and being pulled around town like a monkey in a cage.  “How can you turn them down, son?”

“I’m tired, Dad.”

“It’s just an hour or two.  Surely that’s not too much to ask from someone who’s made it as big as you have.”

Guilt.  John Kincaid played it better than anyone Will had ever known.  No one had pushed him harder toward his success in the NFL.  No one had reminded him of it more often.

Will had relented finally, certain by the end of their discussion that his father would get more pleasure out of the event than anyone else in Lake Perdue.

He hadn’t exactly dressed for the occasion, a fact his father would be certain to point out.  Will had never been much for Armani suits and the like.  Designer jeans had battled for their share of the market with­out ever making it to a hanger in his closet.  His taste had remained constant over the years.  He still pre­ferred Levi’s, the kind that had been washed so many times they’d gone soft and white.  Today he’d paired them with a denim shirt and a worn-looking leather jacket that cost more than a lot of used cars.  He wore equally well-worn loafers on sockless feet.  He hated socks.

He reached forward and popped in a CD.  The sound of Wagner’s “Die Walkure split the air, blasting away at the edges of his impatience.  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, while he controlled the steer­ing wheel with the other.  The car had been a bonus from Hank Calhoun, owner of the team on which Will had played wide receiver.  A farewell present for a job well done.  And maybe a bit of a bribe, as well, Will had later realized.  For him to consider going back to work for Hank in some other capacity.  To reconsider not forgetting Hank’s daughter once he left L.A.

“You and Grace make a fine couple, Will,” Hank had said the last time they’d talked.  “There aren’t too many men I’d hand my daughter over to, you know.” Will knew it was true.  But it had taken him three years to realize he wasn’t the man for that particular honor.

Like the rest of the world, Hank had known Will’s career was over.  No one seemed willing to dispute the evidence that he would never again play football.  “With the number of inju­ries you’ve had on that knee, this was just the final straw, Will,” one of the doctors had said.  “The aver­age playing time is three-and-a-half years,” another had consoled.  So he’d had more than most.  But that didn’t make the verdict any easier to accept.  A verdict he’d sentenced himself to years ago.  Time to pay the hang­man.

Using his left foot, Will braked to a halt at the first of the town’s three stoplights.

No one understood why he’d left the West Coast mecca of wealth to come back to a town where the population hovered around five thousand.  He wasn’t sure himself.  He just knew that home was the place for him to recover—both physically and men­tally.

With one wrist draped over the wheel, he glanced at his surroundings.  Things had changed since his last visit.  Progress had stuck its big toe into Lake Perdue.  Aaron Tate’s General Store, which had since risen to One Stop Gas & Go status, still sat on the corner of Second and Main.  A pizza joint had been wedged in between it and Kawley’s Drugstore, more than likely giving Simpson’s Ice Cream, the old high-school hangout, a run for its money.  On the other side of the street, Ethel’s Fine Fashions had been replaced by a shop that looked as though it belonged on Fifth Ave­nue in Manhattan, a concession to the customers coming in from some of the lake’s new develop­ments.

Disappointment shot through him.  Nothing stayed the same.  The rest of the world was beginning to dis­cover Lake Perdue, the quiet little town that had been his refuge in the years of traveling from one big city to another.

The light turned green.  He put his foot to the accel­erator and continued along Main Street, dodging the potholes and passing a car and then a truck.  He didn’t know either of the drivers, but he lifted a hand in greeting, anyway.  Here, everybody waved.  Will pic­tured himself cruising down Sunset Boulevard, wav­ing at every car he passed.  He shook his head and smiled to himself for the first time that day.

Tom Dillon, an old friend and now a town deputy sheriff, stood just ahead in the middle of the street, directing traffic for the parade.  Will rolled down his window and lifted a cautious hand in greeting.  The two had been buddies in high school, until they’d had a falling-out just before graduation.  Will hadn’t for­gotten it.

Tom apparently had.  He grinned and yelled, “Hey, Will, man how’s it going?”

“How ya doin’, Tom?” Will threw back, a cool note in his voice.

Tom blew his whistle and motioned a lane of traf­fic forward, shouting over his shoulder, “Come on out to Clarence’s when you get a chance.  Buy you a beer.”

With a half nod and a wave, Will swung off Main onto McClanahan for the First Baptist Church.  He checked his appearance in the mirror and then glanced up just in time to see a stop sign ahead that hadn’t been there the last time he’d been home.

Brake lights flashed as the car in front of him rolled to a stop.  Nothing short of a miracle would allow him to miss it.  Tires squealed, rubber smoked against as­phalt as the Ferrari plowed into the back of the stopped car.

The air bag exploded, preventing Will from going through the windshield.

He slammed a palm against the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a closer look at what he’d done.  The brand-new Ferrari now sat with its nose tucked under the ancient relic in front of him.

The car was the color of his aunt Fan’s grasshopper pie.  It appeared to be a good thirty feet long, sporting twin pointed extensions just above each taillight.  He recognized the make—a Cadillac Sedan de Ville.  Had it been a convertible, it would have looked a lot like something Batman drove.

With another muttered curse, he climbed out of the car, pulling his leather bomber jacket close against the February chill.  He cast a glance at the damage and decided it might not have been as bad as he’d thought.  A few scratches maybe if they were careful about sep­arating the two cars.  Not worth calling the police.

Lips pressed together, he limped across the pave­ment to the other driver’s door.  A woman.  He should have guessed.  Judging from the antique she was driv­ing, she probably hadn’t been on the road in fifteen years.

Will knocked on the window and leaned forward.  The woman sat there, staring straight ahead as if in a trance.  Alarm stabbed at him.  What if she was hurt?

Before he could complete the thought, the car door opened, barely missing his nose.  The woman slid out of the front seat, sidestepping him until they stood a good four feet apart.  Focusing to the left of his shoulder, she asked in a frigid voice, “Was there a problem with your brakes?”

The question sounded innocent enough.  But her tried-and-convicted tone rankled Will.  He took a step back and arched a brow, taking in the wool cap pulled so low on her head that she appeared not to have any hair, the round glasses that seemed to dwarf her small face, the scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked under her chin.  From the way she’d mummified her­self, he could barely see where the hat ended and the scarf began.

“Hey, I’ll be the first to admit this was my fault.  But you were barely moving, you know.”

The woman kept her eyes averted and appeared to be searching for words.  Her response, when it finally came, was calm and reasonable.  “McClanahan wasn’t exactly made for drag racing.”

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and stared at her, his eyes narrowed.  Something about the woman seemed familiar.  Only he couldn’t see her well enough to figure out what.  He stepped back and frowned at her.  “Do I know you?”

The woman hesitated.  Then she quickly pushed past him and slid into the car to shuffle through some pa­pers she pulled from the glove compartment.  “I have an appointment in a few minutes, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with.  I assume you have insurance.”

Will couldn’t remember the last time a woman had given him the cold shoulder.  Maybe he’d gotten spoiled, but her attitude ticked him off.  “I do,” he snapped.  “And I’d rather not get the police involved in this.  I’ve had a pisser of a day, if you’ll pardon the language.  Your damage is minimal.  I’ll take a chance on mine.  I’m late for something myself.”

Her eyes widened.  “If you could please give me your company’s name.” She kept her gaze on the notepad in her hand, pen poised in midair.

“Better yet,” he said, his voice softer now, “how about if I just pay you for the damage? We could make a reasonable estimate, and if it’s more, you can get in touch with me later.”

“I’d prefer to keep this within the law.”

“I wasn’t suggesting anything illegal, just—”

“Convenient.  You’re interested in convenience.” She nodded impatiently.  “All right.  We’ll do it your way.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.” He turned and made his way back to the Ferrari, deliberately taking his time.  Reaching for the wallet inside the glove com­partment, he pulled out a wad of cash and counted out several large bills.  That ought to do it.  He doubted the whole car was worth that much.

Favoring his right knee, he ambled back to the woman’s car and leaned inside to hand her the money along with a few insurance papers.  “It’s all there.  With a toll-free number.  I don’t imagine you’ll need it, though.  This should cover it.”

The woman glanced down at the money and shook her head.

“I made what I thought was a generous guess,” he said.  “If it’s too much, keep the rest for your trouble.”

“Fine,” she said, looking suddenly angry.  With surprising strength, she yanked the door closed, leaving him staring at her through the window.

He took a hasty step back and then grimaced when a pain shot through his leg.  Suddenly he realized he hadn’t told her he’d disconnect the two cars himself.  It would need to be done carefully, just right in order to—

He reached out to pound on the window just as she fired the old clunker, jerked it into gear and surged forward.

Speechless, Will stood there watching as she floored the heap and roared through the intersec­tion at a speed that couldn’t possibly be described as a snail’s pace.

Chapter Three

It was well after five when Hannah pulled into her driveway on Wilmington Street.  Turning off the igni­tion, she leaned forward and glanced up at the old white house.  The towering maples stood naked and gray in the front yard.  Jenny was right.  With only one person to fill its rooms, the house was a mausoleum.  Built in 1910, it had been designed for a family, not a woman alone.  But Sarah had loved the house.  And Hannah loved it, too.  She’d grown up here in a child­hood filled with books and classical music.  And books with endings where Mommies and Daddies didn’t leave their little girls.

This house was home to her with its front porch and rocking chairs that invited one to sit and relax.  It was the same front porch on which Sarah had sat watch­ing Hannah play in the front yard.  The same porch from which aunt and niece had stood hand in hand as Hannah’s father had turned to say, “‘Bye, Hannah Banana, see you soon,” as they’d climbed into their car.  Two young parents who’d met up with responsi­bility too soon and handed their daughter over to Sarah long enough to sow a few wild oats.  Unaware that they would never see either Sarah or Hannah again.

In front of the white rail porch grew Hannah’s treasured Madam Butterfly tea roses.  Featherless peacocks now in the last throes of winter.  Hannah’s mother had planted the bushes more than twenty-five years earlier, when she and Hannah’s father had first married and lived here with his older sister, Sarah.  Hannah tended them now, pruning and pampering, awaiting their arrival each spring as one awaits the re­turn of old friends.

She climbed out of the car, reached for her purse and shut the door with a clunk.  After letting herself into the house she leaned against the door and closed her eyes.  In this house, at least, everything remained in order.  Dishes were stacked neatly in the kitchen cabinets.  Towels were folded precisely on the bath­room shelves.  Books lined the walls of the small den.  She felt better just being here.

The house had its own familiar scent.  Years of lemon-scented furniture polish, winter afternoons of chocolate-chip cookies and summer Sundays of blackberry cobbler.  Home.  For the first time in an hour-and-a-half, Hannah allowed herself to relax.  She felt as if she’d been holding her breath since she’d glanced in her rearview mirror to find Will Kincaid ramming into her car.

Will Kincaid.  She’d known he was coming back.  But meeting up with him face-to-face had been the last thing she’d anticipated.

She sank to the floor and rested her head in her hand.  In the few seconds she’d had before he stalked up to her car, she’d wrapped the scarf around her neck and yanked the hat down on her head, praying he wouldn’t recognize her.  And he hadn’t.

To her surprise, the realization had brought her no sense of satisfaction.  In fact, she’d found herself fighting the crazy impulse to shout at him.  Don’t you know who I am? Have I changed that much?

But then, she knew the answer to that.

She scrambled up to stand before the cherry mirror that hung in the hallway.  She yanked off the hat and the glasses she wore for driving.  Ten years had brought about more than a few changes, she knew.  She’d all but given up makeup.  Fine lines had appeared in places where once there’d been none.  She didn’t smile much anymore and tended to stay about five pounds underweight.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror.  She’d gotten what she wanted this afternoon.  Will hadn’t recognized her.  And she’d driven away without hav­ing to endure the awkwardness of that recognition.  She had no desire to start digging up the past.  She should be glad.  She was safe.

Laughter bubbled inside her at the irony of it.  Her eyes grew moist and the laughter died.  Ten years.  And she’d never forgotten Will Kincaid or his smiling face.

She’d never forgotten him.  He hadn’t recognized her.

Continued….

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