Jane Austen Girl (33 page)

AN EXCERPT FROM TRUTHS AND ROSES

BY

INGLATH COOPER

PROLOGUE

New Orleans, Louisiana

The ball flew out of the quarterback's hands, whistling down the length of the Superdome field like a missile. A missile aimed at Will Kincaid.

From his spot on the fifteen-yard line, he narrowed his gaze, willing the oncoming ball to land in his waiting hands. Nothing existed except this moment. There were no fans lunging to their feet, no vendors hawking popcorn and Cokes in the stands, no TV cameras zooming in on him. Just the knowledge that within his reach hung the brass ring.

The moment he'd waited for all his life. The Super Bowl. A single chance in which to make his mark in history. He could taste the victory, feel its reassuring caress through the sweat and grime that covered his face. His. It was his. Before his eyes flashed an image of his father's face. "You'll make me proud out there, son. Never given me reason to be ashamed yet. I know you won't start tonight.”

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.

Jenny Dudley, as assistant librarian, 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, Hannah 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 co-worker 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 t-shirt and a worn-looking leather jacket that cost more than a lot of used cars.

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.