Chapter One


The leather-bound yearbook was heavy in her lap, laden with thirty years worth of secrets. But no dust.

Linda Jesper turned another page. The faces were different, but the hairstyles identical: Farrah Fawcett wings for the girls, John Travolta shags for the boys. She dabbed a tear and studied the S's. Daphne Streeter, Carlton Stuyvesant...heard he was running for political office.

She sighed and leaned her head back against the chair. Thirty years. Had it really been that long? She was so young then, so idealistic. She was going to make a difference. Set the course for young lives. Had she? Thirty years of teaching high school English. Thirty years of kids, now middle-aged, running the country.

Bet they still couldn't spell.

She closed the book and ran her hand across the red cover. Would they all come back? Would any of them care about their old teacher?

Her finger traced the gold-engraved letters: Clarence Willard High Warriors.
She chuckled. Warriors? Only seven winning seasons out of the last thirty. No warrior worth the title would brag about that.

Behind closed eyelids, she pictured them as they’d been. Her first class—the class of '81. Each of them was such a part of her, but it was The Six she thought of now. Those special six, whose names echoed in her head on sleepless nights: Daniel, Paula, Nina, Diana, Adam, Carlton. Every moment of that year—their senior year—was branded on her soul. She needed to see them again. One more time. As a group, the way she remembered them.

Her bones protested as she pulled to her feet and made her way to the kitchen. Another cup of coffee would be just the thing.

She paused at the dinette table, still littered with invitations, envelopes, and stamps. The finished stack stood at attention, ready for Monday's mail.

She winked at them like friends. They would help her bring the kids home. Back to Clarence Willard High. Back to Miss Jesper. They said you couldn't go back, but she would show them you could. In three months, she would see the kids again. With The Six, she’d relive those unforgettable memories.

She smiled as she poured another cup of her special Columbian coffee. She’d watched them over the years, watched them grow up, grow out, become. Wouldn’t the kids be surprised to find out how much she knew?

The coffee sent up little puffs of steam and she savored the aroma. Little pleasures meant much these days. Life was coming full circle and there was a rightness about it. The kids had probably forgotten their old teacher, and the things that happened that year. Did they know how they had changed her life?

She took a slow sip and savored the flavor as she savored the thought: It was time they knew.


Chapter Two

Paula Akins-Stoddard backed her ten-year-old Jaguar between the trashcan and the mailbox. Darrin had set the stupid trashcan too close to the driveway again. She frowned at it and then at his retreating form as he slumped toward the house. Her house.

She jabbed the window button and cursed its slow descent. “Darrin!” she shouted.

Oh, he heard her all right, but the idiot wouldn’t turn around. She muttered a curse. Why couldn't the man do anything right? Was there a man who could?

The car whipped backward into the street and her eyes caught the time. She grimaced. Late again. Always frazzled these days, running in ten directions. Maybe she should see a psychiatrist. Another one.

She jerked the car into drive, then slammed on the brakes and frowned at the overflowing mailbox. Couldn’t the lazy man even get the mail? Brad's child support check was due. Three weeks ago, actually, but who's counting?

She left the car running and tapped across the street in her new pointy-toed stilettos, knock-offs of a pair of Ferragamos she’d been salivating over but couldn’t afford.

“Yet,” she muttered. “This time next year, I’ll have a closet full of the best shoes money can buy.”

She punctuated her vow with a slap at the mailbox door. It flipped open and she reached inside for the packet of letters and junk. Mail in hand, she tap-tapped back to the car and slid inside.

A quick thumb through the stack. Bills…junk…some fancy invitation. Hm. Open it later.

She growled and threw the mail on the passenger seat. Brad’s check was not there. "Who cares. Loser. I don’t need his money anyway." She tossed the rest of the mail on the passenger seat. “The kids, though. It's for the kids.”

She adjusted her seatbelt and scowled at the dash where another knob had broken off. “Stupid piece of junk. Should’ve never bought a car at an auction.” She shoved the broken knob back in place. “At least you look good on the outside, baby. That’s all that matters.”

With a tap on the accelerator, the car leaped forward. At the stop sign, her eyes slid to the right. From two blocks over, the gated community of Westwood Estates whispered her name. For the third time this week, she took a detour so she could drive past the entrance. She slowed and her eyes roamed over the exquisite landscape, stately stone guardhouse, and elegant mansions that nestled behind wrought iron gates.

“Westwood, here I come,” she breathed. A tingle ran down her spine at speaking the words aloud.

Her cell phone chirped and she grabbed it, still gazing at her elusive dream.

“Ms. Stoddard? I wanted—”

“It’s Akins-Stoddard, Teri. I’ve told you that.”

The secretary cleared her throat. “Sorry. I’ll remember that. I wanted to let you know I just got off the phone with both investors, and they’re still on for Thursday.”

Paula lifted a fist in victory, but kept her voice bored. “Fine. Thanks, Teri. Anything else?”

A pause. “Well, I just wanted to say congratulations, Ms. Stod—Akins…um, I know what this means for Akins Mortgage. These guys are heavy-duty investors. We can finally expand and—”

“Thanks, Teri. Be sure both folders are on my desk when I get there. I’ve got a lunch at one, and two meetings back-to-back. Be sure my calendar is clear. See ya in a few.”

She snapped the phone shut and blew a kiss at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “You are one hot mama, Paula,” she said, choosing to ignore the crow’s feet and those little creases around her lips. Nothing a little Botox couldn’t take care of. The auburn color needed a touchup, too. Looking a little shaggy. If she was gonna play in the big time, she’d better look the part.

She tapped the accelerator and the tires caught a concrete hump at forty miles per hour.

Her neck popped. She swore and sped up.

A white garbage truck lumbered into the street in front of her and she slammed on the brakes. “Get over!” she shouted and flashed her middle finger at a man in grimy coveralls.

She floored the accelerator again and tossed another middle finger at the speed limit sign. “Paula, you are a winner. You don’t play by the rules, girl. You make the rules! Nobody tells Paula what to do.”

Chapter Three

"Roll it on out, Dan!" Pitch waved his greasy rag.

Daniel eased the red Expedition off the racks and let it roll to a stop near the door, ready for pickup. He wiped his forehead with his own greasy rag and stole a moment of relief in the Expedition’s blast of frigid air.

Man, it was hot. Too hot for early March. Even in Texas.

Daniel folded his hands over his ample midsection and frowned down at the straining buttons.

How'd I get so fat?

He leaned his sweaty head against the headrest and sighed. The answer to his question made his mouth water. Man, what he’d give for a tall, cold one and a whole box of Krispy Kremes right now.

He shut off the air, turned the ignition key, and climbed out of the shiny Expedition. Another SUV. Every other car through here was another freakin' SUV, brought in by some over-painted soccer mom, nipping at his heels to have it fixed before her mascara dried. He slammed the door extra hard.

“Daniel! Got another one for ya! Get on over here!”

Daniel bared his teeth at Pitch, who was too far away to see it. He started toward the garage and the late afternoon sun beat on him like an angry ex-wife.

The temperature inside the bay wasn’t much better. Industrial fans mounted in two corners moved the air, but did nothing about the heat. He tossed his rag at the overflowing can and lifted his face, trying to find a breeze. The clang of tools and the whir of machines echoed inside his skull. An endless headache.

“Hey! Take that truck to the lot for me!” Pitch yelled.

“When Hell freezes over!” Shorty growled back. “Dan’ll do it. Dan, get over here!”

Daniel shut his eyes. Maybe he was already in Hell. It couldn’t be much worse than this job. The noise, the fumes, the grease. The life. His life.

A low voice at his elbow startled him. “Hey, need to talk to you.”

Jake was staring down at him with those owlish eyes. Daniel followed his boss’s broad back into the cramped office, where the roar from the garage lowered one decibel.

Without preamble, Jake settled into the creaky red chair behind a messy desk and began to shuffle papers. Daniel stayed where he was, twisting his cap between his hands.

“You sleep here again last night?” Jake barked without looking up.

“Yeah…yes,sir.”

“Carrie throw you out?”

Daniel swallowed hard. Jake never cared about a man’s pride. “Yes sir.”

“Can’t do that anymore, Dan. I’m changing the locks. Don’t want anybody here after hours, know what I mean? Liability, and all that.”

Daniel nodded dully.

“Your work ain’t been up to par, neither. I give you two chances already, man, but you don’t step it up, you’re outta here. Know what I mean?”

Daniel sighed and nodded.

“Get yourself some help, Dan. I’m not in the babysitting business.” Jake opened his books in dismissal.

Daniel shuffled back to the bay. So what was he supposed to do now? The two-bedroom trailer he and Carrie rented wasn't much, but it was somewhere to go. She wasn't much either, but between his pay as a mechanic and her check from Wal-Mart, they managed to stay afloat. Two did live cheaper than one.

He turned his body toward the fan mounted high in the left corner and felt his crew-cut bristle in the wind, but the sweat kept pouring. He'd never asked much from life, but lately...

Man, a beer sounded good right now. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the sweat race down his cheeks. He licked crusty lips. Only two o’clock, but already he could almost taste it: icy gold, slithering down his parched throat.

His hands began to tremble. Forget the new goal of not drinking until after six. OK, five. It hadn’t been going too well anyway.

He grabbed his cap from a shelf. "I'm outta here," he mumbled, as if anyone could hear him over the racket.

He strode out the double doors and across the asphalt to his pickup. He half-expected someone to call him back, half-wanted them to. But behind him, the clamor went on. Before him, heat waves shimmered.

At the door of his pickup, he threw the hat across the cracked seat and pulled his bulk inside.

Something crackled beneath his weight.

He reached under his thigh and drew out a gold-embossed envelope. Mr. Daniel Driver was scrawled across the center in neat cursive. No return address.

He sat for a long, sweaty moment staring at the envelope, his face scrunched into a frown. How long had it been since he received a personal letter that had not come from City Hall?

The flap lifted easily. Inside was all gold, like somebody's fancy wedding invitation. When was the last time he’d been invited to a fancy wedding?

He slid the folded parchment out, held it by the edges, and squinted at the swirly script trickling down the page.

A class reunion? Who’d want to reunite with him?

He blinked at the delicate gold-trimmed parchment as though the words were written in Chinese. Their meaning failed to penetrate the fogginess in his brain. He started at the top and read it again.

Comprehension exploded with the force of a hand grenade. He jerked erect and dropped the paper onto the seat where he stared at it with horror. No! It couldn't be. After all this time?

He snatched the invitation, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it onto the littered floorboard with the rest of the trash.

Trash. That's what it was. That's where it belonged.

He turned the key, mashed the gas, and the truck squealed out of the parking lot. He drove like a blind man: running stop signs, ignoring the blaring horns, seeing nothing but the words that flowed across the hateful parchment. Words that seared his brain until he couldn't think straight.

The battered Ford knew where it was going. In five minutes it skidded to a stop in front of Bessy’s Tavern. White gravel dust drifted behind him and settled on the pickup’s faded hood.

Daniel shot another look at the crumpled invitation and got out of the truck. He hitched up his sagging jeans and clomped to the front door of Bessy’s.

When he yanked it open, cool darkness rushed to meet him, along with the stench of cheap beer and the music of Tim McGraw cranked up to the volume of a jet engine.

He lifted a boot to go in, but a thought froze him in the doorway: How did the envelope get into his pickup? It had no stamp. No address. Just his full name, hand-written in flowing cursive. Who would have come to the garage today, known which truck was his, and set that fancy envelope right on the seat where he would see it?

Acid hit his stomach. She'd been there. She knew about him, where he worked. They'd lived in the same town all these years without a single contact. But she knew where he was. She knew a lot more, too.

His heart gave a painful lurch. If it was her, why? Why now? What did she want from him? He didn’t have anything anybody would want.

Bessy’s held all the answer he needed. He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him, returning the room to darkness. He stood a moment in the cool, savoring the smell, the feel of chilly damp air. Throaty laughter rippled around him. Pool cues clacked.

His fists unclenched and he sucked in a deep breath.

From behind the bar, Bessy nodded a greeting. She was as shriveled as a mummy. Coarse and wirey, mean as they came, but she knew how to keep a man’s glass full and her mouth shut.

He lifted his hand and crossed the sticky floor.

“Hey, Dan’l,” Bessy growled. “Your usual?”

He slid onto a barstool next to Hank Corlin and nodded.

Bessy turned away and Daniel laid his head on his forearms. The familiar ache grew inside him until it was a rabid need. All he needed was to drown this new fear the way he drowned them all.

“Keep ‘em comin’, Bessy, ‘til I say ‘when.’”