Prologue

The week before Christmas:

Steve Curtis had a smile pasted on his lips but he wasn't really enjoying himself. He'd come to the party with his wife, Barbara, cheered by the holiday season and hopeful the coolness between him and Barbara was coming to an end. It had been a couple of months since he'd first noticed but he had no better idea now of what was causing it than he'd had at the beginning.

Tonight should have been a warm, Christmassy evening out with Barbara's coworkers and friends. Steve had made a connection with a few of them at past get-togethers, but he'd thought this would be a good time to improve on that. Instead, his smile was increasingly a forced one.

For some reason, the boss's nephew--he'd made a point of introducing himself as such--had made a beeline for this table when he came in the door. Swiping a chair from an adjacent table, he'd maneuvered himself into a scant opening on Barbara's other side.

It had irritated both Steve and the man who had to scoot his chair to the side to accommodate the intruder.

What was worse, "Jimmie," as Barbara referred to him, was blatantly doing everything he could to occupy Barbara's complete attention. Incredibly, Barbara seemed to be enjoying it, welcoming every new morsel of undisguised, sometimes surprisingly personal flattery.

Jimmie and Barbara were laughing, their heads inclining toward one another as they shared a joke about "trailer trash." Steve dropped all pretense. He let the false smile fade and die. Of the nine partiers at the table, only Steve's wife and Jimmie saw the humor in the joke. Steve cleared his throat and let the sour look on his face give his opinion.

Jimmie looked around at Steve and grinned broadly.

"Hey, Stevie, loosen up a little eh? It was just a joke." Barbara turned to her husband.

"Steve," she admonished, "don't take things so serious. Jimmie was just trying to make a point about people with low standards and stuff. For goodness sake."

"Yeah," Jimmie joined in. "What she said!" His coarse laughter spilled out all over the immediate vicinity, joined half a beat later by Barbara's giggles.

"Actually," Jimmie quipped, "I wouldn't expect you to understand a joke like that. It's not your fault... it's just that there are too many nuances in it for construction workers," Jimmie said with satisfaction. He showed a smiling face to everyone around the table, inviting them to share in putting Steve in his place.

Barbara giggled again. She shot her husband an impatient look.

Steve worked hard to hold in his temper. It wasn't easy. He took a moment, deliberately slouched lower in the straight-backed chair and tried to relax. He toyed with the base of the wineglass to have something to do with his hands instead of wrapping them around Jimmie's neck.

"The point he was trying to make, dear--in addition to calling me an idiot--is that there are people who don't have enough money to buy a big house, or rent a luxury apartment in a high rise on the "right side" of town. Jimmie-boy thinks those people are stupid, lazy drunks and they deserve to be laughed at." Steve had lost the battle to keep his anger in check.

"As it happens, you know, I work in a converted mobile home," Steve continued lazily, but very precisely. It was a warning sign to those who knew him. When Steve got very formal and his voice softened to little more than a whisper... those were the times people needed to back away. It had been that way since his first schoolyard confrontation.

"That's what we do on construction projects," Steve continued. "We move a trailer onto the site so we can have immediately available, low cost office spaces and places where we can work administrative issues." He looked up to find Barbara glaring at him.

"Now... a lot of the guys and their families who work on the construction site I'm supervising right now also live in mobile homes because that's all they can afford. You see, they want--what do they call it? The American Dream? Yeah, that's it. They want the American dream of owning their own home but times are tough for them... always have been... it's nothing new. What it is... is that these folks haven't earned enough of a nest egg yet to put a down payment on a big house in the suburbs."

"And they weren't born with a rich uncle either," Steve added. No one missed the scorn in his tone.

"Jimmie-boy" watched Steve with his mouth gaping. Jimmie's uncle owned the company and no one dared talk to Jimmie with such naked contempt in his voice. Jimmie started to fume.

"As for me," Steve said, "I would never be so crude as to ridicule honest, hardworking men and women who are doing the best they can with what they have. It's just not something I could do and still call myself a man."

With his last words, he glanced up from the wineglass to look intently into Jimmie's eyes. Steve wasn't trying to hide his anger now. Actually, he was hoping Jimmie would take offense. Two of the other three husbands around the table surreptitiously readied themselves to interpose themselves between their wives and the coming physical altercation.

Ashen faced, Jimmie began to stand. He wasn't that much smaller than Steve and he worked out four afternoons a week. Jimmie didn't know the difference between work-hardened muscles and barbell muscles. He was about to find out.

"I COULDN'T AGREE MORE, YOUNG MAN," came the booming voice. Steve glanced around to find a short, balding man in an expensive suit standing at his shoulder. Well past middle age, he still held his slender body stiffly erect.

"My mother and father were living in a small trailer when I was born and some of my happiest memories are from when we lived there," the unknown man said forcefully. He had his eyes fixed on young Jimmie. He was not happy with the younger man. Jimmie looked like he'd suddenly tasted something foul. He sat down hard.

"Jonas Reynolds," said the older man by way of introduction.

He held out his hand to Steve. They shook hands; their was grip firm but not confrontational. Steve appreciated that. Too many men tried to make it a challenge. It was a contest he usually won, but he never liked doing it.

"Steve Curtis," he said, introducing himself. Reynolds nodded.

"And this would be your wife... the lovely Barbara?" he asked. He offered his hand to Barbara. She aborted a move to rise; there wasn't room to move her chair back and rise without bumping into Jonas. Flustered, a blush began color her throat.

Steve's irritation with Jimmie had been deflected. Belatedly, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Since the firm his wife worked for was "Reynolds And Sons," he presumed this was the senior Reynolds standing beside him. Steve was wondering if his hotheadedness would cost Barbara a lucrative job. He glanced at Barbara in time to catch a fleeting look of fury in her eyes before she turned away.

"Jimmie?" Mr. Reynolds said quietly. "I think you should go find your Aunt Jenny and see if she needs anything." Jimmie's face changed. There was a hint of desperation there, along with protest.

"Now, Jimmie." The whip crack authority in Jonas Reynolds voice was unmistakable.

Jimmie got to his feet, pushing his chair back with a loud screech, and turned away. With the tip of his ears colored a dark crimson, he stalked away toward the opposite corner of the ballroom. Jonas, and everyone at the table, watched as he moved away.

"I'm afraid Jimmie won't be with us much longer," Jonas said. "One tries to do what one can for family... but sometimes it just doesn't work out," he remarked musingly. Jonas held out his hand to Steve again. This time, Steve got to his feet. At six feet and a bit more, he towered over the much slighter CEO.

"I hope you won't judge all the Reynolds by one insolent pup," Jonas said. "Barbara is a valuable member of our team and we'd hate to lose her because of an... indiscretion on Jimmie's part," he remarked. He threw Barbara a hooded look. His face was bland, impossible to read. Jonas turned so he could see all of the partygoers around the table.