Same Time, Next Year

by Debbie Macomber

  “The doctor said you should go directly to the hospital,” Walter said breathlessly. “He’ll meet you there.”

  “Don’t worry, Summer, this isn’t his first set of twins,” Elizabeth said in a reassuring voice.

  “True, but they’re mine,” James said.

  “James?” Summer looked at her husband and noticed how pale he’d suddenly become. “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment; instead, he helped her inside the car and strapped her in. Before long he was sitting next to her, hands braced on the steering wheel. Summer saw the pulse in his neck pounding.

  “It’s going to be fine,” she whispered. “Just fine.”

  “I’ll feel a whole lot better once we get you to the hospital.”

  “Call us,” Charlotte shouted, standing on the steps, waving.

  Summer waved back, and no fewer than fifteen adults crowded onto the Mannings’ front porch, cheering them on.

  “James, are you okay to drive?” Summer asked when he took off at breakneck speed. He slowed down and stayed within the speed limit, but there was a leashed fear in him that was almost palpable.

  “I’ll be okay once we get you to the hospital.”

  “The birthing process is perfectly natural.”

  “Maybe it is for a woman, but it isn’t as easy for a man.”

  With her hands propped against her abdomen, Summer smiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know if I can bear to see you in pain,” he said, wiping his face as they stopped for a red light.

  “It won’t be too bad.”

  “Hey, you saw the films in our birthing class. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

  “You!” she said, and giggled.

  James’s fingers curled around her hand. “This isn’t a laughing matter. I’ve never been more frightened in my life. No, only once,” he amended. “The night I came home and found you gone.”

  “The babies and I are going to be just fine,” she said again. “Don’t worry, James, please. This is your night to shine. I’m just sorry Mutt and Jeff chose right now to make their debut.”

  “At the moment, the election is the last thing on my mind. None of it matters.”

  “You’re going to win the primary,” she insisted. Summer knew the competition had been steep, and Ralph Southworth had done what damage he could, eager to prove himself right.

  “We’re almost at the hospital,” James said, sounding relieved.

  “Relax,” she said, and as it turned out, her words were a reminder to herself. The next contraction hit with unexpected severity, and she drew in a deep breath trying to control the pain.

  “Summer!”

  “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly.

  James pulled into the emergency entrance at Virginia Mason Hospital and raced around the front of the car. He opened the door, unsnapped the seat belt and lovingly helped her out.

  Someone rolled a wheelchair toward her, and while Summer sat and answered the questions in Admitting, James parked the car.

  She was on the maternity floor when he rejoined her, looking pale and harried.

  “Stop worrying,” she scolded him.

  James dragged a chair to the side of her bed and slumped into it. “Feel my heart,” he said and placed her hand over his chest.

  “It feels like a machine gun,” Summer said, smiling. She moved her hand to his face and cupped his cheek.

  “I need you so much,” James whispered.

  Summer couldn’t speak due to a strong contraction. James clasped her hand and talked to her in soothing tones, urging her to relax. As the pain ebbed, she kept her eyes closed.

  When she opened them, she found James standing by the hospital bed, studying her. She smiled weakly and he smiled in return.

  Dr. Wise arrived and read her chart, then asked, “How are we doing here?”

  “Great,” Summer assured him.

  “Not so good,” James said contradicting her. “I think Summer needs something for the pain, and frankly I’m not feeling so well myself.”

  “James, I’m fine,” Summer told him yet again.

  “What your husband’s saying is that he needs help to deal with seeing you in pain,” the physician explained.

  “Do something, Doc.”

  Dr. Wise slapped James affectionately on the back. “Why don’t we let Summer be the one to decide if she needs an epidural? She’s a better judge than either one of us.”

  “All right.” But James’s agreement came reluctantly.

  For Summer the hours passed in a blur. Her labor was difficult, and she was sure she could never have endured it if not for James, who stood faithfully at her side. He encouraged her, lifted her spirits, rubbed her back, reassured her of his love.

  News of the primary filtered into the room in messages from Charlotte and various nurses, who caught snippets on the waiting room TV. In the beginning Summer strained to hear each bit of information. But as the evening wore on, she became so consumed by what was happening to her and the babies that she barely heard.

  She lost track of time, but it seemed to her that it was well into the wee hours of the morning when she was taken into the delivery room.

  James briefly left her side and returned a few minutes later, gowned in surgical green. He resembled a prison escapee, and she took one look at him and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.”

  James drew in a deep breath and held Summer’s hand. “It’s almost time.”

  “I know,” she breathed softly. “Ready or not, we’re about to become parents. I have the feeling this is going to be the ride of a lifetime.”

  “It’s been that way for me from the night I met you.”

  “Are you sorry, James?”

  “Sorry?” he repeated. “No way!” Leaning over, he kissed her forehead. “My only regret is that I didn’t marry you that first New Year’s.”

  “Oh, James, I do love you.”

  Dr. Wise joined them. “Well, you two, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?” He grinned at James. “Congratulations, Your Honor. You won the primary. This is obviously a night for good news.”

  * * *

  Two months later Summer woke to the soft, mewling cry of her infant daughter. She climbed silently out of bed and made her way into their daughters’ nursery.

  There she found James sitting upright in the rocker, sound asleep with Kellie in his arms. Kerrie fussed in her crib.

  Lifting the tiny bundle, Summer changed Kerrie’s diaper, then sat in the rocker next to her husband and offered the hungry child her breast. Kerrie nursed eagerly and Summer ran her finger down the side of her baby’s perfect face.

  Her gaze wandered to her husband and she felt a surge of pride and love. The election had been that night, and he’d won the court seat by a wide margin. During the heat of the last two weeks of the campaign, James had let her compose and sing a radio commercial for him. Summer had been proud of her small part in his success, although she didn’t miss life on the stage. Her twin daughters kept her far too busy for regrets.

  James must have felt her scrutiny because he stirred. He looked up and saw Summer with Kerrie.

  “I might as well feed Kellie, too,” she said. Experience had taught her that the minute one was fed and asleep, the other would wake and demand to be nursed. Her twin daughters were identical in more than looks. Even their sleep patterns were the same.

  James stood and expertly changed Kellie’s diaper.

  When Kerrie finished nursing, Summer swapped babies with him. James gently placed his daughter on his shoulder and patted her back until they heard the tiny burp.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Summer asked.

  “You were sleeping so soundly.”

  “It was quite a night, Your Honor,” she said, looking over at her husband. “I couldn’t be more thrilled for you, James. Your position on the bench is secure.”

  “I c
ouldn’t have done it without you,” he told her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It’s true,” he said with feeling. “You and Kerrie and Kellie. The voters fell in love with the three of you. Those radio commercials you sang were the talk of the town. I’m the envy of every politician I know.”

  “Because I can sing?”

  “No, because you’re my wife.” His eyes were dark, intense. “I’m crazy about you, Summer. I still can’t believe how much you’ve given me.”

  “I love you, too, James.” Summer closed her eyes. It had started almost two years ago in Vegas, when it felt as if her heart was breaking. Now her heart was filled to overflowing. Life couldn’t get any better than it was right then, she decided.

  But Summer was wrong.

  Because the best was yet to come.

  * * * * *

  If you’re a fan of Icicle Falls, you’ll love the beachside town of Moonlight Harbor!

  Don’t miss

  WELCOME TO MOONLIGHT HARBOR.

  the very first book in Sheila Roberts’ brand new small-town romance series,

  Keep reading for a sneak peek!

  CHAPTER ONE

  To Do:

  Clean office

  See dentist at noon

  Drop Sabrina off at Mom’s

  Meet everyone at Casa Roja at six

  Or just tell them I’ve got bubonic plague and cancel

  The four women seated at a corner booth in the Mexican restaurant were getting increasingly noisier with each round of drinks. Cinco de Mayo had come and gone, but these ladies still had something to celebrate, as they were all dressed in body-con dresses or slinky tops over skinny jeans, in killer shoes and wearing boas. There were four of them, all pretty, all still in their thirties—except the guest of honor, who was wearing a black dress, a sombrero and a frown. She was turning forty.

  It was going to take a while for her to get as jovial as the others (like about a million years) considering what she’d just gotten for her birthday. A divorce.

  “Here’s to being free of rotten scum-sucking, cheating husbands,” toasted Celeste, sister of the guest of honor. She was thirty-five, single and always in a party mood.

  The birthday girl, Jenna Jones, formerly Jenna Petit, took another sip of her mojito. She could get completely sloshed if she wanted. She wasn’t driving and she didn’t have to worry about setting a good example for her daughter, Sabrina, who was spending the night with Grandma. Later, if they could still work their cell phones, the gang would be calling Uber and getting driven home and poured into their houses or, in the case of sister Celeste, apartments, so there was no need to worry about driving drunk. But Jenna wasn’t a big drinker, even when she was in a party mood, and tonight she was as far from that as a woman could get.

  What was there to party about when you were getting divorced and turning (ick!) forty? Still, that mojito was going down pretty easily. And she was inhaling the chips and salsa. At the rate she was going she’d be getting five extra pounds for her birthday as well as a divorce.

  “Just think, you can make a whole new start,” said her best friend Brittany. Brittany was happily married with three kids. What did she know about new starts? Still, she was trying to put a positive spin on things.

  “And who knows? Maybe the second time around you’ll meet a business tycoon,” said Jenna’s other bestie Vanita.

  “Or someone who works at Amazon and owns a ton of stock,” put in Celeste.

  “I’d take the stock in a heartbeat,” Jenna said, “but I’m so over men.” She’d given up on love. Maybe, judging from the chewed fingernails and grown-out highlights in her hair, she’d given up on herself, too. She felt shipwrecked. What was the point of building a rescue fire? The next ship to come along would probably also flounder.

  “No, you’re over man,” Brittany corrected. “You can’t give up on the whole species because of one loser. You don’t want to go through the rest of your life celibate.” She shuddered, as if celibacy was akin to leprosy.

  “Anyway, there’re some good ones out there somewhere,” said Vanita, who, at thirty-six, was still single and looking. “They’re just hiding,” she added with a guffaw, and took another drink of her margarita.

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Celeste, who was also looking now that This-is-it Relationship Number Three had ended. With her green eyes, platinum hair, pouty lips and perfect body, it probably wouldn’t take her long to find a replacement. “Men. Can’t live with `em, can’t…” Her brows furrowed. “Live with `em.”

  Jenna hadn’t been able to live with hers, that was for sure. Not once she learned Mr. Sensitive Artist had another muse on the side—a redhead who painted murals and was equally sensitive. And had big boobs. That had nothing to do with why they were together, Damien had insisted. They were soul mates.

  Funny, he’d said the same thing to Jenna once. It looked like some souls could have as many mates as they wanted.

  Damien Petit: handsome, charming…rat. When they first got together Jenna had thought he was brilliant. They’d met at a club in the U District. He’d been the darling of the University of Washington Art Department. He’d looked like a work of art himself, with brooding eyes and the perfectly chiseled features of a marble statue. She’d been going to school to become a massage therapist. She, who had never gotten beyond painting tiles and decorating cakes, had been in awe. A real artist. His medium was unrecyclable detritus. Junk.

  Too bad she hadn’t seen the symbolism in that back when they first got together. All she’d seen was his creativity.

  She was seeing that in full bloom now. Damien had certainly found a creative way to support himself and his new woman—with spousal support from Jenna.

  Seriously? She’d barely be able to support herself and Sabrina once the dust settled.

  Nonetheless, the court had deemed that she had been the main support of the family and poor, struggling artist Damien needed transitional help while he readied himself to get out there in the big, bad world and earn money on his own. Her reward for being the responsible one in the marriage was to support the irresponsible one. So now, he was living in the basement of his parents’ house, cozy as a cockroach with the new woman, and Jenna was footing the bill for their art supplies. Was this fair? Was this right? Was this any way to start off her fortieth year?

  Her sister nudged her. “Hey. Smile. We’re having fun here.”

  Jenna forced her lips up. “Fun.”

  “You can’t keep brooding about the junk jerk.”

  “I’m not,” Jenna lied.

  “Yeah, you are. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I know it’s not fair you have to pay him money,” put in Brittany, “but that’s how things work today. You know, women’s rights and all. If men can pay us spousal support we can pay them, too.”

  “Since when does women’s rights give your ex the right to skip off like a fifteen-year-old with his new bimbo and you pay for the fun?” Jenna demanded.

  It was sick and wrong. She’d carried him for years, working as a massage therapist while he dabbled away, selling a piece of art here and there. They’d lived on her salary supplemented by an annual check at Christmas from his folks, who wanted to encourage him to pursue his dream of artistic success, and grocery care packages from her mom, who worked as a checker at the local Safeway. And her grandparents, God bless them, had always given her a nice, fat check for her birthday. Shocking how quickly those fat checks always shrank. Damien drank up money like a thirsty plant, investing it in his art…and certain substances to help him with his creative process.

  Maybe everyone shouldn’t have helped them so much. Maybe they should have let Damien become a starving artist, literally. Then he might have grown up and gotten a job.

  They’d had more than one discussion about that. “And when,” he’d demanded, “am I supposed to do my art?”

  “Evenings? Weekends?”

  He’d looked heavenward and shaken hi
s head. “As if you can just turn on creativity like a faucet.”

  One of Jenna’s clients was an aspiring writer with a family who worked thirty hours a week. She managed to turn on the faucet every Saturday morning.

  There was obviously something wrong with Damien’s pipes. “I need time to think, time for things to come together.”

  Something had come together all right. With Aurora Benedict whose mother had obviously watched one too many Disney movies.

  Jenna probably should have packed it in long before Aurora came slinking along, admitted what she’d known after only a couple of years into the marriage: that it had been a mistake. But after she’d gotten pregnant she’d wanted desperately to make things work, so she’d kept her head down and kept plowing forward through rough waters.

  Now she and Damien were through and it still didn’t look like clear sailing ahead.

  “Game time,” Celeste announced. “We are going to see who can wish the worst fate on the scum-sucking cheater. I have a prize for the winner.” She dug in her capacious Michael Kors purse and pulled out a Seattle Chocolates chocolate bar and everyone, including the birthday girl, let out an ooh.

  “Okay, I’ll go first,” Brittany said. “May he fall in a Dumpster looking for junk and not be able to climb out.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jenna said, and did.

  “Oh, that’s lame,” scoffed Vanita.

  “So, you think you can do better?” Brittany challenged.

  “Absolutely,” she said, flipping her long, black hair. “May he wind up in the Museum of Bad Art.”

  “There is such a thing?” Jenna asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Vanita grinned.

  “Ha!” Celeste crowed. “That would serve him right.”

  Jenna shook her head. “That will never happen. To be fair, he is good.”

  “Good at being a cheating scum-sucker,” Celeste reminded her, and took a drink.

  Vanita tried again. “Okay, then, how about this one? May a thousand camels spit on his work.”

  “Or a thousand first-graders,” added Celeste, who taught first grade.

  “How about this one? May the ghost of van Gogh haunt him and cut off his ear,” Brittany offered.