Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Instead, she looked at the room. It was an outrageous mess. Half-empty cups of coffee were balanced on every available surface, and corn chips spilled out of several open bags. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and loose paper was everywhere else, along with reference books. A dictionary was held open by a donut on a napkin.

  The bed, however, was perfectly made, as if he hadn’t slept in it. And looking at him, she realized that was exactly the case. He hadn’t slept since … when was the last time she made up the bed? Sunday afternoon. Today was Tuesday.

  “Mr. Donovan,” she said. “I would have given you a break on the price if I’d known you only wanted the breakfast half of the package.”

  Webster snorted. It was almost a laugh.

  “Need anything?” she asked again.

  He looked up at her tiredly from where he sat at the table. “I need a muse,” he said. “But that’s not something you can pick up at the Star Market.”

  He took a bite of his pancakes, and Juliana turned to leave. His voice stopped her. “This is really delicious. Thanks for bringing it up.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, surprised.

  She turned to leave again, but turned back. “I’m going out today, and I probably won’t return until late tonight,” she said. “Feel free to use the kitchen.”

  He nodded, and she left, closing the door gently behind her.

  He brought his plate over to the computer and tried to go back to work. But all he could think of were women’s names that started with the letter J.

  Sometime later, the sound of a motorcycle engine cut through his musing. He stood up, stretching, feeling his tightened muscles scream with neglect as he moved to the window.

  Out on the street he could see a powerful black Harley Davidson kicking into higher gear, moving toward town. The rider was tall and slim, wearing tight-fitting blue jeans, a black leather jacket, black cowboy boots and a shiny black helmet.

  Webster caught a glimpse of what looked like glistening red-gold hair coming out the back of the helmet, and he pushed his face to the window, hoping for another look.

  Red-gold hair? Could it possibly …?

  Not possible, Webster thought. Simply not possible.

  Juliana pushed the Harley harder, glad there were no other cars or bikes out.

  The sun was shining through the few brightly colored leaves that still adorned the trees. The dry leaves that had fallen onto the road were swept up behind her motorcycle, creating a comet-tail effect as she buzzed along the country road.

  She needed to think, and she knew just where to go.

  She made the sharp right turn onto the gravel driveway leading up to the stable.

  It didn’t take long to get Captain saddled up.

  He was as eager to run as she was, and she took him up to the pasture. With only a light touch of her heels, Captain was off, streaking across the field.

  Juliana felt herself relax, felt her body move with the big horse’s rhythm. Nothing mattered but right now, and right now was pretty darn good.

  Captain stretched out, and she let him take the jump at the end of the field. It was only a small stone wall, and he cleared it easily. Juliana pulled the horse back as they entered the woods, following the dirt path that took them further up the side of the mountain.

  Captain wanted to have a snack of the leaves that grew in the bushes by the side of the trail, but Juliana kept a firm hand on the reins. “Come on, Captain,” she said, and his ears flickered in response to her musical voice. “You’re a horse, not a goat.”

  They settled into a comfortable walk, taking their sweet time. The air was cool, but the sun was warm where it penetrated the thinning leaves of the trees. When they reached the top of the climb, Juliana reined Captain in, and they both stood there, looking down the mountain.

  She could see the steeple of the congregational church poking above the canopy of red, orange, gold, and brown leaves. She could see the town hall, and the clearing where the village green lay. She turned her head, following the line of the road. She could see the roof of Liz and Sam Beckwith’s huge house, and wondered again how such a modern home could blend so well with the countryside. She could also see the bright-green roof of five-year-old Jamey’s plastic Sesame Street playhouse. She smiled, remembering both Liz’s and her small daughter’s shock when Sam first brought that little playhouse home. Except Liz was shocked by the horrendous colors, while little Jamey was shocked with sheer joy.

  Liz was pregnant with her third child, and she was due in little less than a month.

  “I’ve got to stop over there on my way home,” Juliana murmured to Captain.

  Her eyes traveled a bit further down the road, and she found the familiar crockets, finials, and weathervanes that bedecked the roof of her huge, old Victorian monstrosity. The cream-colored gingerbread trim stood out against the dark blue of the house, the large windows reflecting the bright sunlight. If she squinted, she could see the oriel windows of Webster’s sitting room.

  “What am I doing, Captain?” Juliana groaned. “I’m spending far too much time and energy thinking about this man. I don’t even like him. He’s so obnoxious.”

  So why couldn’t she stop thinking about the way he’d held her? Why, even when he was his most infuriating, did she want to run her fingers through his wild, dark hair?

  Captain snorted, glancing up at the woman on his back.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s hormones. And maybe if I’m lucky it’ll pass. C’mon, boy.”

  Gently pulling the reins, she turned Captain around and headed back down the mountain.

  Liz Beckwith looked as if she had an enormous watermelon underneath her dress. Her arms and legs were still slender, her ankles and fingers unswollen. She really looked as if she were playing at being pregnant, rather than mere weeks away from delivery.

  Her short blond hair curled about her pixie face, and she smiled at Juliana from her rocking chair. “Spill it,” she demanded.

  Juliana shrugged. “Nothing’s new.”

  Liz made a face. “Last time I looked in the dictionary, the definition for nothing didn’t include a six-and-a-half-foot tall hunk of man with curly dark hair and a red Miata. How does he fit inside that tiny car?”

  Juliana shook her head in mock sadness. “You’ve been spying on me.”

  Her friend giggled. “Can’t you just see me, waddling through the woods, a pair of binoculars around my neck, quiet as a lumbering hippo?”

  “Yes.”

  “The man must have a name.”

  Juliana nodded. “Webster Donovan.”

  Liz sat up, her light blue eyes widening. “Webster Donovan, the author?”

  Juliana nodded again. “He’s trying to write his second book as we speak. I think he’s got writer’s block or something. He spends most of his time stomping around his room,” Juliana said. “Sometimes I feel like telling him to find another job.”

  “Oh, but, no! Jule, his first book was great,” Liz enthused. “It’s called Out of Time. Have you and Alicia read it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, wow, you’re gonna love it. I’ll lend it to you.” Liz pushed herself out of the rocking chair and moved with surprising grace toward a huge bookshelf that covered most of the living room wall. “Oh, darn. It’s on one of Sam’s shelves.” The tiny woman pointed up to the very top shelf. “Push a chair over—”

  “I’m not going to let you climb up there,” Juliana said, warningly.

  Liz gave her an “of course I wouldn’t” look. “You climb up, oh tall one. It’s the book with the red cover, let’s see, one, two, three, four, five … eighth from the end.”

  Juliana stood on her tiptoes on the dining room chair. She pointed to the book, and Liz nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Pulling the heavy book from the shelf, Juliana wiped the dust from the top.

  Taking it eagerly, Liz sat down on the edge of the coffee table, opening it to the first page. As Juliana carried the chair
back to the dining room, she listened to Liz read the first few paragraphs of the book.

  It was a description of a man alone in a ghost town, and the words flowed beautifully, creating a poetry and a poignance that made Juliana want to hear more.

  But Liz stopped reading, turning to the back of the dust cover, to the black and white picture of Webster Donovan.

  “No,” Liz said flatly, shaking her blond curls. “This guy is simply too good looking. He must have some fatal flaw.”

  Juliana slipped the book into her backpack, only glancing at the photo. Webster looked much better in real life. “Well, let’s see. He’s rude, arrogant, conceited, and way too pushy.”

  Liz laughed. “Jule, you just described Sam.” She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So when are you going out with him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Jule …”

  “I’m not.”

  “Jule …”

  “Alicia has lived nearly eighty years without a man, and if she can do it, I can, too.”

  Liz was silent for a long time, her hands pressed to her swollen belly as the little life inside pushed against her, stretching and turning within the confines of her womb. For once her face was serious as she looked at Juliana.

  She said, “Maybe Alicia just never found the right man.”

  Chapter Five

  Juliana looked up from the tiny table in the bar as Liz sat down next to her.

  “They’re going to start playing soon,” the small blond woman said, watching the stage where her husband and his band had set up their instruments. “You know, I met Sam here at Red’s.”

  Juliana’s green eyes danced with unconcealed delight. “I didn’t know,” she said.

  “It’ll be exactly ten years ago in January.”

  Liz and Sam’s son Chris had just turned nine last week. “You mean, since you’ve been married?” Juliana asked.

  Liz grinned. “No. I mean, since we met. We, um, took one look at each other and, well, shall I say … got busy?”

  Juliana laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “How come you never told me this before?”

  “I was waiting for the right moment,” Liz said. “You know, Sam and I have only been married for seven years. Sam didn’t even know Chris existed until he was almost two.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “I couldn’t find him! He was just some guitar-playing drifter who sat in with the house band one Saturday night. We didn’t make each other any promises—or take any precautions. He only stayed for three days, but I was head over heels in love with him. I never told him, though. I was afraid to.

  “Finally, he left for Nashville, and I joined the ranks of the single parents of America. I made a few half-hearted attempts to get in touch with him, but I wasn’t even sure he’d remember my name.

  “Then one evening, a couple years later, I was just sitting at home, watching the tube, and the Country Music Awards were on. And who wins the award for writing the song of the year? Sam Beckwith. And he played his song, and it was about some guy who meets a woman in a bar, leaves her behind, and always regrets it. He makes the big time, and he realizes that he’d give it all up for the chance to go back and live that part of his life over, do it differently, because even after all that time, he’s still in love with her. And when Sam stood up to get that award, he looked directly into the camera, held up that big crystal prize and said, ‘Liz, if you’re out there, I’m still dreaming about you, darlin’.’ ” Liz imitated Sam’s deep voice perfectly. “Chris and I were in Nashville within twenty-four hours. Sam and I got married, and, see? Now we’re living happily ever after.”

  “That’s a wild story,” Juliana said. Her green eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling it to me now?”

  “Nostalgia.” Liz shrugged. “Being here in Red’s brings it all back.”

  Juliana crossed her arms, her face very skeptical. “Oh, really? And the twenty-five other times we’ve been here together haven’t been sufficiently nostalgic? Come on, Liz,” she said. “Let’s have it. Is there some not-so-subtle message I’m supposed to be getting?”

  The shorter woman smiled sheepishly. “All right. My point is, at one time I was convinced that I’d never be happy. I was desperately in love with Sam, and I couldn’t even find him, and it just seemed really likely that I’d spend the rest of my life alone. But I didn’t. It worked out. I just don’t think you should be so positive that you’re not going to find some nice, six-and-a-half-foot tall guy—”

  Juliana rolled her eyes. “Liz …”

  “—to spend the rest of your life with.”

  “Who’ve you got Jule paired off with now, Lizzie?”

  Kurt Pottersfield slid a chair over to their table, and both women greeted him with a kiss.

  “Forget it,” Juliana said quickly. “How’s crime fighting going, Sheriff?”

  Liz’s brother Kurt was the only law-enforcement official in all of Benton County. His uniform looked out of place in the crowded bar, but everybody knew him and greeted him warmly as they passed by.

  “Did I hear you say six and a half feet tall?” he asked Liz.

  “Yeah, shorty,” she teased her brother. “Jule’s new guest. He’s a famous, tall author.”

  Kurt was movie-star handsome, with thick brown hair, hazel eyes, and an almost too-pretty face. He was also movie-star height, standing five feet seven inches in his boots.

  Kurt grinned. “With you around, sprout, I’ll never be the shortest. Besides, last time I checked, I was almost as tall as Jule.”

  The music started—a solid, down-home country two-step. Sam’s long fingers flew up and down the frets and across the strings of his guitar.

  “Yee-hah!” Kurt shouted.

  Juliana smiled at Liz. “That husband of yours sure can play.” She turned to Kurt. “You on or off duty, lawman?”

  “Off duty and ready to be your dancin’ fool.” Kurt grinned, standing and offering Juliana his hand.

  She pulled her sweater over her head and threw it on the chair next to Liz as she took Kurt’s hand.

  “Order me a tallboy, sis,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

  The dance floor was already packed and hotter than blazes from the lights. Sam winked at Juliana from the stage as she began to dance with Kurt, and she smiled back at him, thinking about Sam and Liz’s rocky start. All those years of unhappiness could have been avoided, if only they’d been able to communicate right from the very beginning. They’d both loved each other, but neither one of them had thought to tell the other.

  Inwardly she shook her head, thinking of her own disastrous near marriage. In Juliana’s case, the trouble only began after she and her fiancé, Dennis, started communicating. No, Liz’s story was sweet and touching, but the fact remained that Juliana couldn’t hope for something she was never going to have. And there’d be plenty of time to cry over that when she was alone in her apartment, late at night.

  Juliana smiled into Kurt’s pretty hazel eyes, and he spun her around and around the floor until she was nearly giddy with dizziness and laughter.

  Web started the engine of his little car, holding the cold steering wheel carefully. He was feeling dizzy, a little warm, and more than a little off balance.

  Food, he thought. He needed some food in his stomach; that would make him feel better.

  He pointed his car toward town, but before he reached the quaint little green with its border of shops and restaurants, he saw a sign for a place called Red’s. It was not your upperclass establishment, but there were so many cars out in the parking lot, Web figured something had to be going on inside that was worth checking out. A neon sign in the front window said, GOOD FOOD, GOOD DRINKS. Good enough.

  The club was dark inside, and a band was up on the stage. A country band, Web noticed, and they were damn decent, too. The place was a real dive, but it was packed nearly wall to wall with people dancing, laughing, drinking, and listening to the band. If this was Benton,
Massachusetts, on a Tuesday night, what were weekends like?

  He sidled up to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye, signaling for a beer. The mug came frosted, and Web took a quick sip as he ordered a turkey sandwich on rye. He sat back on the bar stool then and nursed his beer as he watched the band.

  They finished a song, and the crowd roared its approval. The lead guitar player immediately kicked into another song, one Web recognized. It was a Sam Beckwith tune from a few years ago, back when the country singer was just starting his legendary climb to fame.

  Man, this guy could play and sing just like Beckwith. Webster squinted, staring hard at the man in the black cowboy hat who stood center stage in front of a mike.

  The barkeep tapped him on the shoulder. “One turkey on rye. You wanna pay now or run a tab?”

  “Tab,” Web answered, and pointed to the stage. “Hey, is that—?”

  The burly bartender grinned. “Sam Beckwith. In person.”

  “What the hell is he doing playing here?” Web asked, astonished. Beckwith could fill the Meadowlands Arena. “No offense …”

  The other man grinned. “None taken. Sam lives down the road. When he’s in town, he likes to show off for that pretty little wife of his. I can’t complain. Oh, yeah, I should warn you—Sam’s wife’s pregnant, so he doesn’t want anyone smoking in here tonight. You want a butt, take it outside.”

  “This is wild,” Webster said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Absolutely wild.”

  He finished his sandwich and polished off several more mugs of beer as he watched the band. Sam Beckwith in person, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. Playing in a club that was smaller than his parents’ living room …

  There was a dance floor down in front of the stage, and as the band kicked into a swing tune, most of the dancers moved aside, leaving plenty of room for a man and a woman who were doing some fancy jitterbug moves.

  The woman was a knockout, dressed in slim-fitting jeans that accentuated her slender hips and small waist. She wore a black tank top that fit like a glove over her full breasts and torso. Her hair was the most marvelous red-gold color, and it seemed to explode around her face—