Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “How do I look?” Webster struck a pose.

  The moment was gone. Juliana might have been disappointed if she hadn’t seen his fingers fumble the buttons of his coat. He was just as rattled as she was, she realized. Maybe even more so.

  “Come see.” Juliana led the way into her bathroom, turning on the lights.

  The bathroom was all black-and-white tile, with a floor-to-ceiling mirror on one wall. A huge Jacuzzi sat under a skylight, surrounded by—what else, Webster thought—more plants. There was a shower stall off to one side, a double row of sinks with another big mirror above it. The entire room was about the size of his bedroom downstairs. “Very impressive,” he said.

  “Yes, you do look good,” Juliana said.

  The trim black trousers were probably a little too snug across the seat of his pants, but the jacket fit as if it had been made for him. With his dark curls, he looked as if he’d stepped out from a time machine. They both did, Juliana realized, although Webster was dressed more formally than she was.

  “I was talking about the room, but now that you mention it, I look—” Webster gave her a sideways glance and a small smile. “—not bad.”

  Juliana laughed. “Oh, Webster, you learn so quickly. But the big question is,” she said, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms, “can you stay in character?”

  Juliana stood gracefully, moving to the dining room sideboard and picking up the heavy coffee pot. “More coffee, Mr. Donovan,” she murmured as she passed his chair.

  “No thank you, Miss Anderson,” he replied. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Perhaps I might ask you to escort the ladies into the front parlor, while I clear the table?” she said.

  “Of course,” he said. His smile was serene, but his eyes told her that she had the easier job.

  By the time she made her way into the parlor, Webster had set up a card table, and he and the ladies were playing cards. They quickly made room for Juliana at the table, and she sat down. Her eyebrow rose when Webster told her they were playing poker. Poker? But the ladies seemed eager and willing.

  “All right, ladies—” Webster looked around the table, his eyes lingering on Juliana “—the game is night baseball, in the rain.…”

  It was after eleven before the last of the guests said good night.

  “They like you,” Juliana said, watching Webster put away the card table as she poured them each a snifter of brandy.

  He waited until he heard the doors close tightly on the second floor before he said, “Maybe too much. I’m locking my door tonight. Before dinner, one of those ladies pinched me on the cheek, and I’m not talking about my face.”

  Juliana handed him his glass, trying hard not to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” he said indignantly.

  “Webster,” she said. “I didn’t tell you this before, but … those ladies are nuns.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. They’re from a convent in Worcester.”

  “I swear to God,” he said, “appropriately enough, I suppose, but I swear, somebody definitely pinched me. God, a nun! Who would’ve thought.”

  “A nun didn’t pinch you.” Juliana carried her own glass over to the fire and swirled it in her hand, smiling up at Webster.

  “I’m telling you, Juliana—”

  “I did.”

  He stared at her. “You …?”

  She nodded, trying hard not to laugh.

  “All that talk about staying in character,” he said, “and you go and … I’m shocked.”

  He started to laugh.

  “Liz called today,” Juliana said. “She and Sam are throwing a party this coming Monday night. I don’t have any other guests scheduled to come in that night, so I told her I’d be there. Would you like to go?”

  Webster stopped laughing. He set his glass of brandy down very carefully on the mantle and turned to look at Juliana. She stood several feet away from him, the firelight playing off her beautiful face. But her eyes sparkled with a light of their own as she smiled at him.

  “Are you …” he started, then stopped. “You’re not …”

  One delicate eyebrow rose, waiting for him to go on.

  “With you?” he finally asked.

  “Yes.” She took a sip of her brandy.

  “You mean, kind of like … a date?”

  “I mean exactly like a date.”

  Webster nodded, then laughed, then nodded again. He looked back at her, and his eyes were the deepest blue she’d ever seen. “I’d love to go on a date with you,” he said, his voice soft, but very, very certain.

  Juliana’s pulse raced. She liked Webster as a friend. She was comfortable with him as her friend. But there was something that was more than friendship between them. There was something that boiled turbulently, just below the surface every time she got close to him, every time they accidentally touched.

  Webster picked up his brandy and swirled it around the glass, staring into the dark liquid. “Is this the kind of date where, after it’s over, I can kiss you good night?” he asked. He was trying to be light, trying to sound like he was teasing, but Juliana knew that he wasn’t. His eyes were dead serious when he looked back at her.

  She took a step toward him. “We don’t need to go on a date to kiss each other good night,” she said.

  He swallowed, his eyes moving down to her mouth for a moment. He put his glass back on the mantle and shook his head again. “Juliana …” He said her name softly, taking his time with it. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of being a jerk.”

  “If you don’t kiss me good night, Webster, you will be a jerk,” she said with a smile.

  He moved toward her, and she put her own glass up on the mantle. But he stopped just short of taking her into his arms. Their eyes locked, and Webster felt his heart pound. It was so loud she had to be able to hear it.

  “Juliana, I’m scared to death,” he said softly. “I’m afraid of doing this wrong, of saying something stupid. And at the same time, I’m afraid that I’m too scared of blowing it to be able to do it right.”

  She smiled at him again. “I guess, then, it can wait another day or so,” she said, turning toward the door.

  But he caught her arm, pulling her back to him. “No, it can’t,” he said hoarsely.

  Juliana caught her breath as she felt his arms around her. With one hand, he touched her face, brushing her hair back as his eyes caressed her.

  Slowly, so slowly and gently, his lips met hers. Juliana felt herself melt against him and slipped her arms up around his neck.

  He’d kissed her before, but back then they’d been strangers. Then the kiss had been driven by pure passion, by basic physical need. Now the passion was still there—Juliana felt it in the way he held her, in his arms, in his body—but there was also a sweetness that came from their friendship, from shared secrets and laughter.

  She opened her mouth to him, but felt him hesitate. He was still afraid of stepping out of line. But when she touched his lips lightly with her tongue, his arms tightened around her and he hesitated no longer. She could hear him groan, way back deep in his throat as his tongue swept into her mouth. She pressed herself against him, matching the fierceness of his kisses, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

  “God, Juliana,” he breathed, still holding her close, her head against his shoulder. She could feel his heart racing, hear his unsteady breathing.

  She lifted her face to him, and he kissed her again and again—deep, soft, sweet kisses that left her trembling and wanting more.

  But more would have to wait.

  She pulled back only slightly, but he immediately released her. “Good night, Web,” she whispered. “Sleep well.” And she went up the stairs, her skirts rustling quietly.

  Webster stared into the dying embers of the fire, unable to keep a smile from his face. Sleep well? Highly unlikely. He’d be lucky if he got to sleep at all.

  Chapter Nine

  Juliana locked her apartment door be
hind her. She tucked the key carefully into the high neck of her blouse, then tiptoed down the stairs past the guest bedrooms. It was so early the sun hadn’t even come up yet, but rising at this time was the price she had to pay for not washing up the dishes after dinner.

  She smiled, thinking of the way Webster had kissed her last night. It hadn’t been easy to fall asleep, thinking of him just one floor below her, yet somehow she felt rested and refreshed.

  She pushed open the door to the kitchen, thinking, darn, she’d left the light on all night, then stopped and stared.

  Webster stared back at her from where he was standing at the sink, elbow deep in dishwater. He smiled, then checked the kitchen clock. “Good morning.”

  Juliana looked around the kitchen in amazement. It was spotless—all the dishes and pots washed, all the counters wiped and shining.

  He rinsed the last of the pot lids, balancing it on an already precariously tall pile in the dish rack, and let the sudsy water out of the sink. It vanished with a slurp down the drain as Webster wiped his hands on a dish towel.

  He was wearing his ratty gray sweat pants and a loose tank top that barely covered his muscular upper body. His feet were bare and his hair was wild, as usual. Sweet heavens, he looked good enough to eat.

  Juliana sniffed the air. Was that … coffee?

  Webster crossed to the coffee maker and poured out a mug, presenting it to her with a flourish, handle out.

  “Web, what’s going on?” Juliana asked. “It must’ve taken you hours to—”

  “One hour and twenty-two minutes.” He grinned.

  She looked at the clock. The digital readout flashed 5:25. If he’d been up at four o’clock, then he’d surely been up at three o’clock. And if he’d been up at three o’clock, then he surely hadn’t gone to bed at all.

  “I’m celebrating!” he proclaimed, throwing his arms open wide.

  Juliana lifted an eyebrow. “You’re celebrating. So naturally, you clean my kitchen …?”

  He shrugged. “It seemed like a good way to pass the time until you woke up.”

  She put down her coffee mug and took a dry dish towel from the back of the pantry door. “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “But aren’t you planning to sleep at all today?”

  He grabbed a second dish towel and began helping her dry the dishes. “I’ll take a nap after breakfast,” he said.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “Well …”

  “I don’t want you to get sick again,” she said sternly. “Promise you’ll take a nap, and I’ll let you use my workout gear later this afternoon.”

  “Deal.” He grinned. “Hey, aren’t you going to ask me why I’m celebrating?”

  Juliana hung the pots from the rack above the stove, stopping to turn on the oven, preheating it for the coffee cake she planned to make for breakfast. “Okay, tell me. Why are you celebrating?”

  “Last night, after being tremendously inspired—” he waggled his eyebrows at Juliana “—I went up to my room and wrote an entire outline for my book.”

  “Webster, that’s great news!” Juliana said.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too,” he said, helping her carry the ingredients for the coffee cake to the table. “Now I can start writing.”

  Juliana was measuring cupfuls of rich, whole-wheat flour, and she looked up, giving him a sideways glance, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. “Does this mean you’re going to stop following me around in the mornings?”

  “Do you want me to stop following you around in the mornings?”

  Juliana handed him the heavy flour canister, and he put it away in the cupboard, looking back at her expectantly, waiting for her answer.

  She carefully measured out the baking powder and salt, adding it to the flour before she said, “How can I answer that, knowing every minute you spend down here in the kitchen with me, you’re not writing your next literary masterpiece?”

  “I guess you really don’t have to answer,” Webster said, crossing the kitchen to stand beside her, “because I fully intend to keep following you around. And not just in the mornings.” He reached out and brushed a stray red-gold curl from her face.

  She looked up at him. His eyes were soft and very dark blue—exactly the way they’d looked last night before he’d kissed her.

  “Just so you know,” Juliana said, her voice suddenly husky, “I also found last night tremendously inspiring.”

  Webster leaned forward then and kissed her. It was little more than a gentle caress, his lips brushing lightly against hers, but it was perfect—undemanding and sincere. Juliana found herself holding on to the edge of the table.

  “So,” Web said, consciously making an effort to break the mood. He looked from the array of ingredients still out on the table to the big mixing bowl. “What goes in there next? Where’s your cookbook?”

  “Sugar,” Juliana said faintly. “And I don’t use a cookbook.”

  “You don’t use a … how can you make food taste so wonderful without using a cookbook?” Webster said, reeling across the kitchen. “I’m shocked! Again!”

  Juliana laughed, regaining her equilibrium now that he wasn’t standing quite so close to her. “Believe me, I’ve probably made this particular coffee cake four hundred times.” She tapped her head. “I’ve got the recipe up here. Permanently.”

  “What do you want me to do then? Start dueling with the fresh fruit?”

  Juliana motioned to the cutlery in the wood block. “Choose your weapon,” she said.

  Webster selected a viciously sharp-looking knife and happily went to work cutting a huge pile of fresh fruit into bite-sized pieces.

  As they worked, Webster kept up his usual steady stream of conversation, telling Juliana about the day he decided to take his father’s prize mare for a ride—only days before the very pregnant horse was due to foal. “I didn’t know why the horse was so damn fat,” he said. “I thought she needed the exercise. I was only six years old. I mean, I knew about sex—we ran a stud service, for crying out loud. But people would bring their mares to our farm, our stallions would service them, and then they’d leave. This was the first time I’d been around anything even remotely pregnant. Man, you should’ve seen my father’s face when he saw me riding that mare bareback around the corral.…” He laughed, shaking his head.

  “Did you get punished?” Juliana asked.

  Webster was silent for a moment. The sound of his knife hitting the cutting board with solid thwacks was the only noise in the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” he finally said.

  But he didn’t say anything else. Juliana looked over at him. He was pretending to be engrossed in cutting a pear.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “My father gave me the cold, silent treatment for an entire week. Then … he shipped me off to boarding school.” Webster was trying to be casual, blasé even, but Juliana could see an echo of the little boy he’d once been in his eyes. And that little boy was still indignant, outraged, and deeply, deeply hurt.

  Juliana thought about Liz and Sam’s son, Chris, who had just turned nine. She couldn’t imagine sending a child even that young away from home. And six! A six-year-old was hardly more than a baby.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, you know, life goes on,” he said, scraping the fruit on his cutting board into the big plastic container.

  “I do know,” she said quietly, and when he looked up at her, he knew she understood.

  Webster stood at the counter, mixing the batter for pancakes.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “Eggs. Three,” she said, carrying the heavy plates and silverware into the living room. The door swung softly shut behind her.

  “Three eggs,” Webster repeated, opening the refrigerator. A huge carton of fresh eggs was on the bottom shelf. He pulled three eggs from the box and began juggling them clumsily as he turned to cross the kitchen floor.

  Except the kitchen floor was occupied by a s
mall, elderly lady in a long, black coat and matching hat.

  Webster grabbed at two of the eggs and fumbled the third, catching it just before it hit the ground.

  “Nice save,” the lady said, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  Her rather regal gaze swept up and down Webster, and he became acutely aware of the hole in the knee of his sweat pants. He put the eggs on the counter and ran his hands through his hair in a useless attempt to make it less dishevelled.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Who the heck are you?” she asked him.

  “Webster Donovan.”

  She nodded, her piercing gray eyes settling on his face.

  “I just finished reading your book,” she said. “You’re a fine writer—good style, smooth delivery, a sincere, personal voice. I enjoyed it immensely.”

  “Well, thanks,” Webster said. “I’m glad, but—”

  “How’s the second novel coming?” she asked. She put her purse on the kitchen table and began taking off her coat, still watching him closely.

  She saw the flash of passion spark in the young man’s eyes, as his handsome face broke into a slow grin. “I wrote the outline last night,” he said. “Finally.”

  “Aha,” she said, pulling her hatpins out, and taking the tiny black hat off her thick gray curls. “Broke out of your writer’s block, did you? Good for you.”

  Webster stared at her. Underneath her coat, she wore dark blue sweat pants and a white blouse under a knitted red vest. She had a pair of running shoes on her tiny feet, with pom-poms at the ends of her laces. Her face was beautiful, the lines and wrinkles adding dignity and wisdom to her countenance. She could have been anywhere from sixty to one hundred years old. But she moved with the vitality and youthfulness of a young girl.

  “Excuse me for not knowing, but … who the heck are you?” Webster asked, echoing her words to him.

  She laughed—a quick burst of sound. “I’m Alicia Dupree,” she said. “Is my niece around here somewhere?”