Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  There was no sign of Juliana, but he didn’t expect to see her. No doubt she was hiding up in her room. Hiding from him.

  He was so depressed. How could she not want to marry him? If she really loved him, how could she bear for him to leave? His stomach churned at the thought of not seeing her every morning, of not being able to hold her in his arms at night. How could she not feel it, too?

  Unless she didn’t love him.

  Sure, she said she did, but no two people had exactly the same interpretation of a word. When he said, “I love you,” he meant that he couldn’t live without her, that he burned for her, body and soul. Maybe when she said the same words, she merely meant that she enjoyed being with him, that for this moment in time, he gave her pleasure.

  Or maybe it had all been a lie.

  He took the jewelry box with the engagement ring out of his pocket and stared at the faded velvet cover. He might as well put it back in Alicia’s room.

  But her door was locked.

  He went back into the kitchen and slowly sat down at the table. Opening the box, he looked at the beautiful ring. Juliana wasn’t going to marry him. And he didn’t want anything less from her.

  This was what he deserved for being stupid enough to fall in love in the first place. Love didn’t work. It just didn’t work.

  He had to get out of here. He had to pack up his things and leave. He couldn’t stay, not another minute.

  Webster snapped the jewelry box shut. He’d leave this in the office, inside Alicia’s desk drawer.

  The tiny office was dark, and there was no overhead light, so he switched on the small lamp that sat on the first of the two desks. Juliana’s desk.

  There was a folder open, and as he glanced down, the letterhead from the Boston Globe caught his eye. He picked up the letter, reading it quickly.

  Then, frowning, he read it again, more slowly this time.

  It was standard correspondence, and it announced the impending arrival of one Webster Donovan, representative from the Boston Globe. The letter went on to inform the Misses Dupree and Anderson that Mr. Donovan would be reviewing their establishment for an upcoming article and accompanying book on New England’s bed and breakfasts.

  All this time, Juliana had known he was the reviewer, and she’d never said a word.

  In a sudden flash of memory, he could hear her voice telling Alicia, “I’d do anything for a good review.”

  Anything?

  Like maybe seduce the reviewer? Like maybe pretend to be in love with him?

  Webster’s eyes moved to the date of the letter. In typical bureaucratic inefficiency, it had been sent weeks after his arrival date. Still, even if the mail was outrageously slow, Juliana had to have received this letter before they’d first made love.

  Webster tossed the ring box down on Alicia’s desk and went upstairs.

  His head was spinning. He had to get out of here.

  * * *

  Juliana pulled the pickup truck into the Beckwiths’ driveway, tapping her horn lightly. Chris and Jamey were playing in the empty garage, and they came running as she climbed out of the cab. Jamey started to launch herself at Juliana, then remembering her injured ribs, stopped and hugged her gently.

  “What, no school today?” Juliana asked, kissing the top of Jamey’s tangled hair and moving into the open garage, out of the rain.

  “There’s some kind of teacher’s conference.” Chris grinned. “That’s just fine with me.”

  “Me, too,” Jamey said.

  “Lucky devils. Is your mom around?”

  “She’s lying down,” Chris said. “She’s not feeling real well, so I’m baby-sitting.”

  He put such an expression of long-suffering on his face Juliana had to laugh.

  “I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Jamey said indignantly, opening her mouth to give him an additional piece of her mind. But Chris was quick to back down.

  “Sorry, squirt,” he said, his face sincere. “I keep forgetting that you don’t need a sitter now that you’re … five.” And then he turned away from Jamey and dropped Juliana the best deadpan wink she’d ever seen. He was better at it than his father was, and that kind of wink was Sam Beckwith’s trademark.

  “Chris and I are doing a scientific experiment,” Jamey told Juliana. “We’re seeing who can fly the farthest, Barbie or Ken.”

  “We think that Ken will travel the longest distance, since he has the largest body weight,” Chris said. “But we’ll do a bunch of tests to make sure we’re right.”

  “Well,” Juliana said, unable to hide her smile. “Don’t forget to take into consideration that Barbie is slightly more streamlined than Ken.”

  Chris nodded seriously. “We didn’t think of that,” he said.

  “On the other hand,” Juliana said. “Barbie’s long hair might create more drag.”

  “My Barbie’s bald,” Jamey said. “I gave her a buzz cut last week.”

  Kids.

  She’d never allowed herself to think about it before, assuming that she’d be single all of her life, but she really, really wanted children. She wanted bright young faces, full of life and energy, full of laughter and an unquenchable need to discover the world.

  She wanted Chris and Jamey, but they were already taken, so she’d have to make some beautiful children of her own. With Webster’s help, of course …

  Juliana smiled. The more she got used to this married thing, the more she liked it.

  “Yo!” Liz called from the kitchen door. “You gonna stand out there all day?”

  “See you later, guys,” Juliana said, then went inside. “I thought you were lying down.”

  Liz made a face. “I tried, but as soon as I got comfortable, the baby started working on his new tap-dancing routine.”

  Liz looked tired, with signs of strain clearly showing on her face. “Will you look at those clouds?” she said, peering out of the kitchen window. “I really hope this rain doesn’t change to snow.”

  “It’s not cold enough,” Juliana said.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Liz agreed. “I just worry whenever Sam’s going to be driving late at night.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Juliana said.

  “I have got the worst bitch of a backache today,” Liz said, sitting at the kitchen table and resting her head on her arms. “Distract me, will you? Tell me about your romantic evening with Webster Donovan.”

  Juliana put some water in the tea kettle. “Don’t you mean, my romantic evening with Webster and the Edgewoods?”

  Liz sighed. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about the Edgewoods. They leave yet? They must’ve or you wouldn’t be over here.”

  Juliana sat down across from Liz, pushing her hair back from her face. “Webster asked me to marry him.”

  Liz lit up, her pleasure erasing all of the lines of fatigue that had been on her face. “Congratulations!”

  “I told him no.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, but …” Juliana stood up to get the tea canister out of the cupboard. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to do it,” she said. She looked at Liz, smiling a little self-consciously. “I’m going to marry him.”

  “All right!” Liz said, grinning. “Webster must be out of his mind, delirious with happiness.”

  “He, uh, doesn’t know yet,” Juliana said. “I haven’t told him I changed my mind.”

  Liz stood up so fast that her chair fell over backwards. She pointed to the door. “Out!” she cried. “Get out! Get out of here and go tell that man what you just told me. Immediately!”

  Laughing, Juliana let Liz push her out the door. “I’ll call you later to see how you’re feeling,” she said.

  “Go home!” Liz shouted. “Don’t think about me, think about Webster!”

  As Juliana climbed awkwardly into her truck, she could hear Liz singing the opening strains to the wedding march from the doorway.

  She pulled onto the street and turned on the windshield wipers, noticing suddenl
y that the rain had traces of ice in it. Sleet, ugh, she thought. Still, it was too warm to freeze on the road. Or was it? The inside of the truck was so cold she put on the heater to warm her feet.

  The firewood she’d picked up in town bounced in the back of the truck as she pulled into her driveway. Her ribs bounced, too, and she slowed, holding her side with one hand. It was enough to remind her that she wasn’t back to normal yet. Heck, she wasn’t even up to fifty percent. She wouldn’t be able to unload the firewood. She’d have to ask Webster to do that for her.

  By the time she parked the truck near the kitchen door, the rain had more than mere traces of ice in it. It was positively chunky, and a few flakes were starting to fall. When she opened the door to the cab, the air was sharp and icy. The temperature was dropping fast.

  The heels of her boots skidded slightly on the slippery driveway as she made her way into the house.

  The kitchen was empty, but there was a mug out on the counter. Webster was awake.

  Juliana hung her coat in the mud room and wiped her feet carefully on the mat, then went up the stairs to the second floor. The door to his room was open, and she approached it nervously.

  What was she supposed to say? “Good morning, I changed my mind. Let’s get married?”

  There was a suitcase out and open on his bed, full of his clothes. He’d tossed them in there in obvious haste, as if getting away quickly was more important than having an entire wardrobe full of wrinkles.

  She took another step into the room and then turned around, surprised, as Webster came in the door behind her. He was carrying the boxes for his computer, the ones he’d stored down in the basement. He stared at her, his eyes crystal blue.

  “You’re still upset,” she said, taking a step back, away from the ice in his eyes.

  “Very perceptive,” he said, brushing past her, carrying the boxes into the sitting room.

  His hair was wild, as it usually was, and he wore the jeans he’d had on when they’d first met. He’d washed them, but there were holes in the knees and the thighs were worn nearly white. He’d told her they were his traveling jeans.

  She followed him into the other room. “Webster, I’m sorry—”

  “Save it,” he said, not even looking up.

  “But—”

  “Look, I found that letter, I know what your deal is, so you don’t have to play this game anymore,” he said, his voice tight.

  Juliana was lost. What on earth was he talking about? “Webster, I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. “What letter?”

  Webster glanced up from encasing his printer in Styrofoam packing material. He lowered it into the manufacturer’s box. “Oh, we’re going to play dumb? Fine. What letter? The one that’s out on top of your desk.”

  She still looked at him blankly.

  “In your office,” he added. “The letter from the Boston Globe?”

  Recognition flickered in her eyes, and Webster could have wept. Up to now, she’d been so convincingly confused he was starting to believe he’d made a mistake. But now it was clear that she knew which letter he was talking about.

  He wound up his power cords and connecting cables and put them into the box with his computer keyboard.

  “Webster, you’re accusing me of something, and I have no idea what it is,” Juliana said quietly. “I wish you would just come out and say it.”

  The blue eyes that looked at her were pure crystal, and Juliana felt the beginnings of real panic. This was not some misunderstanding or some mild disagreement. He was looking at her as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  “You slept with me,” he said. “You had sex with me not just once, but God, I lost count of how many times. And you did it for one reason—because you knew that I was that damned reporter from the Globe, and you wanted a good review.”

  Juliana felt light-headed. Webster? Was from the Boston Globe? And sweet heavens! What he was accusing her of was little better than prostitution.

  “Tell me, Jule,” he asked, his eyes glittering. “Are you planning on making it an option for all the gentlemen guests? I can guarantee you’ll increase your business that way, with or without a good review.”

  The light-headedness was replaced by heat. Pure, unadulterated anger. How dare he? How dare he say such things?

  “You are so wrong,” she whispered. “I didn’t know what was in that letter.” She could prove it, but she wasn’t going to bother. He wasn’t worth the trouble. Her voice got stronger. “It’s a good thing you’re packing your bags, Mr. Donovan, because I want you out of my house.”

  Juliana moved toward the door, her head held high. She turned back, her face coolly, emotionlessly composed. “I’ll expect you to stop in my office and settle your bill before you leave.”

  Webster finished packing, the silence of the room pressing down on him.

  Outside, the rain was still coming down. And the temperature was plummeting, too. The driveway was a sheet of ice, so Juliana spread rock salt all the way down to the road. As she stood there in the rain, a snowplow drove slowly past. The plow was raised, but the big truck spread sand and salt across the road.

  How could Webster have believed such terrible things about her? Even if he had thought those things, how could he have possibly said them out loud?

  Why didn’t he trust her? Why didn’t he wait to talk to her before jumping to conclusions? If he had come to her and asked, she would have explained.

  But it was too late. He’d ruined everything with his nasty, hurtful accusations. She’d never tell him now. Never.

  Slowly she turned and went back to the house, grateful that the rain hid the tears on her face.

  Webster finished loading his car, then went into the kitchen, stamping his boots on the mat. He swung open the door to the hallway and went into the office.

  Juliana had laid all the paperwork out on Alicia’s desk.

  “I’ve totaled up your phone calls and added that amount in,” she said, her voice cool. “I’ve also totaled your meals separately from the room charge, in case you need that information for your expense account. Please feel free to check the math.”

  Her hair was swept up in a french braid, and she wore a black turtleneck shirt that contrasted her soft, pale skin. She kept her eyes carefully away from him, as if she couldn’t bear to see him, even this one last time. Her eyelashes looked long and dark against her cheeks. God, she was so beautiful.

  She felt him staring and glanced up. Her green eyes looked almost flat. All of the sparkle was gone as she looked at him coldly.

  No, she didn’t love him, Webster realized. That much was very clear. If she loved him, even just a little, he would’ve been able to see something in her eyes—maybe a little remorse.

  Anger, deep burning anger flared inside him. He signed the credit-card slip, tucking his copy into his wallet, willing his hands not to shake. Taking out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, he dropped it on the desk in front of Juliana.

  “Here’s a little something extra,” he said, his voice harsh, “since you obviously gave me VIP treatment.”

  If Webster wanted to see emotion in her eyes, he got it. He also got a stinging slap across the face. And he knew from the anger that suddenly seemed to radiate from her that if there hadn’t been a desk between them, she would have used her knee and aimed a whole lot lower.

  “Get out,” she said, and he turned and left.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Juliana hadn’t felt this bad since the judge sentenced her to reform school, back when she was sixteen years old. As she was led out of the courtroom, she’d felt lost, doomed, and so desperate she could barely breathe.

  She had that same feeling now.

  If, if, if.

  Her mind kept coming up with hindsight solutions, things she should have told him—hell—things he should have told her.

  She wondered sadly if he would have been as quick to mistrust her if she had never been in trouble with the law.

  Don
’t beat yourself up, she told herself sternly. Because that man was gone. And he wasn’t coming back.

  The doorbell rang.

  Juliana glanced out of the window, wondering who on earth was out in this weather. The heavy rain had turned to thick snow about an hour ago, and four very solid looking inches had already fallen.

  The Sheriff’s four-wheel-drive Jeep sat out in front, chains on its wheels. Someone was in the passenger seat, but it was starting to get dark, and she couldn’t see who it was.

  She opened the front door and was hit by a blast of freezing air.

  “Hey, Jule.” Kurt grinned at her. He was wearing his Arctic tundra gear, including a hat with earflaps that made him look about twelve years old. “How’s it goin’?”

  She opened the door wide so he could step into the entry hall. “What’s the matter?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Is something wrong? Is it Liz?”

  “Liz? Nah, she’s fine,” Kurt said. “I got a friend of yours out in my truck, though. He’s got a temporary housing problem on account of this storm. See, we had to shut down the Pike, ’cause an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed. The driver’s okay, and nobody else was hurt, thank the Lord, but there was an entire furniture showroom scattered for about a half a mile down the turnpike. Then reports started coming in that we had black ice on the pavement, so we decided to just keep the road closed.

  “Local streets are fine,” he continued, pulling off his hat and smoothing back his brown hair. “Provided you’ve got ice skates on your car instead of tires.”

  Juliana was giving him her overly patient look, which meant she wanted him to get to the point. So he said, “Turns out your buddy, Webster—”

  “He’s not my buddy,” Juliana said threateningly.

  “Fine.” Kurt threw up his hands, backing up slightly. “But whatever you want to call him, the fact remains he drove his little red sports car off the road. I helped him pull it out of a ditch, but he then proceeded to travel in a sideways sort of manner down Route Seventy-three. I told Donovan that was definitely not the way Mr. Mazda intended that little car be driven, and I informed him that there was no way I was going to let him continue driving that vehicle with the current road conditions. Thanks to my incredibly persuasive debating techniques and my threat to fine him five hundred bucks if he continued to protest, I got him out of his car and into mine. And then—” Kurt laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is what I really couldn’t believe.…”