Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Juliana stood silently, arms crossed, waiting for him to continue.

  “When I offered to drive him over here, Donovan told me that he wouldn’t be welcome,” Kurt said. “Can you believe that? He wouldn’t be welcome here at Benton’s finest bed and breakfast?”

  “He’s not,” Juliana said shortly.

  Kurt studied her in mock amazement. “Not welcome? I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said. “I’d love to find out all the gory details, Jule, but I don’t have time. I’m supposed to be out saving stranded motorists, not playing marriage counselor.”

  “Watch it, Sheriff,” Juliana said sharply. “You’re out of line.”

  Kurt looked down at the floor. His wet boots were making puddles. “Come on, Jule,” he said quietly, all teasing set aside. “Help me out, here. If Donovan can’t stay with you, he’s going to end up having to bunk down at the jail. And I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  Juliana swore a long string of very unladylike curses, as Kurt politely didn’t react. “Tell him he can stay here,” she finally said, “as long as he doesn’t talk to me.”

  Kurt leaned forward and gave her a kiss.

  Through the snow-splattered windshield of the Jeep and the storm door of the house, Webster watched the handsome little sheriff wrap his arms around Juliana and kiss her not once, but twice. He wasn’t prepared for the savage rush of jealousy that surged through him.

  And he’d barely gotten it under control when the sheriff made his way back to the Jeep, slipping and sliding on the driveway. He came around to Webster’s door and opened it.

  “All clear,” Kurt said cheerfully. “She’s promised not to murder you in your sleep on the condition that you don’t speak. At all.”

  “What if I refuse to get out of this car?” Webster asked. He was clutching his plastic carrying case of computer diskettes as if they were a life ring.

  Kurt thought about that. “Well, then I’d have to lock you in jail until the weather got good enough to haul you over to the state psychiatric hospital, because obviously you’d be insane.”

  “You’re the crazy one,” Webster muttered, swinging his long legs out of the Jeep. “It’s not normal for someone to be so goddamned happy all the time. I mean, doesn’t it bother you that I’ve slept with your girlfriend?”

  Kurt stopped midstride and stared back at Webster, surprise on his face. But then he laughed, one great big explosion of air and sound, and kept on walking up to the porch. He opened the door for Webster, gesturing grandly for him to enter the house.

  He was nuts, thought Webster sourly. The man who was the county sheriff was absolutely bonkers.

  The house was still and quiet, the only sound, the big grandfather clock ticking. Webster put his diskettes on a table, then sat on a claw-footed chair and began pulling off his boots.

  “Well,” Kurt said blithely. “Looks like Juliana has gone into hiding. Tell her I’ll give her a call as soon as the turnpike’s open. Try not to kill each other—Oh, damn, I almost forgot. Wait a sec, I’ll be right back.”

  He vanished out the door, but was back in only a few moments, carrying a bundle of letters in his hands.

  “Got Juliana’s mail,” he said, stomping the snow off his boots before stepping inside. He handed the pile to Webster.

  “Don’t tell me,” Webster said sourly. “You moonlight as the postman.”

  Kurt grinned. “Only when old Bob McFurley is on vacation,” he said. “When’s Alicia coming back? Soon?”

  Webster shook his head. “No, not ’til Friday, I think.”

  “Some of those letters look important,” Kurt said, zipping up his parka, and adjusting the earflaps on his hat. “You might want to check with Juliana, see if she wants you to read any of ’em to her.”

  “Read any of them to her?” Webster repeated, somewhat stupidly.

  “Yeah.” Kurt waved. “See ya later.”

  He pushed open the door, and went outside.

  “Wait a minute!” Webster leapt up, following the sheriff out onto the porch in his stockinged feet. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, read them to her?”

  Kurt turned and looked at the taller man, who was shivering in the freezing air. He laughed. “I don’t believe she didn’t tell you this,” he said. “She didn’t, did she?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Never mind,” Kurt said. “If she doesn’t want you to know, I sure as hell don’t want to be the one to tell you.”

  “Damn it, Pottersfield,” Webster took a threatening step toward him. “If you don’t tell me—”

  But the sheriff didn’t retreat. “My height’s an illusion, pal,” he said, a dangerous, almost crazy light in his hazel eyes. “You may think you can kick my ass, but I was a New York City cop for seven years, and I know all kinds of dirty tricks that will put you in the hospital, regardless of how tall you are. I’ll also have the self-righteous pleasure of knowing that whether I win or lose, you’ll end up in jail.”

  Webster stared at him. The smaller man was smiling very slightly, looking as if he actually wanted Webster to try something stupid. And Webster was a pro at acting stupid. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he may well have already acted stupidly enough for an entire lifetime.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please. Just tell me. Why can’t Juliana read her own mail?”

  But Kurt shook his head. The dangerous look vanished quickly from his face, replaced by his carefree smile. “Sorry,” he said, sounding not at all sorry. “You wanna know? Ask Jule. Oh, but that’s a tough one, isn’t it? She doesn’t want you to talk.”

  Kurt started down the steps, then turned back. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Tell Juliana that Amy said to say hi. Oops. But if you tell her, you’ll be talking—”

  “Amy?” Why couldn’t Juliana read her own mail? “Who’s Amy?”

  Kurt grinned. “Amy. My wife. She’s been working in Paris for the past two months.”

  Webster’s toes were so numb he could barely feel them. The handsome little sheriff had a wife. He wasn’t involved with Juliana … who couldn’t read her own mail.…

  “Well, if Juliana lets you do any talking, try to remember to mention that Amy’ll be home a week from Friday. Tell Jule that she said she picked up a couple of really out-on-the-edge novels in London, and she’s planning to put ’em on tape for her.” Kurt grinned guilelessly. “Oops, I’ve given you another clue, haven’t I?”

  “You’re a little bastard,” Webster said, thoroughly frustrated. “Just tell me, goddamn it!”

  “See ya,” Kurt tossed the words over his shoulder as he slid back down to his Jeep.

  “Juliana can’t read, is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Webster called after him.

  But Kurt only waved merrily, the chains on his tires clanking as he pulled away.

  Juliana didn’t come out of her apartment until several hours after the power went off.

  Webster had lit a fire in the bedroom that he’d used for so many weeks. He’d taken most of the wood that was in the shed to get it started, then sat there, hour after hour, staring into the flames.

  Why couldn’t Juliana read her own mail?

  He’d had plenty of time to come up with theories, plenty of time to hypothesize, but he wouldn’t find out the truth until he asked her.

  But when Juliana appeared in the doorway, holding a candlestick in her hand, his mouth went dry and his mind blank.

  Her hair was loose around her face, cascading down her back in a mass of red-gold curls that shimmered in the candlelight. Her eyes were distant, and she looked everywhere in the room but directly at him. She was wearing at least two sweaters under an overcoat. There were mittens on her hands and a scarf around her neck. The tip of her nose was pink, as if she was either very cold or had been crying.

  “I’d appreciate it if you could help me carry some wood up to my apartment,” she said stiffly.

  It must have gal
led her to have to ask for help, Web realized. But with her broken ribs, she wouldn’t be able to cart the heavy wood all the way up to the third floor.

  “All right,” he said quietly as he got to his feet.

  He followed her down the stairs, her candle throwing out a small circle of light that seemed to surround them.

  “Jule—” he started to say, but she cut him off.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, her voice low.

  “But Juliana—”

  “Please,” she said, and he fell silent.

  She waited while Webster pulled on his boots, then led him out onto the back porch.

  “Woodshed’s almost empty,” he said quietly.

  “There’s a load of wood in the truck,” Juliana said, refusing to meet his eyes. “It’s already split. If you don’t mind, you can bring some of that in, too.”

  The snow was still falling, thick and wet, and Webster went back inside to get his jacket.

  Juliana set her candle on the porch, then grabbed a broom from the mud room and headed out to where the truck sat in the driveway. Nearly eight inches of heavy snow covered the wood that was in the truck bed.

  But as soon as she stepped onto the driveway, her feet broke through the snow to the slick pavement below and then went out from underneath her. She grabbed wildly at the air, but there was nothing to hold on to, so she fell. The snow cushioned her fall, but not enough for her already injured ribs. Juliana felt a dizzying wave of pain engulf her, and she closed her eyes, hanging on, waiting for it to pass. Around her, the snow continued to fall, quietly, serenely.

  Webster came back out on the porch and saw her sitting in the snow out by the truck.

  “Are you okay?” he said, moving toward her quickly.

  “Careful,” she said. “It’s—”

  His feet hit the ice, and he slipped. He tried hard to get some traction, moving his legs furiously, like a cartoon character running in place. Gravity eventually won out, and he lost his balance and went down, landing on his rear end.

  “—all ice,” Juliana finished inadequately.

  “Ouch,” Webster said, a rueful grin on his handsome face. His look turned to concern. “Jule, did you hurt yourself?”

  He already knew the answer to that question from the pain he could see in her eyes.

  “I’m okay,” she said tightly.

  “Oh, God, don’t start that again,” Webster said, crawling toward her to help her up.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, backing away.

  Webster rubbed his face tiredly with his hands. “Juliana, why would the sheriff suggest that you might want me to read your mail to you?”

  Juliana froze. Slowly she moved her head to look up into Webster’s eyes. He knew. He knew, but he wasn’t sure. And she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Are you going to help me with the wood, or am I going to have to do it myself?” Using the truck’s bumper for stability, Juliana painfully pulled herself to her feet. It was clear from her face that even that slight movement hurt her badly. Still she began sweeping the snow off the wood.

  “I was wrong, wasn’t I?” Webster said softly, standing up next to her and helping remove the snow. “You didn’t know I was from the newspaper because you didn’t read that letter. You couldn’t read that letter.”

  “Oh, damn!” Juliana said. The wood had become one giant block, covered with a thick layer of ice that had frozen rock solid underneath the snow. It would have taken a strong man with a sledge hammer to break it apart, assuming that man could find someplace to stand without slipping and sliding. And even after the wood was freed from the ice, it would be wet and soggy and nowhere near ready to burn. “How much wood did you say was in the shed?” she asked Webster. Sweet heavens, her ribs hurt.

  He looked down at her through the falling snow. Flakes had fallen on her hair, creating a shimmery veil of snow over her curls. She looked like an angel. How could he possibly have mistrusted her? He felt sick, remembering the things he had said and done in his anger. He reached out to brush a snowflake off her cheek, but was stopped by the hostility in her eyes.

  He’d really blown it. She was never going to forgive him.

  “There’s probably enough wood to last through the night,” Webster said. “Provided we share a fireplace.”

  Juliana swore, but weakly, with resignation. “My luck just never runs out, does it?” she said.

  The firelight flickered across Juliana’s face as she stared into the flames. If she was thinking at all about that other night they’d sat here in front of a fire, that first night they’d made love, her expression didn’t give her away.

  Webster watched her. “Jule,” he said softly, and she looked up at him. He could still see the hurt in her eyes, and silently he berated himself. How could he have accused her the way he had? “You didn’t read that letter, did you?”

  She looked away from him, back toward the fire. When she spoke, her voice was low. “No.”

  “You can’t read.”

  It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t bother to answer it. She just looked into the flames.

  “I didn’t know that,” he finally said softly.

  The firelike pain was back in her side every time she breathed in or out. It was appropriate, Juliana realized. As long as she was stuck here with Webster, it was fitting that she be in pain.

  “Are you learning disabled?” he asked. “Dyslexic?”

  This time it was a question, so she nodded. “Yes.”

  “Juliana,” he said, “I honestly didn’t know, and I’m sorry. I … I guess I kind of lost it, and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t’ve said those things to you.”

  “Damn right, you shouldn’t have,” she said, her green eyes sparking as she looked at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, ineffectively. “I’m really sorry—”

  “Are you also sorry about not telling me that you were the reviewer?” Juliana asked sharply. “Funny, isn’t it, Webster, that you got so angry at me, when all along it was you who weren’t telling the truth. You should have told me you were from the newspaper right from the start.”

  “You should have told me you couldn’t read,” Webster countered.

  “I was afraid to,” Juliana said, her shoulders stiff. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

  “Yeah, well, join the club,” Webster said. He stood up suddenly, stretching his long legs. He picked the candlestick up from the fireplace mantel and went to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Juliana asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Up to your apartment,” Webster said. “I’m going to get your ace bandage. That fall hurt you. Maybe if we wrap you up, you’ll feel a little better.”

  “I’m okay,” she protested.

  “Yeah, right,” Webster said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “My apartment’s locked,” she said tightly. “And I’m not giving you the key.”

  “I’ve still got my own key,” Webster said, and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

  Damn, thought Juliana, resting her head on her arms. Damn, damn, double damn! This was torture. It was going to take her long enough to get over him. She wanted him gone already. The sooner he left, the sooner she’d start healing.

  Webster unlocked the door to Juliana’s apartment and went inside, holding the candlestick in front of him. The apartment was hushed and dark, the skylights covered with thick, white snow. He moved slowly across the floor. If he were Juliana, he wondered, where would he keep his ace bandages?

  He opened the closet door. Rows of neatly hung clothing danced in the candlelight: all of Juliana’s prim, high-necked blouses, the long skirts, the more brilliantly colored evening gowns.… Something sparkled, reflecting the candle’s dim light and he stepped into the closet for a closer look. It was white, and it was a dress, and it was covered with literally thousands of tiny sequins. It looked tiny, as if it would barely fit a woman as tall as Julia
na, but it was made with that spandex material, the stuff that was designed to tightly hug every female curve. Her legs would look a mile long in a dress this short, Webster realized, his knees suddenly weak.

  He had to make her forgive him. He had to.

  Backing out of the closet, Webster closed the door and held up his candle, looking around the room, peering in the dim light. The dresser. That was a good place to look.

  The first drawer was underwear. There was an incredible selection—everything from cotton jockey briefs to delicate wisps of satin and lace. But no ace bandage. He was about to close the drawer and move on to the next when a piece of paper caught his eye.

  It was the note he’d written and left for her down in her office. It was the note he’d written the morning after he first told her he loved her. It was the note that she couldn’t read. And somehow he knew she hadn’t let Alicia read it to her. He picked it up and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  He pulled open the second drawer. It held Juliana’s exercise clothes—and the ace bandage. Triumphantly, he grabbed it and started down the stairs.

  Juliana didn’t even look up when he came into the room.

  “I found it,” he said. He sat down next to her and warmed his hands, holding them out to the fire.

  “If you think I’m going to let you put that thing on me, you’re crazy,” Juliana said quietly, still not looking up at him.

  Webster studied her profile for a moment. He had to apologize. He had to make her understand. “Juliana, please, I am so sorry about what I said. You’ve got to forgive me.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said hotly, suddenly turning to face him.

  His eyes were dark with misery. “No, you don’t,” he agreed. “But I’m asking you. Please, look at it from my perspective.”

  Juliana laughed humorlessly, then held her side from the pain. “You know what it looks like from your perspective?” she asked. “It looks like this is a damn convenient time for you to come crawling, asking for forgiveness. We’re stuck here together, alone in this big house. Yeah, I’ll bet you want me to forgive you, you son of a—”