Cause for Alarm

by Erica Spindler

  "Both. But it's still true. You're gorgeous."

  She wasn't, she knew. She was attractive, with an ageless, angular kind of face. Not gorgeous or sexy. Not a knockout. Classy, maybe. Solid, definitely. "I'm glad you think so."

  "You never could take a compliment. Because of your old man."

  "You have good bones, Katherine Mary McDowell," she said, imitating her father's slight brogue. "Never underestimate the importance of good bones and teeth." She laughed. "Like a work horse, for heaven's sake."

  Richard grinned and as Kate had been earlier that evening, she was reminded of the fraternity boy who had swept her-and every other coed on the Tulane campus- off her feet. "Your father did have a way with words."

  "That he did." She shook her head. "Come give me a hand."

  Instead, he cocked his head studying her, a boyish, pleased expression on his face. "Kate McDowell," he said softly, "the one many wanted, including my good buddy Luke. But who I won."

  As always happened at the mention of their mutual friend, Luke Dallas, the twin emotions of guilt and longing assailed her. Once upon a time, the three of them had been inseparable. They had been best friends at Tulane; Luke had been her confidant, the person she had turned to for comfort, advice, support. In many ways, she had been closer to him during those years than to Richard.

  Then she'd destroyed their friendship with one thoughtless, reckless act of passion and grief.

  Uncomfortable with the memory, she shifted her attention to collecting the soiled cups and plates. "You're drunk," she said lightly.

  "So what? I'm not driving." He folded his arms across his chest. "Do you deny that Luke was in love with you?"

  "We were friends, Richard."

  "And nothing else, right?"

  She met his gaze. "We were all friends. I wish that hadn't changed."

  For a moment, her husband said nothing, just watched her. When he spoke, his mood had mellowed once more. "You're going to make the perfect politician's wife."

  She arched an eyebrow. "Are you so sure of that, District Attorney Ryan? I don't have a pedigree, you know."

  "Classy, beautiful, smart Kate. You don't need one, you're married to me."

  She set the empties on a tray and began collecting more. He was right, she supposed. Marrying him had validated her in New Orleans society. She didn't need a good family, or to have come from money, she had been given his.

  For the second time that evening, she thought of her blessings. She had many things to be grateful for, she knew. For her loving husband, their beautiful home. Her own business, a coffeehouse called The Uncommon Bean, which she loved; her stained glass work, plenty of money. All the things she had always told herself that she wanted. That she needed to be completely happy.

  "I'm sorry if I upset you with that comment about Luke. I don't know what gets into me sometimes."

  "It's been a long night, that's all."

  Richard crossed to her and took the empty cups from her hands and set them back on the end table. "Leave the mess. That's what we're paying the service for."

  "I know, but-"

  "No." He took her hands. "Come with me. I have something for you."

  She laughed. "I'm sure you do."

  "That, too." He led her to the living room. There, before the still glowing fire, he'd placed two floor pillows. Beside them waited a chilling bottle of champagne and two crystal wine flutes.

  They made themselves comfortable. Richard popped the cork on the champagne and poured. He handed her a glass, then held his out. "I thought we should celebrate privately."

  She pinged her glass against his. "To your campaign."

  "No," he corrected, "to us."

  "I like that. To us." She smiled, then sipped.

  For several minutes, they chatted about the events of the evening, sharing tidbits from conversations they'd had and chuckling over the antics of a couple of their less inhibited guests.

  "You make me better than I am, Kate," Richard murmured, serious suddenly. "You always have."

  "And you're drunker than I first thought."

  "I'm not." He took the glass from her hand and set it aside. He laced their fingers. "I know how hard this last year was for you. Because of the…the infertility."

  Her eyes flooded with tears. "It's okay, Richard. I have so much. It's wrong for me to want-"

  "No, it's not. And if not for me, you could have it. You could have a baby."

  "That's not true, Richard. I'm infertile, too, I have-"

  "You have fertility problems, Kate. Hormones can be adjusted, endometriosis treated, ovulation stimulated. I'm sterile. Shooting blanks, as they say down at the firm." Bitterness crept into his tone. "How do you think that makes me feel? To not be able to give you what you want more than anything? To be less than a man."

  It hurt to hear him express his true feelings, ones he hadn't before. She tightened her fingers on his. "That's bullshit, Richard," she said softly, fiercely. "The ability to sire children is not what makes a man. It's not what makes you a man."

  "No? That's the way it feels."

  "I know how it feels, because this is my problem, too. Bearing children is something all women are supposed to be able to do. It's a given, part of being a female. To not be able to without medical technology feels like a betrayal."

  "I've let you down," he said quietly.

  "No, Richard…that's not what I meant."

  "I know. But that's the way I feel."

  She turned fully to him, clasping his hands in hers. "Who's to say we're entitled to everything, anyway? Who's to say we're supposed to have all that our hearts desire? Look at us, at all we have. A beautiful home. Successful careers that we enjoy. Each other, Richard. Our love. An embarrassment of riches. Sometimes I have to pinch myself. I can't believe it's Kate McDowell who's living this life. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm having a really good dream and that any minute it's going to turn into a terrifying nightmare."

  "I won't let it, sweetheart. I promise."

  She brought his hands to her mouth, a sense of urgency tugging at her. "People have lied, cheated and killed to get what we take for granted, we have to guard what we have by appreciating it. We can't ever forget how lucky we are. The minute we do, the minute we get greedy, we could lose it all. We can't forget that, Richard. We can't. It's important."

  He laughed. "And you still believe in leprechauns and fairies and the power of a four-leaf clover, don't you?"

  "It could all be gone tomorrow." She tightened her fingers on his. "I'm serious, Richard."

  "So am I. We can have it all, Kate. I want that for you." When she opened her mouth to protest, he shushed her with a finger to her lips. "I have something for you. A late Christmas present." He slipped a business-size envelope from its hiding place under one of the pillows and handed it to her. "Happy New Year, Kate."

  "What is it?"

  "Open it and find out."

  She did. It was a letter from Citywide Charities, informing them that they had been accepted into the Agency's Gifts of Love adoption program.

  Kate's heart began to hammer, her hands to shake. Citywide's program was the best in the area. They accepted only a handful of couples every year; at the end of that year, or shortly thereafter, those couples would have a baby.

  She had studied up on adoption and on the programs and options available in the area. She had looked wistfully at Citywide. But every time she had mentioned adoption to Richard, he had flatly refused to even discuss it.

  She lifted her gaze to her husband's, overcome with emotion, eyes swimming with tears. "What happened?

  You didn't think adoption-"

  "But you did."

  Tears choked her, and she cleared her throat. "But we…if you don't really want to adopt, we can't. It wouldn't be right."

  "I want to make you happy, Kate. This will be a good thing for us, I know it will. And it's the right time for us to start a family."

  She couldn't find her voice, but even if she had she w
ouldn't have been able to find the words to express her joy. So she kissed him instead. Deeply and with the love and gratitude that filled her to near bursting.

  They had kissed this way many times before, but this time was different, special. This time her heart felt fuller than it ever had before.

  By this time next year they would have a child. They would be parents. A real family.

  "Thank you," she whispered again and again as she kissed him. She removed his clothes, he hers. The remnants of the fire warmed them, as did their exploring hands, their exploding passion.

  "This is going to be our most perfect year ever," Richard whispered as he positioned himself above her. "Nothing will ever come between us, Kate. Nothing or no one."

  Part II. Julianna

  2

  New Orleans , Louisiana , January 1999

  The corner sandwich shop was located on one of the central business district's busiest corners. The shop, Buster's Big Po'boys, specialized in shrimp-and-oyster po'boys- huge sandwiches made on slabs of French bread and stuffed with fried shrimp, oysters or both. Most New Orleanians ordered them dressed-with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise, the latter slathered on, good and thick. Of course, if fried seafood didn't appeal, Buster's offered all manner of other fillings and even a few nonsandwich specials, like traditional New Orleans red beans and rice on Mondays.

  As corner sandwich shops went, Buster's was pretty run-of-the-mill for the Crescent City -housed in a century-old building, its plaster walls were cracked and peeling, the high ceilings dingy with God only knew how many years of God only knew what; and from June to September, the air conditioner ran full tilt and still couldn't keep up.

  Anywhere else in the country, Buster's would have been closed down by the health department; New Orleanians considered Buster's a perfectly acceptable place to grab lunch while downtown.

  Julianna Starr pushed open Buster's glass front door and stepped inside, leaving the cold January day behind. The smell of frying seafood hit her in a nauseating wave, turning her stomach. The smell, she had learned over the past few weeks working as a waitress at Buster's, permeated everything-her hair and clothes, even her skin. The minute she got home from work, she ripped off her uniform and jumped into the shower to scrub the odor away, no matter how tired or hungry she was.

  The only thing worse than the smell of the place, Julianna had decided, was its customers. New Orleanians were so…excessive. They laughed too loudly, ate and drank too much. And they did both with a kind of frenetic abandon. Several times, just watching someone tear into and consume one of the huge, sloppy po'boys had sent her scurrying for the john to throw up. But then, she was one of the lucky ones to whom morning sickness was confined to neither mornings nor the first three months of pregnancy.

  Julianna quickly scanned the restaurant, heart sinking. Choosing today to oversleep had been a mistake; the lunch rush appeared to have started early. Only minutes after eleven and every table was filled; the take-out counter already stacked two deep. As Julianna made her way to the back of the restaurant, one of the other waitresses shot her a dirty look.

  "You're late, princess," her boss called from behind the counter. "Grab an apron and get your tail in gear, you hear?"

  Julianna glared at the man. As far as she was concerned, Buster Boudreaux was a grease-sucking pig with an IQ about the size of one of his stupid sandwiches. But he was her boss, and she needed this job, low as it was.

  Without a word of explanation, she stalked past him and snatched an apron from the tree just inside the kitchen and slipped it on. The pink-ruffled atrocity rode up over her burgeoning belly, making her look like a pink whale. She muttered her displeasure under her breath, turned to the time clock and punched in.

  Buster came up behind her, his expression thunderous. "If you've got a problem, why don't you say it to my face instead of under your breath."

  "I don't have a problem." She stuffed her employee card back into its slot. "Where's my station?"

  "Section one. Start servicing the tables as they open back up. In the meantime, give Jane a hand at the takeout counter."

  Julianna didn't acknowledge him with so much as a nod, and he grabbed her elbow. "I've about had it with your attitude, you know that, princess? If I didn't need the help so bad, I'd kick your uppity butt out of here right now."

  He wanted her to beg for her job, she knew. To plead, grovel before him like some sort of peasant. She would rather starve.

  She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm, then met his gaze. "Is there anything else?"

  "Yeah," he said, flushing and dropping his hand. "You're late like this one more time, and you're out. I'll get my grandmother to take your place, she'd do a better job anyway. Got that?"

  Sure he would. Creep. "Got it."

  She flounced past him and out onto the floor. As she did, she brushed past Lorena, a fellow waitress, who glared at her and muttered something that Julianna couldn't quite make out.

  Julianna ignored her. It wasn't the first time she had been the recipient of one of the other waitresses' barbs. They didn't like her, particularly Lorena. No doubt because Julianna didn't make a secret of the fact she hated working here, that she was too good to be serving these big sloppy sandwiches to people who barely looked at her. That she was too good for them.

  They didn't understand, these rough-hewn, classless girls, that she wasn't meant to have to work this way, to have to be on her feet for hours, to be tired all the time, to be serving people. She had been raised for better things. To be taken care of, to be pampered and adored. Her entire life it had been so; all she'd had to do was smile, cajole or even pout prettily and whatever she had wanted had been given to her. Indeed, if she hadn't been running so low on the money her mother had given her when she left D.C., she wouldn't have lowered herself to their level.

  She had been on the run for just over three months and in that time, had lived briefly in Louisville, Memphis and Atlanta. Until New Orleans, she had stayed in moderate hotels, eating her meals out, spending her time going to movies and wandering through shopping malls. Until New Orleans, she hadn't noticed the frightening rate at which her money was disappearing. She hadn't thought ahead to what being without money would mean or what she would have to do to get more of it. When she had finally realized it wouldn't last forever, she had been down to her last fifteen hundred dollars.

  Wretched and demeaning as it was, Buster's was a necessity, at least for now.

  Julianna sighed and glanced longingly toward the pay phone at the back corner of the restaurant, near the restrooms, thinking of her mother. Her mother had always said that the power of a woman, one who knew how to use both her beauty and her brains, packed more punch than an atomic bomb. A beautiful woman could move mountains or level cities with nothing more than a carefully chosen glance or smile.

  If only she could call her, Julianna thought, suddenly, achingly homesick. If only she could go home.

  John, standing above her while she retched, his face pinched, white and terrible with fury. John warning her not to defy him again, telling her he would punish her if she did. Julianna drew in a deep breath. The man and woman from Clark Russell's photographs, their throats slit from ear to ear.

  John was capable of anything. Her mother had said so. So had Clark.

  She couldn't go home, maybe never again.

  "Miss? Excuse me, Miss?"

  Startled, Julianna blinked. A customer at the table to her right was signaling her.

  "We need ketchup."

  Julianna nodded and brought that table their condiment, another their bill, still another their sandwiches. That done, she ducked into the bathroom, something she had to do often these days.

  She relieved herself, flushed the toilet, let herself out of the stall and stopped dead. A woman stood at the mirror, applying lipstick. She had hair the color of cinnamon; it fell in soft waves almost to her shoulders.

  Julianna closed her eyes, her mind hurtling back fourteen years…
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br />   Her mother sat at her vanity, dressed only in her bra, panties and garter belt. Julianna stood in the doorway, watching as she leaned closer to the mirror and applied her lipstick. She drew the color evenly over her mouth, then pressed her lips together to smooth it.

  Admiration and awe filled Julianna. "You're so pretty, Mama," she whispered, forgetting herself.

  Her mother turned. And smiled. "Thank you, honey. Remember, though, when it comes to your mama, we say ‘beautiful.' You're pretty. Mama's beautiful."

  Julianna bowed her head. "I'm sorry."

  "That's okay, sweetie, just remember next time."

  Julianna nodded and inched into the bedroom, unsure if she was welcome or not. When her mother didn't protest, she sat gingerly on the edge of the big, satin-covered bed, careful not to crumple her dress.

  She straightened her white pinafore and inspected her black patent shoes, looking for scuffs and finding none. Her mother had many rules she expected Julianna to follow, so many it was sometimes hard for five-year-old Julianna to remember them.

  But Julianna never forgot that wrinkled, mussed clothing would be met with great displeasure and swift punishment. Especially when company was coming.

  "Who's visiting tonight, Mama?" she asked, resisting the urge to rub her toes together, though she liked the squeaky sound the shiny leather made when she did. "Uncle Paxton?"

  "No." Her mother took a stocking from the box on the vanity top. "Someone special." She eased the shimmery, silky fabric up her leg, then clipped a garter to it. "Someone very special."

  "What's his name?"

  "John Powers," her mother murmured, her expression growing faraway and soft looking. "I met him at that party at the Capital last week. The one I told you about."

  "Where they had sandwiches shaped like swans."

  "Canapés. That's right."

  Julianna tilted her head, studying her mother. He must be special, she decided. She had never seen her mama look quite this way when talking about one of her visitors.

  "I expect you to be on your best behavior."