Future Perfect

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “That’s not fair.”

  “What do you want, Webster? You want to kiss and make up, right? And then what? Then you want me to take off my clothes so you can help me put on that ace bandage that you so gallantly went upstairs to fetch.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “But, hey, as long as I’ve got my clothes off, you might as well take yours off, too. And then, who knows? Right, Webster?”

  “No.”

  Tears of anger welled up in Juliana’s eyes, and she blinked them furiously back. “Well, I hate to disappoint you,” she said, “but I did hurt myself when I fell. Even if I were stupid enough to swallow your penitent crap, I wouldn’t be able to give you what you want, not without it hurting. But you probably don’t care.”

  He was watching her, his own eyes filled with tears. His face was full of pain, and his voice shook as he said, “I do care. I would never want to hurt you, Jule.”

  “You already did,” she whispered. “I loved you, Webster, and you took that and you killed it. I can’t forgive you. I don’t think I ever will.”

  Webster felt sick. He had to make her understand. “Jule, when I saw that letter, it didn’t occur to me that you didn’t know what it said, that you couldn’t read it. You’ve talked so many times about having ‘read’ one book or another that honestly I didn’t know you can’t read. Really, please, just tell me what I was supposed to think. Add to that the fact that you just turned down my marriage proposal. I was hurt. I was angry. I—”

  “That doesn’t excuse the things you said to me,” Juliana said.

  “No,” Webster said quietly. “You’re right. It doesn’t excuse what I said and did. But maybe it can make you understand how I was feeling. And maybe if you understand that, you’ll be able to forgive me.”

  Juliana stared into the fire. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “I can’t.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Webster awoke from a dreamless sleep with a rough hand shaking his shoulder. The fire had dwindled to little more than glowing embers, and the room was cold. He stared up into a small, frightened face and then was hit by the beam of a flashlight.

  He swore, closing his eyes against the brightness. When he dared to open his eyes again, the little face, which was attached to a small, wiry body wrapped in a bright-yellow snowsuit, had knelt down next to Juliana.

  “Chris!” he heard her exclaim. She groaned softly as she sat up, unable to cover the aching pain he knew she was feeling from her re-injured ribs.

  “Jule, it’s Mommy,” a small, scared voice said. “She’s gonna have the baby, and Daddy’s not home. Phone’s out, cell phones, too. You gotta come quick.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” Juliana exclaimed. “You came all this way in the dark by yourself?”

  Chris nodded. His eyes held a determination that made him seem a good ten years older than he was. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Webster was already on his feet, pulling his boots on, shrugging into his leather jacket. He lit the candle, and it threw dim light into the room.

  “Chris,” he said. “Run down to the mud room and see if you can find me a pair of gloves or mittens—anything like that, okay? And gather up Juliana’s jacket and hat.”

  “But—”

  “Go on, Chris,” Juliana said, smiling at the little boy. “Webster’s got to help me wrap up my broken ribs. We’ll be down in one minute, I promise.”

  He nodded and left.

  Juliana was still wearing her big overcoat, and she slid it awkwardly off her shoulders. Her whole body had stiffened up while she slept, and she couldn’t pull her sweater up over her head. “Webster, help me,” she said, and then he was next to her, pulling off first one sweater, then the other, then the long thermal undershirt she had underneath it all.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples stood erect in the cold air, teasing his eyes. Webster tried hard to ignore that fact as he gently wound the ace bandage around her lower ribs. But it was like that old saying, the best way to think about an elephant is to try not to think about an elephant.…

  His hand brushed the soft underside of her breast. “Sorry,” he whispered, glancing up at her. For an instant, he thought he saw a remnant of her desire for him spark in her eyes. Maybe the cold wasn’t the only thing her body was reacting to.

  “Juliana, I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, his voice husky.

  “Just hurry,” she said, not meeting his eyes again.

  He fastened the little metal clasps, and helped slip her shirt back on. “What’s the fastest way to the Beckwiths’?” he asked, helping with her sweaters.

  “Depends,” Juliana said. “Do you think the road’s still all ice?”

  Webster followed her down the stairs. Chris was waiting at the bottom, holding her jacket and hat.

  “I cut across the field,” Chris said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Snow’s pretty deep, but when I tried walking on the road, I kept slipping. They haven’t even plowed yet. I don’t think they can. Up the road, I could see a snowplow that skidded into the trees.”

  “Oh great. And I don’t even have chains on my tires,” Juliana said, leading the way into the mud room. “But I do have snowshoes.” She pointed up to where a variety of webbed snowshoes hung on the wall. Webster reached up, unhooking two large pairs and one smaller pair.

  “Grab the backpack, too, Web,” Juliana said. “Do me a favor and go out to the truck and pull my CB radio out of the dash. We can hook it up to Liz’s car and at least try to call for some help.”

  In a matter of moments, they were heading out across the field. The snow had changed back to a fine, light rain. It was still cold enough to freeze, and the snow covering the ground and all the trees was glazed with a thin film of ice. Everything sparkled in the light from Chris’s flashlight. If they had been out for a pleasant stroll, it would’ve been breathtakingly beautiful.

  “Keep your legs spread,” Juliana called to Chris and Webster. “Or you’ll end up tripping over your own feet.”

  Walking with the snowshoes on was grueling, and Juliana’s side throbbed relentlessly. But she pushed herself harder, faster, thinking about Liz, alone in the house with a five-year-old, about to give birth.

  “Jule.” Webster was next to her, striding along effortlessly. “I’m going to run ahead,” he said, his voice pitched low, so the boy behind them couldn’t hear. “Slow down a bit, so Chris can keep up.”

  And so you don’t die of pain before you get there. He didn’t say the words, but Juliana could see in his eyes that he was concerned about her. She nodded, and he picked up his pace, pulling ahead and quickly disappearing into the darkness.

  “Come on, Chris,” Juliana said. “We’re almost halfway there.”

  Webster slipped the snowshoes off and went in through the kitchen door. He put the backpack on the counter.

  “Liz?”

  “In here,” she called. “Is Chris with you? Is Chris all right?”

  “He’s fine. He’s with Juliana. They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Webster said, following Liz’s voice into the bedroom. Candles were everywhere, and shadows danced on the walls. The air in the room was chill, despite a fire that burned in the fireplace. Liz lay in the middle of a king-sized bed, with little Jamey next to her, fast asleep.

  Liz swore as a contraction gripped her. Despite the cold, sweat stood out on her forehead, and her body tensed. “Lord, they’re coming faster now,” she moaned. “I wasn’t ready for this one—”

  “Hold my hand,” Webster commanded, sitting next to her on the bed. “Look at me, Liz. And breathe. Did you take Lamaze?”

  “Hell yes,” Liz gasped, panting hard, as if she was trying to exhale all the pain.

  Finally the contraction ended, and she lay back, exhausted. Two small tears trailed down her cheeks from the corner of her eyes. “My Lamaze instructor forgot to tell me how to stay relaxed when I went into labor in the middle of an ice storm, with my husb
and God knows where,” she said. “Congratulations, by the way.”

  Webster looked at her blankly. Congratulations for what? She already knew he finished the first draft of his book.

  “Jule told me you popped the big question.” Liz smiled weakly. “She told me she said no at first, but that she changed her mind, that she wanted to marry you—”

  Another contraction hit, and Liz’s fingers squeezed Webster’s. “Breathe,” he said. “Keep breathing,” but he wasn’t sure if he was reminding Liz or himself.

  Juliana had told Liz that she wanted to marry him. Had wanted. Past tense. God almighty—Juliana had come home to tell him that, and he’d accused her of those terrible things. He’d really, truly blown it.

  Liz’s contraction seemed to last forever, and when it finally relented, she curled up on her side, her face buried in her pillow so her daughter wouldn’t hear her sobs. “I want Sam,” Webster heard her say. “I want to know that he’s safe, not driving around in this weather or lying in some ditch somewhere.”

  “Liz, we brought over Jule’s CB radio, and as soon as she gets here, I’ll try to track him down,” Webster said.

  Liz dried her face on the flannel sheet, hope in her eyes. “Do you think you can?”

  Webster smiled. “He’s probably as anxious for news of you as you are for news of him. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “I just want to know that he’s safe,” Liz said again.

  “Mommy!” Chris ran into the room, and Liz held out her arms to her son. He hugged her fiercely.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “So proud.”

  Webster looked up as he felt Juliana’s hand on his shoulder. As he met her eyes, he felt jarred, devastated by the knowledge that she might’ve been his forever. She would have been his … if he hadn’t gone and opened his big, stupid mouth. She should’ve been his, but she wasn’t, and the fault was only his own.

  Her green eyes watched him steadily in the candlelight, her beautiful mouth unsmiling, her cheeks paler than they should be after a brisk walk in the cold air—pale from the pain of her broken ribs. He ached to pull her into his arms.

  “Why don’t you get Chris and Jamey set up in one of the other rooms. Get a fire going,” she said quietly.

  “Shouldn’t I do something like … you know … boil water?” he asked. “That’s what they always do in the movies—except I’m not sure why.”

  Juliana smiled, real warmth in her eyes. Webster felt his heart pound. Maybe there was hope for them. “I’ll need some string and a pair of scissors,” she said, “to cut the umbilical cord. You need to boil the water to sterilize them.”

  Webster nodded. “At last,” he said, “one of the great mysteries of life cleared up.” He stood up. “Come on, Chris. I need you to find me a pair of scissors, some string, and a sleeping bag or some blankets to put on the floor for your sister.”

  He scooped the sleeping Jamey up in his arms and left the room, talking easily to Chris the entire time.

  Liz smiled weakly up at Juliana. “He’s going to be a good father,” she said.

  Juliana couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes. “How far apart are your contractions?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Liz said. “Around five minutes. But the last few were a lot less, like maybe only three minutes apart. I’m going to have this baby at home, aren’t I?”

  Juliana nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Liz took a deep breath, blowing the air out hard. “Well,” she said. “I always hated being in the hospital. I just want to know where Sam is.”

  Webster finished attaching Juliana’s CB radio to Liz’s Jeep, then pulled out of the garage into the driveway. The tires slid as soon as they hit the ice, and the Jeep came to rest against a row of snow-covered bushes. Chris sat quietly beside him, his brown eyes round.

  Web flipped immediately to channel nine. “I’ve got an emergency,” he said, pressing the talk switch on the microphone. “Is anyone listening?”

  He released the button, adjusting the squelch control.

  “You’ve reached the police station,” came a tired female voice. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m over at the Beckwith place,” Webster said into the mike. “Liz Beckwith’s gone into labor. We’re looking for medical assistance, and we’re trying to find the whereabouts of her husband, Sam Beckwith.”

  “This is Kurt Pottersfield,” came the sheriff’s voice. “This Webster?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, I’m on my way,” Kurt said. “I’ve got a snowmobile. I’ll stop and pick up Doc Rogers. I should be there within an hour.”

  Webster glanced at his watch. If Juliana had been right when he’d gone in to check on Liz after sterilizing the scissors, they didn’t have an hour. “Right now all Liz wants to know is whether or not Sam is safe. Can you help us find him? I’ve got to get back inside, but Chris is here.”

  “Chris?” a female voice emerged scratchily from the static. “I’m Louise, remember me?”

  Webster handed the mike to Chris, and opened the car door.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Chris said.

  “I’m going to radio the state police, see if they can help locate your dad, okay? So hold on.”

  Webster skidded on the ice, sliding his way back inside the house. In the living room, Jamey was sleeping peacefully in front of the glowing fireplace. He checked to make sure the screen would keep any stray sparks from escaping, then went down the hall toward the bedroom.

  Liz was crying softly. Juliana glanced up at him, shaking her head. “I think she’s in transition,” she murmured, “and she’s wearing herself out. She’s convinced Sam’s been in some horrible car accident, and that she’s never going to see him again. She’s using up all the energy she’s going to need to deliver this baby.”

  “She loves him,” Webster said softly. “She’s afraid of being without him. I can relate.”

  His face was so serious, his eyes so blue, so open that she felt she could see deep into his soul. He loved her. He wanted her to forgive him. Juliana could see it every time she looked at him.

  Liz cried out as another contraction started, and Juliana pulled her eyes away from his.

  “Breathe, Liz. Come on,” Juliana said. “Focus! Come on, Liz. Keep your eyes open. Look at me!”

  “How can I help?” Webster asked.

  “Find Sam!” Juliana said.

  Webster turned, running down the hall, back toward the kitchen door. His eyes fell on a boom box that was sitting on the counter by the stove. A quick inspection told him it was plugged into the wall, but it also had batteries inside. He switched over to direct current, and turned it on. Music. The batteries were low, but if he pushed up the volume, the radio worked. And it played country music from WCNT out of Springfield.

  Webster turned it off to conserve the batteries, then went outside to the Jeep.

  “Any luck?” he asked Chris.

  The boy shook his head. “They’re trying to track down the guy who organized the benefit concert last night,” he said, “to see if he knows where my dad is.”

  Web climbed into the driver’s seat and took the microphone from Chris. “I got an idea,” he said, and keyed the talk switch. “Louise?”

  “I’m still here,” she said. “Who’s this?”

  “Webster Donovan. Look it, do they have telephone service in Springfield? How bad did the storm hit out there?”

  The radio crackled. “Not as bad as out here. State police report roads are still solid ice, though. As for the phones, I think it depends on whether or not trees and lines are down. Why?”

  “Do me a favor and radio the Springfield police. If they’ve got their phones working, ask them to call WCNT—”

  The radio squealed horribly and Webster nearly dropped the mike.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Louise said. “But I had to break in. They’ve found Sam. He’s snowed in at a rest stop on the Pike. The man’s damn near going out of hi
s mind, worrying about Liz.”

  Webster grinned at Chris, holding up a high five for the boy to slap. “All right! We found him!” He keyed the mike. “Tell Sam to get on the phone and call WCNT.…”

  Juliana looked up as Webster came back into the room. He was carrying the boom box from the kitchen, and he set it down on the bedside table. He turned it on and adjusted the antennae. Trisha Yearwood was singing about living on the wrong side of Memphis. Webster turned the volume up.

  “Webster—” Juliana started.

  “Shh,” he said. “Listen. Liz, are you listening?”

  Liz looked smaller than ever, her usually cheery face pale and streaked with tears, her eyes listless.

  The song cut off midchord, as the DJ’s voice interrupted. “Lot of people out there have lost their power and the phones tonight, and I’ve got a caller on the line who’s real anxious to talk to his wife—”

  “Liz, honey, it’s me.”

  Liz looked sharply up at Webster. Sam. It was Sam’s voice. On the radio. He was safe. He was alive.

  “Damn it, Liz,” Sam’s voice broke. “I wish to hell I could hold you in my arms right now, but I can’t. You got to hold Juliana’s hand instead—and listen to her. Breathe like she tells you to. Promise me you will?”

  “I promise,” Liz whispered, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Jule, he’s okay—”

  “I love you, Liz,” Sam said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always regret that I wasn’t there for you when Chris was born. And I wish that I could be there to hold this new child in my arms as he takes his first breath. But even though my body isn’t with you, honey, my heart is. And if you close your eyes, you can feel my love around you—” His voice broke again, but Liz could hear laughter along with Sam’s tears. “Damn it, girl, we don’t do too well with timing, do we?”

  The DJ’s voice came in. “We got Sam Beckwith on the phone, going out live to his wife Liz, who’s having her baby at home tonight on account of this storm. Hang on, Liz. We got all our listeners pulling for you. We’re going to play only your husband’s songs ’til we get the word you’ve had the baby.”