Authors: Erica Spindler
“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, Richardâ¦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 adoptionâ”
“But you did.”
Tears choked her, and she cleared her throat. “But weâ¦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 wouldn'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.”
New Orleans, Louisiana, January 1999
T
he 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'boysâhuge sandwiches made on slabs of French bread and stuffed with fried shrimp, oysters or both. Most New Orleanians ordered them dressedâwith 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 Cityâhoused 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 everythingâher 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 soâ¦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 take-out 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 rest rooms, 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 yearsâ¦.
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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 âbeautiful.' 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.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“If you're a really good girl, I might buy you that doll you've been wanting. The one with the long brown curls, just like yours.”
Julianna knew what her mother meant by being really good. It meant she was to be quiet. And cooperative. And what her mother called charming. Being really good would be rewarded. Not only by her mother, but by her gentleman friends, too. They brought her candy and small toys, they fussed over her, called her adorable, cute, pretty.
And then her mother sent her to her room.
Julianna figured that one of these days, if she was good enough, charming enough, she wouldn't be sent to her room. One of these days, when she was older, she would have very special visitors of her own.
“I will, Mama. I promise.”
“Run along now and let me finish dressing, John will be here any moment.”
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“Miss? You okay?”
Julianna blinked, startled out of her reverie. “What?”
“You okay?” The woman at the mirror dropped her lipstick back into her purse. “You were starin' funny at me, like you seen a ghost or somethin'.”
Julianna blinked again, really seeing the woman before her for the first time. She had rough, pebbly skin and her cinnamon hair was obviously hers courtesy of a bottle. And a cheap one at that.
How had she ever thought this woman looked anything like her mother?
“I'm fine,” Julianna whispered, crossing to the sink to wash her hands. “I justâ¦I don't know what happened.”
The woman smiled and patted her arm. “Had six kids of my own. Nothin' plays havoc with the mind like them hormones. It'll get better. Then it'll be them kids playin' havoc with your mind.”
The woman cackled, patted her arm again and left the bathroom.
Julianna stared after her, unsettled by what had just happened. The memory had been so vivid; it had come upon her with such force and left her feeling so vulnerable. So alone.
She missed her mother, she thought, tears pricking her eyes. She missed Washington and her comfortable apartment. She missed feeling pretty and special. And safe.
The bathroom door swung open and Lorena stuck her head in, her expression annoyed. “You going to stay in here all day, or what? Your tables are lookin' for you.”
Though the other woman was already gone, Julianna nodded in response and hurried back out to the dining room.
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The remainder of Julianna's day passed minute by agonizing minute, hour by excruciating hour. As the lunch crowd thinned, then became nonexistent, Julianna became aware of how much her feet and back hurt, of how tired she was.
She worked alongside the other waitresses, refilling the condiments, wiping down the tables and putting up the chairs, preparing for the next day. Buster's stopped serving at three. Opening for dinner would be a waste of time and moneyâthis part of the central business district became a graveyard at 5:00 p.m. when the law offices and other businesses let out for the day.
Julianna didn't listen to or participate in the other women's chatter. Every so often, she would become aware of one of them looking speculatively at her or making an ugly face in her direction. She ignored them and kept her attention fixed on her tasks so she could finish up and go home.